Outlaw Trackdown (18 page)

45

Luther Coltraine cried out.

The firing came from two points. Fargo saw the muzzle flashes and realized that, once again, Hoby Cotton had outsmarted them. The boy hadn't expected them to wait until morning. Hoby had rightly figured they'd be too eager to wait, and he and his brother had taken positions where anyone heading south from the campfire was bound to run into them.

Hauling on the reins, Fargo got out of there. One of the rifles spanged and a hornet buzzed his ear. For shooting in the dark it was either considerable luck or the shooter was a marksman.

The other rifle was banging, too, and Fargo heard a high whinny from Coltraine's horse and a curse and the crash of the lawman's mount.

Worried sick the same would happen to the Ovaro, Fargo didn't stop. But no lead was sent his way. He went over a hundred yards, far enough to convince himself the Cottons had lost track of him in the dark.

Vaulting down, Fargo crouched and quickly removed his spurs. He wasn't taking any chances they would give him away. Sliding them into a saddlebag, he drew his Colt and hurried toward where he had last seen Coltraine. He heard the lawman swearing, and slowed.

Hoby Cotton's laugh was as cold as ever. “Looks as if the scout ran out on you, Pa.”

Fargo froze. The voice wasn't a stone's throw off. He struggled to pierce the murk and distinguished two standing figures and a bulk on the ground.

“And here you are, tin star,” Semple Cotton said, chuckling, “pinned by your own critter. Ain't life grand?”

Fargo edged forward.

“Get it over with, damn your hides,” Luther Coltraine growled.

“What's the rush?” Hoby replied. “I have you right where I want you and I aim to make the most of it.”

“The scout might come back,” Semple said.

“I won't have my fun spoiled, by him or anyone else,” Hoby said. “Go have a look-see. Make sure he skedaddled.”

Fargo crouched.

One of the figures started to the north. “Don't finish the law dog off until I get back. I want to see it.”

“Don't you worry none,” Hoby said. “I aim to take my sweet time. He'll blubber like a baby before I'm done.”

“Like hell I will,” Coltraine said.

There was the sound of a blow.

Fargo didn't take his eyes off Semple. The outlaw was coming straight toward him. His thumb on the Colt's hammer, he let Semple get almost on top of him. “That's far enough.”

Semple Cotton drew up short. “Well, I'll be. I didn't see you down there.”

“Drop your rifle,” Fargo ordered. The man was too calm, and that worried him.

“Whatever you say, mister,” Semple said, and let go. The rifle clattered at their feet and Semple raised his hands. “You caught me fair and square.”

“Holler to your brother,” Fargo said. “Tell him to throw down his pistol or I'll shoot you.”

“You might as well go ahead,” Semple said. “Hoby don't care a lick what happens to me. The only one Hoby cares about is Hoby.”

“You're his brother.”

“So? Kin doesn't mean no more to him than a stray dog. He tolerated Granger and me because we grew up together but that's all it was. You want him hollered at, you do it yourself.”

“Fine,” Fargo said, and cupped his other hand to his mouth. “Hoby Cotton! Do you hear me?”

A chortled ended with, “My ears work right fine. Which is more than I can say about your noggin. You should have lit a shuck while you could.”

“I'm holding a six-gun on Semple,” Fargo informed him. “Drop your hardware and follow my voice with your hands in the air and he gets to live.”

“You must reckon I'm loco,” Hoby replied.

“You don't care that I'll shoot him?”

“In the first place, I have to find new hard cases to ride with me anyhow, so what's one more? In the second place, you won't kill him in cold blood. You're not me. You don't have it in you.”

“Told you,” Semple Cotton said.

Hoby wasn't finished. “Fact is, I can go you one better. You hand your hardware to Semple and have him bring you here or I'll put a slug smack between my pa's eyes.”

“He'll do it, too,” Semple said.

“Shut the hell up.” Fargo shifted and concentrated on the figure standing over the dead horse. He could try but he might miss.

“I won't wait all night,” Hoby called out. “I can't risk my so-called pa dyin' on me from his crushed leg.”

“His what?” Fargo said to Semple.

“The horse fell on it and pinned him. We can't see much but there's a heap of blood. It must be broke to pieces.”

