Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) (12 page)

22

Pain exploded clear down to Fargo's toes. Clutching himself, he staggered. He grabbed at Jennifer with his other hand but she sidestepped and was past and to the door before he recovered enough to take a step of his own. “Don't,” he said.

“Go to hell.” Jennifer flung herself outside and there were shouts.

When Fargo reached the window she was over at the horses with Blasingame and Mills.

Blasingame had his hand to her chin and was turning her face from side to side. Glaring toward the cabin, he hollered, “You hurt her, you son of a bitch.”

Fargo didn't respond. What good would it do?

“Hear me!” Blasingame cried, but not to Fargo, to the other outlaws. “I'll give a thousand dollars of my own money to any of you who kill him.”

Fargo swore. He supposed there was a certain irony in having a bounty put on his head by a man who had a bounty on his own but he was in no mood to appreciate it. He saw Nesbit suddenly rise and charge toward the cabin, and moved to the doorway. He'd left the butcher knife on the floor but he still had his toothpick and he held it low against his leg, ready to thrust.

Nesbit didn't slow, didn't hesitate. He burst inside looking right and left, his rifle in front of him.

Fargo stabbed him in the chest and simultaneously thrust his foot out, tripping him. He felt the blade strike bone and knew it had been deflected by a rib. Then Nesbit was on the floor and rolling, the rifle's muzzle rising. Fargo threw himself aside. The rifle boomed and the slug struck the wall. He sprang, stabbing at Nesbit's heart, only to have the rifle stock catch him across his ribs and smash him to the floor.

“You cut me!” Nesbit roared, and came at him in a frenzy, swinging the rifle like a club.

Fargo ducked, rolled, made it to his knees. A blow to his shoulder knocked him down again. The next moment Nesbit was straddling him and pressing the barrel across his throat. He pushed at the rifle but couldn't force it up. He couldn't breathe and his lungs protested with new pain.

“That thousand is mine,” Nesbit gloated, spittle flecking his lips.

Fargo speared the toothpick into the outlaw's throat, and twisted. Wet drops spattered his face and his shirt.

Nesbit, recoiling, tried to say something but all that came out of his mouth was blood. He let go of the rifle and grabbed at his neck in a bid to staunch the flow. Lurching to his feet, he tottered toward the door.

Fargo grabbed at his leg, and missed.

Nesbit stumbled outside.

Fargo made it to his feet. He left the rifle on the floor; it was a single-shot and he didn't have ammunition for it. He moved to the window.

Nesbit was staggering toward the horses. Hardy cursed in rage, and Niyan was returning on the run. Out at the bend, Marshal Cripdin was watching but not saying or doing anything.

Fargo did some swearing of his own. If the lawman had any sense he'd rush the outlaws while they were focused on Nesbit and the cabin.

Nesbit reached an arm toward Cord Blasingame, tried to speak, and pitched to the ground. He broke into convulsions that lasted longer than any Fargo ever saw. He was still convulsing when Niyan shot him in the head to put him out of his misery.

Fargo leaned his back to the wall and put his hands on his legs. He'd killed another of them but there were five left and they had guns and he didn't. It hit him they might rush him and he looked out again just as Marshal Cripdin gave a yell.

“Only five of you now, Blasingame. You still have a chance to surrender.”

“Go to hell,” the outlaw leader replied.

“You think you can wait us out but you can't.”

“Shut up, you damn useless bastard.”

“I'm about to show you how mistaken you are,” Cripdin shouted. “I won't be the laughingstock of Meridian much longer.”

“You're going to take a long time to die,” Blasingame vowed.

Fargo was grateful for the exchange. It bought him time. Neither Mills nor Hardy made a move toward the cabin. Nor did Niyan, who had taken cover behind a log. Sooner or later, though, they were bound to try.

Fargo had an inspiration. The rifle was empty but they didn't know that. Retrieving it, he came back to the window, shoved the barrel out where they could see it, and hollered, “I'll shoot the first son of a bitch who tries to come in here.”

That should dissuade them a while, he figured. But he was still trapped and needed to think of something, fast.

He searched the cabin again, more thoroughly. There was no ammunition anywhere. He turned to the window to keep an eye on them and his gaze fell on a lantern. It gave him an idea.

