Range War (9781101559215) (14 page)

“Mr. Trask may say that you had cause but I ain't one to turn the other cheek.”

Shorty hitched at his gun belt and walked away.

“Better watch yourself, mister,” Hank said. “He was real close to Lathrop, one of those fellers you shot.”

“What about you two?”

Hank shrugged. “I do as Mr. Trask says, and Mr. Trask says we're to leave you be.”

Billy-Bob pushed his hat back on his head. “Mr. Trask said it was a mix-up, that you were tryin' to help out. That's good enough for me.”

Fargo was relieved that he wouldn't have to keep an eye on them, too. He had enough on his hands with Shorty and Carlos.

The former was glaring at the world. Carlos had gone into the cottonwoods and was out of sight. He went to find him.

A dozen steps into the cottonwoods a ribbon of blue sparkled. Carlos was on a knee examining bare dirt.

“I was just about to yell for you to come have a look.”

There had to be twenty paw prints. Huge, well defined, they were the same as those Fargo had seen before—neither wolf nor dog nor coyote.

“Look at the size,” Carlos marveled. “The thing must be as big as a bear.”

“Not by half,” Fargo said. “And it's not the size we have to worry about.”

“I know, gringo. It's that the beast is so damn bloodthirsty.”

“Worse,” Fargo said.

Confused, Carlos said, “What can be worse than that?”

“There are two of them.”

“The hell you say,” Carlos said.

Squatting, Fargo touched one of the prints. “This is a right forepaw.” He touched another. “This is a right forepaw, too. Notice anything?”

“They look the same to me.”

“Look closer.”

Carlos tilted his head one way and then the other. He held his hand to the first forepaw and then to the second. Finally he said, “One is wider than the other.”

“Look at the pads.”

“They are deeper on the first one than on the second.” Carlos snapped his fingers. “That means one of them is heavier.”

“Bigger
and
heavier,” Fargo said. “It could be a male and a female.”

“But a male and a female
what
?”

“That's the question,” Fargo said. Standing, he followed the tracks to where the stream narrowed. The prints pointed at the water and disappeared.

Taking a few steps back to build up speed, Fargo bounded at the stream and leaped over it. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet. More tracks led into the woods.

Carlos was watching him. “Can you tell how long ago were they made?”

“This morning.”

“
Suerte nos ha favorcido.
Then we have a chance of catching up to them, yes?”

“We sure as hell do.” Fargo jumped back across the stream and jogged to the horses, bellowing to the cowboys, “Mount up! We found a fresh trail.”

Billy-Bob and Hank came on the run, their spurs jangling. Shorty was a bit slower.

“You mean we'll get a shot at that varmint?” Billy-Bob asked.

“At both of them, maybe.”

The cowboys stopped and looked at one another.

“There's two now?” Billy-Bob said.

Fargo was already climbing on. He reined around and tapped his spurs and reached the cottonwoods as Carlos burst out of them and headed for his mount. A flick of his reins, and Fargo was across the stream.

The beasts had continued east, into dense woodland. The sign was intermittent; a track here, a partial print there, a smudge farther on. It helped that the two animals made no attempt to hide their spoor, as a fox would. They were good at sticking to cover, though. They had climbed above the timber to a mostly open slope where the pair had zigzagged from boulder to boulder until they reached the top. From there they had climbed through tall grass to a stand of aspens.

Fargo recollected hearing that the Guadalupe Mountains were one of only three ranges in all of Texas where aspens could be found. He entered the stand and made a discovery that brought a smile. Flattened grass showed where the pair had rested for a while.

Once on the move the animals again traveled east.

Usually wild creatures meandered all over the place but these two were making a beeline for somewhere.

Fargo went another quarter of a mile when he abruptly drew rein and looked back. “Son of a bitch.”

No one was following him.

Clucking to the Ovaro, Fargo retraced his route. When he came to the timber he cupped a hand to his mouth to shout for Carlos and the cowboys but thought better of it. The beasts might be closer than he thought, and would hear him.