The marshal chose that moment to shout, “Fargo? Don't give in, you hear? He'll kill us whether you do or you don't give up your gun, so don't.”

“I didn't ask for your two bits, Pa,” Hoby said. “He doesn't do as I want, I'll deal with him and come back even madder.”

“Do what you have to, you little wretch,” Coltraine said. “I'm through kissin' your hind end.”

“After all I've done for you, too.”

Fargo had taken his eyes off Semple. A simple mistake, but he was holding a cocked Colt and doubted Semple would try anything. He was wrong.

Semple sprang and swatted at the Colt as Fargo brought it to bear, knocking it aside. It went off and Semple slammed into Fargo and both of them pitched to the grass.

Fargo kicked at Semple's head. He still had the Colt but a hand locked on his wrist to prevent him from using it. Another hand clamped onto his throat.

“Time for you to die,” Semple snarled.

Fargo wrenched but Semple clung on. The fingers around his throat constricted. He grabbed Semple's wrist but couldn't budge it.

“You're not much,” Semple hissed. “My grandma was stronger than you.”

From the direction of the dead horse came an outcry and the boom of a shot.

Fargo had problems of his own. He exerted all his strength but Semple's fingers were steel. His breath was choked off and his lungs were starting to hurt from the lack of air.

Struggling fiercely, Fargo drove a fist into Semple's gut but all Semple did was grunt.

Spurs jangled, and Hoby Cotton bawled, “Out of the way, Semple. Give me a clear shot.”

“Don't!” Semple shouted. “I almost have him.”

The devil of it was, Semple was right. Fargo was beginning to black out. If he didn't break free he'd be strangled and if he did break free he'd be shot.

He did the only thing he could.

46

Fargo rammed his shoulder into Semple's chest, knocking Semple off his feet. In the same motion he swept Semple toward the sound of Hoby's voice. He felt the jolt of impact and Hoby squawked, and all three of them were down and in a tangle.

The grip on Fargo's neck slackened. Smashing his fist against Semple's forearm, Fargo broke free and rolled.

“Shoot him!” Semple bawled.

Not sure where Hoby was, and expecting to feel the searing impact of hot lead, Fargo lunged to his feet and ran.

“Get off me, damn you!” Hoby Cotton yelled.

Fargo went another dozen steps and flattened. Twisting his head, he could just make out the rising forms of the Cottons.

“He's gone, thanks to you,” Hoby was saying. “I couldn't get a shot.”

“Do we go after him?”

“In the dark?” Hoby replied. “Use your head and stay close.”

They sprinted off.

Fargo didn't move. It might be another trick. Not until the drum of heavy hooves told him the Cottons were apparently skedaddling.

Rising, Fargo crept forward until he spied the bulk of the dead horse. “Coltraine?” he whispered.

There was no answer.

Fargo moved closer.

The lawman lay on his side with one arm bent unnaturally under him and his leg under the bay. His hat was missing and his holster was empty.

“Coltraine?” Fargo said again, and touched the lawman's shoulder.

Luther Coltraine opened his eyes and seemed to try to focus. “Fargo? That you? Did you get them?”

“They got away.” Fargo saw that the front of the marshal's shirt was a lot darker than it should be. Blood, and a lot of it.

Coltraine coughed and dark specks flecked his lips and chin. “That's a shame. I hate to die with him still on the loose.”

“He won't be for long,” Fargo vowed.

Coltraine looked down at himself. “Part of me didn't think he'd do it. Not really. But he up and shot me with no more regret than if I was a fly.”

Fargo remembered the bank teller and Rufus and all the others he had heard about. “The boy is a natural-born killer.”

“How he could be mine, I'll never know,” Coltraine said. “Sometimes I wonder if it wasn't me who sired him. If maybe she slept with someone else besides me.”

Fargo hadn't thought of that. “Could be,” he acknowledged.

“He's done me in,” Coltraine said, and coughed some more.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Don't go yet.”

“I'll stay until . . .” Fargo didn't finish.

Coltraine gazed about them even though there was nothing to see. “Never reckoned it would be like this. By my own son, no less, if his ma's to be believed.” He sighed. “Our pokes come back to haunt us when we least expect.”