He went to the broken chair, gathered up the pieces, and careful not to show himself, threw them out the door a few feet in front of the cabin. He did the same with the other chair.

“What in hell are you doing?” Cord Blasingame shouted.

Fargo took a couple of blankets and added them to the pile. In his search he'd found some lucifers. He stroked one and lit the lantern.

He'd like to wait until dark but he didn't dare. Too much could happen.

Blasingame must have guessed what he was up to. “Cover the doorway, boys. When he makes his break, shoot the bastard down.”

Fargo hurled the lantern at the pile. It shattered, and flames spread across the blankets, growing rapidly. Smoke rose, a lot of it, so much that in no time a cloud formed, and because there was no wind it hugged the ground—and the front of the cabin.

Flattening, Fargo crawled out the door and bore to the right along the wall. He made it to the corner without being seen and without shots ringing out, and once he was around to the side, he rose into a crouch. So far, so good.

“Do you see him?” Blasingame yelled.

“No,” Hardy replied. “I can't see a damn thing. It's as thick as soup.”

The smoke spread. As it overlapped the cabin, Fargo moved toward some cottonwoods. He stayed alert for sign of Niyan. The breed was the best of them, and could be anywhere.

Luck favored him. He reached the cottonwoods, and cover. His throat was dry and he could use some water, and he was hungry as hell, but they were the least of his worries.

The smoke had spread outward past the boulder, hiding Hardy, and was creeping toward the horses. The fire was about out, though.

Fargo crouched, debating what to do. Movement high on the canyon wall caught his eye. He looked, and couldn't believe what he was seeing: a pair of posse members with rifles.

Cripdin was proving to be more competent than Fargo imagined. The lawman must have sent them up there not long after he arrived.

But Blasingame must have had the same idea.

More movement drew Fargo's gaze to a figure slinking toward them. It was Davies.

The posse men were peering down at Blasingame and the other outlaws.

Fargo wanted to shout to warn them but it would give him away. He stepped from behind the cottonwood and waved his arms to try to get their attention but they didn't see him.

Davies was almost on them.

One of the posse members took aim in the direction of the horses, and Blasingame.

Quick as thought, Davies shot him in the back, shifted, and shot the other one.

Fargo dropped from sight. So much for the posse having the advantage.

Blasingame waved to Davies and Davies waved back. Turning toward the bend, Blasingame laughed and shouted, “Any other bright ideas, marshal?”

“They were family men, damn you,” Cripdin yelled.

“Then they shouldn't have joined your posse,” Blasingame said.

“You'll hang for this.”

“Come to your senses, you idiot,” Blasingame said. “You only have a few men left. So I'll tell you what. Mount up and leave, right this minute, and I won't hold this against you.”

“No.”

“Maybe you should ask the men you deputized how they feel,” Blasingame said. “Do they want to live or do they want to die?”

“You are a miserable son of a bitch.”

Blasingame laughed. “Hardy has his shotgun and Mills his bowie but I have my words. They're my weapon.” He raised his voice. “Do you hear me back there, you men? Think of your loved ones. Your wives and your children. Don't you want to see them again? To hold them in you arms?”

“Shut the hell up,” Cripdin hollered.

“You've done your best,” Blasingame went on. “But now you're outnumbered and when dark falls I'll send the breed in and you know what will happen. Leave, now, while you still can. Go home to your families. I give you my word we won't come after you.”

Muffled shouts from past the bend ended with the drum of hooves. Marshal Cripdin swore luridly.

Blasingame chortled. “How many do you have left, tin star? I bet it's just you.”

Cripdin didn't answer.

“Better go with them,” Blasingame said. “Or I'll have the breed stake you out and carve on you.”

“You don't scare me,” Cripdin hollered.

“Could be I don't.” Blasingame laughed some more; he was enjoying himself. “But I bet the breed does. I bet he scares the piss out of you. So smarten up and go, you damned jackass.”

Fargo waited. It wasn't a minute more that hooves pounded, fading rapidly.

“Do you hear that, Fargo, wherever you are?” Blasingame shouted. “It's just you now, and us. You know what that means?”