His anger growing, he went lower. He had gone a quarter of a mile when he heard a mocking laugh and voices.

Fargo slowed.

“How do you like it, sheep eater?” That was Shorty's voice.

Fargo skirted a pine and stopped. The three punchers were standing and grinning at the object of their amusement.

Carlos hung by his legs from a rope that had been thrown over a tree limb and tied fast. His head was only four or five feet above the ground. He was swaying like a pendulum, and blood trickled from a corner of his mouth.

“Ready to say you are sorry, mutton man?” Shorty said.

“Go to hell, gringo, and take your amigos with you,” Carlos blustered.

“An apology,” Shorty said, “or you can hang up there until the chickens come home, and there ain't no chickens.”

Billy-Bob laughed. “That's a good one, Shorty.”

“It was your fault, not mine,” Carlos said angrily. “You wanted an excuse to string me up like a criminal.”

“If we'd strung you up, sheep boy, the rope would be around your neck.” Shorty balled his right fist and smacked it against his left palm. “You have to learn respect for your betters.” He cocked his arm. “How about I beat on you some?”

“How about you don't?” Fargo said.

Shorty whirled, his hand poised to draw. “This doesn't concern you.”

“I warned you,” Fargo said.

Hank put a hand on Shorty's arm. “Don't draw on him. You saw how fast he is.”

“Let go,” Shorty said, shaking the hand off. “So what if he's fast? I'll still put lead into him.” He glanced at Billy-Bob. “How about it? You in with me?”

“The boss said not to.”

“The boss ain't here. And this busybody has it comin' for killin' Lathrop and Baxter.”

“Count me out,” Hank said.

Billy-Bob shook his head. “Count me out, too. I'm sorry, Shorty, but I won't cross Mr. Trask.”

“Fine,” Shorty snapped. “Be yellow, then.” He sidled to the left, his eyes glittering. “You have it to do,” he said to Fargo.

“Kill him, senor!” Carlos cried.

“Shut up, greaser,” Shorty growled, not taking his gaze from Fargo.

“Shorty, please,” Hank said.

“It's not worth it,” Billy-Bob urged.

“Weak sisters, the both of you,” Shorty insulted them. His body went rigid. “How about you, scout? Nothin' to say before we get to it?”

“Die if you want to,” Fargo said.

Shorty went for his six-shooter.

Fargo had gone out of his way to avoid trouble. But he was done avoiding. There was only so much stupid he would abide. He drew and his Colt was out and up before Shorty cleared leather. He shot Shorty in the shoulder and the cowboy spun half around but didn't go down. Cursing, Shorty did a border shift, flipping his six-gun to his other hand.

“Don't,” Fargo said.

Shorty didn't listen. He raised the revolver to take better aim.

Fargo shot him again. The slug smashed into Shorty's gut, folding Shorty in half and knocking the breath out of him. Shorty staggered, dropped his smoke wagon, and clasped his hands to his belly.

“I'm hit, boys.”

Fargo cocked the Colt and leveled it at Billy-Bob and Hank.

“No sir,” Hank said, holding up his hands. “I want no part of this.”

“Shorty shouldn't of drawn on you,” Billy-Bob said. “Mr. Trask said we're not to give you trouble.”

“Cut Carlos down,” Fargo commanded. He eased the hammer on his Colt but kept the Colt in his hand and swung down and went over to Shorty, who had collapsed on his side.

Shorty's mouth was clenched and blood was streaming from between his fingers.

“Damn you,” Fargo said.

Shorty sputtered and said, “I couldn't help it. I hate woollies. I hate those who raise them.”

“Sheep aren't worth dying over,” Fargo said.

Shorty coughed and groaned and said to Hank, “Tell Mr. Trask it wasn't Fargo's fault. It was me.”

Hank nodded, and his throat bobbed.

Billy-Bob got Carlos down.

Casting the rope aside, Carlos came over and sneered at Shorty.

“Serves you right, gringo, for being so stupid.”

“You should talk,” Fargo said.