Fargo hoped not.

Coltraine bowed his head, and then said quietly, “I couldn't, when it came down to it.”

“How's that again?”

“I couldn't shoot. I had my six-shooter out and pointin' right at him when he walked up but I couldn't squeeze the trigger. And do you know what he did? He laughed and kicked it out of my hand.”

“He's lived too long,” Fargo said. A strange thing to say about someone who hadn't seen eighteen summers.

“Did I ever tell you that Amanda is a she-cat under the sheet?”

“How did we get from him to her?”

“I don't want to die with him in my head.” Coltraine sank back and closed his eyes. “It won't be long.”

The wind picked up and stirred the dead horse's mane.

“I used to be one of the best lawmen around,” Coltraine said wistfully. “Before that boy came along. Before he made my life hell.”

Fargo realized he still held his Colt and holstered it.

“Funny thing is, there's not any pain. A slug in my chest and my leg half crushed and I don't feel much. How can that be?”

“You're lucky.”

“You call this luck?” Coltraine said, and started to laugh but broke into another coughing fit. “I am bound for hell and that's for sure.”

“If I had whiskey I'd offer you some.”

“My saddlebag,” Coltraine said. “There's a flask.”

Fargo found it, a silver flask half-full. He opened it and pressed it to the lawman's good hand.

“I'm obliged.” Coltraine swallowed and said, “Ahhh.”

“Any kin you want to be told?” Fargo thought to ask.

“I wish there were. The only kin I have left in this world is that boy.” Coltraine's mouth curled in a grim smile filled with blood. “Ain't that a hoot?”

“I'll give him your regards if I'm able when I do him in.”

“You do that. You tell him that his pa . . .” Coltraine stopped and the flask fell from fingers gone limp and his chest deflated.

“Hell,” Fargo said.

47

The Cottons had ridden all night and half of the next day and probably figured they were safe.

When Fargo saw the smoke he circled and came up on the woods from the south instead of the north. He tied the Ovaro to an oak and drew his Colt.

Ever since leaving Coltraine lying there in the dirt, he'd felt peculiar. As if part of him had become as hard as granite. He was filled with a fierce resolve, and he wouldn't be denied this side of the grave.

They were seated at their campfire, facing their back trail. They had coffee on, and Hoby was doing what he always did: laughing.

“Did you see the look on his face? It'll give me a grin the rest of my born days.”

“Why do you suppose he didn't shoot?” Semple said. “He had the chance and didn't take it.”

“Who knows? Stupid is as stupid does.”

“What now?” Semple asked. “Stick around or go back to Texas or somethin' else?”

“How does Denver and the mountains thereabouts strike you?” Hoby said. “I hear they're findin' silver and gold all over the place. There'd be more folks to rob than we can shake a stick at.”

“We need some new gun hands,” Semple suggested. “The two of us ain't hardly enough.”

“What was it Ma used to say? Bad apples are easy to find. You just look under any big rock.” Hoby laughed and bent for the coffeepot.

Fargo walked into the clearing. They didn't hear him and he went partway and stopped. “Sometimes you find bad apples sitting next to a fire.”

The Cottons exploded to their feet and whirled, Hoby with a tin cup in his gun hand, Semple clawing to draw but he froze when he saw Fargo's Colt was already out and pointed.

“Well, now,” Hoby said, grinning. “Ain't you the tricky cuss? You're startin' to take after me.”

“We thought we'd lost you,” Semple said.

“We have unfinished business, you gents and me,” Fargo said. He locked eyes with Hoby. “Your pa said to give his regards. He took a while dying. They do that when they're lung shot.”

“He deserved it,” Hoby said. “I'd have made him suffer more if I'd had the time.”

“You're a piece of work,” Fargo said.

“I haven't heard that before.” Hoby chuckled and casually tossed the tin cup to one side and raised his hands. “All right. You've caught us. Take us in.”

“In?” Fargo said.

“To jail,” Hoby said. “That's why my pa and you were after us. To arrest us so we'd be put on trial. That's how the law works.”

“Do you see a badge on my buckskins?”

“None of the rest of the posse had tin stars, either. Just the marshal and the deputy.”