Fargo glided through the cottonwoods and into the shadow of the canyon wall. Knives against guns was next to hopeless but he'd be damned if he'd give up without a struggle.

“Nothing to say?” Blasingame taunted. “Don't want to give yourself away? That's all right. Ready or not, here we come.”

23

Move
, Fargo's mind warned, and he did, along the wall, staying always in shadow. He was across the canyon from the horses, and the Ovaro. He needed to reach them but with Davies up on the rim and the others hunting him, he'd be hard pressed to do it unseen.

Inspiration struck, and he moved toward the far bend instead.

The smoke was thinning.

Someone coughed, and Hardy appeared at the front of the cabin. He'd just come from inside and yelled, “He's not in the cabin, Cord!”

“Didn't reckon he would be,” Blasingame replied. “Watch yourselves. I don't need to remind you how dangerous he is.”

“So am I,” Hardy said as he moved toward the cottonwoods Fargo had vacated.

Fargo went faster. Except for a dull ache between his legs he felt fine. He told himself there were only five of them. He told himself it wasn't as hopeless as it seemed.

Cord Blasingame liked to hear himself talk. “Fargo, I know you can hear me. For killing Connie and hurting Jen, I'll see you dead if it takes the rest of my days.”

Fargo imagined putting a slug through Blasingame's brainpan to shut him up, and grinned.

“Any sign of him, Davies?” Blasingame hollered.

Davies rose up and shook his head.

Fargo had to remember to keep an eye on the rim. He came to a belt of brush and weeds and sank to his belly.

Blasingame and Jennifer were hurrying toward the cabin. Mills followed, leading some of the horses. One was the Ovaro.

Hardy was in the cottonwoods.

A sense of unease came over Fargo. He'd lost track of Niyan. It could be the breed had spotted him and was stalking him. He hoped to hell not.

The bend. Fargo concentrated on the bend. Pumping his elbows and his knees, he reached it and slid around and almost immediately a Spencer was shoved in his face.

“You!” Marshal Theodore Cripdin blurted.

“I thought I heard you ride off,” Fargo said.

“That was the last of my posse,” Cripdin said. He lowered his rifle. “Sorry. You gave me a scare, coming out of nowhere.”

Rising, Fargo brushed dirt from his shirt and nodded at the lawman's holster. “Any chance you'd let me have that?”

“Why not? I still have my rifle.” Cripdin palmed the Smith & Wesson and handed it over. “You probably won't believe this but I'm awful glad to see you.”

“How did you find this place?”

“That night Hardy shot Floyd and made us go off on foot, we only went a short way. As soon as Niyan turned back, we stopped and waited for daylight. We were all mad about Floyd and decided we weren't going back to town empty-handed.”

“You did good,” Fargo said.

“It wasn't easy. The tracks were fresh but none of us were trackers. We stuck at it, though, and damned if we didn't find this canyon, and the rest you know.” Cripdin scowled. “Everything was going fine until the rest of them lit a shuck. Damn that Blasingame, anyhow.”

“What did you hope to do alone?”

Cripdin shrugged. “I don't have a plan. I only know I'm sick and tired of everyone looking down their noses at me. I figure that if I can take Cord Blasingame back, I'll get some respect.”

“That's a tall order.” Fargo checked on the outlaws. Not a single one was in sight. Not even Davies. “Where the hell?”

“What is it?”

Fargo told him.

“It's the breed who worries me most,” Cripdin said. “Folks say he's a ghost. That he can sneak up on you and slit your throat before you know he's there.”

“He worries me, too,” Fargo admitted. He hefted the Smith & Wesson. It was a good revolver but he'd rather have his Colt.

“How's the girl? I saw her come running out of the cabin.”

“It looks as if she's taken her father's side in this. She doesn't want him hurt.”

“I still can't get over it. Her mother sure pulled the wool over everyone's eyes.”

Fargo was watching for Niyan and instead saw Hardy come out of the cottonwoods and cross to the cabin.

“Are you hungry? I have jerky in my saddlebags. And water in my canteen.”

Fargo was grateful for both. He drank a few mouthfuls and had two pieces of jerky. As he chewed he said, “I might have been too hard on you back in town.” Which was as close as he'd come to an apology.