“He's a pig. All gringos are pigs. I will spit on him when he dies.”

“You do,” Fargo said, “and you'll be gumming your food the rest of your life.”

“You don't scare me,” Carlos declared.

Fargo cocked the Colt again and with a quick motion pressed the muzzle to Carlos' forehead. “Don't I?”

Carlos gulped, and glowered, and backed away. “You'd do it, too. You like to squeeze the trigger, don't you?”

“I like to shoot jackasses,” Fargo said. “Which puts you at the top of the list.”

“Go to hell,” Carlos spat, and turning, he walked toward the horses.

“I wish you'd plugged him,” Hank said.

“I still might before this is done. What brought this on?”

“Oh,” Billy-Bob said. “We were followin' you and Shorty took it into his head to cut the sheepherder off. The sheepherder called him names and Shorty called him names and one thing led to another and Shorty roped him and hung him by his heels.”

“Everyone forgot about the animals we're after?”

“I reckon we did,” Hank said sheepishly.

“There's no shortage of idiots in this world,” Fargo said in disgust.

Shorty did more coughing and gazed at the sky. “I don't want to die.”

“Who does?” Fargo said.

“What was I thinkin'?”

Fargo almost said, “You weren't,” but he held his anger in check. “I can try to dig the slug out.”

“No need,” Shorty said. “I can feel myself fadin'.”

Fargo holstered his Colt. Belly wounds, as he well knew, were unpredictable. Sometimes the victim lasted for days, sometimes they went fast.

“I wonder,” Shorty said, “if I'll see the pearly gates.”

“Remember to be polite to any angels you meet,” Hank said. “They're the ones with wings.”

“Send my war bag and my poke to my brother,” Shorty requested. He closed his eyes and his cheek sank to the grass. “I'm near to death, boys.”

“God damn you, Shorty,” Billy-Bob said.

Carlos had climbed on his horse and was smiling in sadistic delight.

“Fargo?” Shorty said.

“I'm here.”

“Want to hear somethin' funny? I never shot anyone my whole life. Never had to. You're the first one I tried to buck out in gore.”

“You should have picked someone slower.”

Shorty grinned, and coughed, and quaked from his hat to his boots. “I never was too smart.” He sucked in a deep breath, and died.

“Well now,” Hank said. “He went out nice.”

Fargo looked at him.

“He did,” Hank said. “He didn't blubber or whine or nothin'.”

“I might do me some blubberin' when I die,” Billy-Bob said, “lessen I go quick.”

“Let's get to the burying,” Fargo directed. He found a downed branch, the punchers did the same, and working together they dug a shallow grave. Hank stripped Shorty of his valuables and gun belt and they wrapped him in a blanket and lowered the body into the hole.

“Anyone want to say anythin'?” Billy-Bob asked.

“I'm not much for quotin' Scripture,” Hank said. “All I know is ‘thou shalt not kill' and ‘do unto others.'”

Both of them looked at Fargo.

“Do I look like a parson?” Fargo said. “But you want words? How about these.” He paused. “May Shorty rest in peace. He was loyal to the brand and he loved cows.”

“That's beautiful,” Hank said.

“I wouldn't mind havin' that on my gravestone,” Billy-Bob said.

Hank began to shove dirt in. “I reckon we should cover him so we can get after those wolves or whatever they are.”

“Amen to that,” Fargo said.

Until well into the afternoon they wound steadily deeper into the mountains. It was pushing three o'clock by Fargo's reckoning when they crested a ridge onto a broad tableland.

Forest so thick that even the bright sun of midday couldn't penetrate covered most of it.

“Spooky place,” Hank said.

Fargo was more interested in gray tendrils rising into the sky half a mile away. “Look there,” he said, and pointed.

“Injuns, you think?” Billy-Bob wondered.

“I doubt it,” Fargo said. Few Indians would give their presence away like that.

“There ain't no white men this far out,” Hank said, “unless maybe it's a hunter.”

Carlos' sneer had become a fixture. “Why do you assume they are white, gringo? My people were here long before yours.”