“Hoby,” Semple said. “That's not what he's sayin'.”

For once the boy's quick wits were slow to savvy. “He got the drop on us, didn't he? Why else if not to take us in?”

“Is that what you think?” Fargo said, and twirled the Colt into his holster.

“What the blazes?” Hoby blurted. His surprise gave way to uncertainty and he looked at his brother.

“I told you,” Semple said.

“I do declare,” Hoby said. Grinning, he slowly lowered his arms and shifted his legs so he was poised on the balls of his feet. “If this don't beat all, mister. You should have just shot us.”

“I want you to know it's coming,” Fargo said.

“It could be we're better than you,” Semple said. His fingers were splayed above his revolver and he flexed them. “It could be it's us that rides away.”

“There's only one way to find out.”

Hoby had absorbed the full import by now and was shaking his head in amusement. “Don't you beat all. There's not an hombre alive who can take both of us at the same time.”

“Prove it,” Fargo said.

Hoby tittered with glee. “I should thank you for givin' us peace of mind. I didn't like the notion of always havin' to look over my shoulder.”

“Whenever you say to, little brother,” Semple said.

“There's one thing first,” Fargo said.

“Oh?” From Hoby.

“Your ma.”

“What about her?”

“Was Coltraine the only gent she slept with?”

“What's it to you?” Hoby snapped.

“I'm curious, is all,” Fargo said.

Hoby hesitated, then said, “My ma, bless her, trifled with every handsome galoot she set eyes on. Coltraine was but one of a whole wagonload of admirers.”

“The marshal was right, then,” Fargo said. “Then why try to ruin his life? Why follow him all the way from Texas when you couldn't be sure he was your real father?”

“I like playin' with folks. I like makin' 'em suffer. And he was the great Luther Coltraine. The tin star who could do no wrong. The man who couldn't be beat. Well, I beat him. I ran him out of Texas and I came here to toy with him some more and then kill him, and it was as fun as anything.”

“All the misery you've caused.”

“What you call misery I call a good laugh. And haven't you heard? Laughter is good for the soul.”

Semple chuckled. “You sure are a hoot, Hoby. But shouldn't we get to it?”

“I reckon we should,” Hoby said.

Fargo was as ready as he'd ever be. “Whenever you want to die.”

Hoby grinned. “After we're done with you I might just go back to that two-bit town and help myself to that Brenner gal. Maybe cart her around with us and let her do the cookin' and poke her every night. Semple and me both.”

“I'd like that,” Semple said.

Fargo waited, motionless.

“Nothin' more to say?” Hoby taunted. He gazed at the sky and at the woods and at his brother and back at Fargo. “Me either.”

“Now?” Semple said.

“Now,” Hoby said.

Their hands flashed, and so did Fargo's. He drew and fanned a shot into Hoby Cotton and shifted and fanned another into Semple before either cleared leather. Hoby was jolted back but Semple barely flinched and fired but in his haste he missed. Fargo fanned again, his Colt cracking and bucking. The slug caught Semple Cotton in the mouth and pulped his lower lip even as it shattered his teeth and cored through his skull and burst out the back of his head.

Hoby fanned a shot of his own and Fargo felt pain in his shoulder. He aimed and shot Hoby in the chest and Hoby staggered and sent a slug whizzing under his arm.

Fargo shot Hoby as he raised his revolver, shot him as his legs buckled, shot him as he keeled to the ground.

Fargo walked over and put his boot on Hoby's six-shooter as Hoby tried to lift it. His own Colt was empty and he commenced to reload.

Hoby Cotton grinned. “You've done shot me to ribbons.”

“You're not dead yet,” Fargo said, inserting a second cartridge.

“Lordy, I hurt,” Hoby said, and grimaced. “You could have blown my brains out like you did Semple's but you didn't. Folks say I'm snake-mean but you're just as mean as me.”

“I have my moments,” Fargo said, sliding a fourth cartridge into the chamber.

“I've had mine. And you know what? I wouldn't have done any of it different. All I've ever wanted was to have fun.”

“All I want,” Fargo said, sliding a fifth cartridge in, and then cocking the Colt, “is this.” He pointed and fired.