“It's not as if you're the only one who has ever treated me that way.”

“I thought you and Blasingame might be in cahoots,” Fargo mentioned.

“Hell no. A lot of townsfolk turn the other cheek because they think he's such a nice cuss, for an outlaw. I always thought different. Robbing is robbing and killing is killing. I don't care how nice he is.”

“They have a man up top—”

“I know.”

“—who could be working his way around to get a shot at us.”

Cripdin glanced up so sharply, it was a wonder his neck didn't snap. “I hadn't thought of that. What do you suggest?”

Fargo had been thinking. “They're not as smart as they think they are. This is a box canyon. I say we wait at the mouth for them to come out and pick them off as they do.”

“Blasingame isn't stupid. He'll wait until after the sun goes down and slip out without us knowing. Or sic that damn breed on us.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Can't say as I do, no.”

“Then let's give it a try.”

They walked, with Cripdin leading his horse.

Fargo kept watch on the rim but Davies didn't show himself.

The lawman was quiet a while, then cleared his throat. “My posse sure proved useless.”

“They tried their best.”

“Best, hell. Blasingame put the fear of dying into them and they tucked tail and ran.”

“Clerks against killers,” Fargo said. “They wouldn't have stood a prayer.”

“Why are you defending them? I deputized them. They should have stuck by me, come what may.”

“A lot of men talk bigger than they are.”

“There you go again,” Cripdin said. “All I know is they left me to deal with the outlaws alone.” He paused. “What about the girl? When they make their break, what do we do about her?”

“Nothing.”

“But what if she gets in the way?” Cripdin persisted. “It'll be Constance all over again.”

Fargo winced. “Let's hope not.”

“I still can't get over her siding with Blasingame. Kin or no kin.”

“We should keep quiet,” Fargo said.

For once Cripdin took the hint.

There was still no sign of Davies up high. Fargo was more concerned about Niyan; the breed could be anywhere. The next bend they came to, he went around it and stopped. Putting a finger to his lips, he squatted to wait.

Cripdin hunkered and whispered, “What are we doing?”

“I'm not fond of lead in the back.”

They watched a while, until Fargo was sure they weren't being stalked.

“I wouldn't have thought of doing that,” Cripdin said as they moved on. “I'm not much at this fighting business, I'm afraid.”

“I've had a little practice at it,” Fargo told him.

“You're a regular hellion. Since you showed up, people have been dying right and left.”

“They were dying before I came.”

Cripdin plodded another minute before remarking, “Blasingame must want you dead awful bad on account of his other girl.”

“You can shut up now.”

The mouth of the canyon wasn't ideal for Fargo's purpose. It was too wide, for one thing, and not open enough, for another. He took Cripdin into the trees beyond and together they gathered firewood. As he was kindling tinder into flame, the lawman did what he liked to do best—complain.

“I don't see why we're making a fire. They'll spot it right off and know where we are.”

“We want them to.”

Cripdin shook his head. “Why is it I can't hardly savvy half the things you do?”

Fargo puffed on a finger of flame and added fuel. When the fire was crackling to his satisfaction, he led Cripdin into the trees to find downed limbs and dragged a few back.

“Stranger and stranger,” Cripdin said.

“Fetch your bedroll,” Fargo directed.

It took some doing to make the blanket-covered branches look real enough to fool anyone. Close up it was obvious but by then the outlaws would be in their gun sights.

“I get it now,” Cripdin said as they arranged the second fake. “But I doubt Blasingame will fall for it. You expect him to believe we went to sleep with him and his men after us?”

“They'll be curious enough to come close,” Fargo expressed his hope.

“And then we gun them?”

“We sure as hell do.”

After that there was nothing to do but pick their spots and wait for the sun to sink.

Fargo debated whether to separate and decided not to. He needed to keep the lawman quiet and still. So they hid under a spruce, lying where they could watch the canyon mouth and spot anyone who came out of it, and see the clearing, too.

“This is the hard part. The waiting,” Cripdin said.

Fargo didn't respond.

“What happens if this plan of yours doesn't work?”

“They kill us.”

“Damn it. I'm serious. I'd be grateful for an honest answer.”

“That was,” Fargo said.