Outwitting him would take some doing.
The numbness would not go away. Fargo tried to move his right arm but he could lift it only as high as his waist. It did not feel broken or sprained, though. He suspected a nerve was pinched, and if so, the effect should wear off soon. But what was he supposed to do in the meantime with Tork out after his hide?
As wary as a mouse poking its head out of a hole in a room with a cat, Fargo eased around the trunk.
“Can you hear me, mister?”
Fargo’s estimation of Tork fell. Only the rankest of greeners would talk at a time like this. “I can hear you!” he sought to keep Tork gabbing and gain time for his arm to recover.
“I hit you, didn’t I? I could tell by how you fell.”
“You could, could you?” Fargo wriggled his arm and opened and closed his hand.
“I would like to do you a favor,” Tork called out.
“You want to surrender?”
Tork’s laugh was more of a bray. “No. But I was thinking you might want to.”
“And what happens when you have me in your sights? Or do we let bygones be bygones and go our separate ways?”
“You are a hoot,” Tork said. “No, if you give up, I will not take you to Durn.”
“You are making no sense,” Fargo informed him.
“Durn would kill you slow and messy, or feed you to his pet. But me, I will do it quick and painless. Or as painless as it gets.”
Fargo tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he said, “You would do that for me? It is damned generous of you.” He had a good idea where Tork was—in a cluster of small spruce.
“I will shoot you in the brainpan. How does that sound?”
“Oh, just dandy,” Fargo said. “But I like the notion of shooting you in yours even better.”
“You are not taking this serious.”
“Would you like me to dig my own grave before you shoot me?” Fargo asked.
“It is a shame,” Tork said. “Now we must do this the hard way.”
Fargo registered movement. He had been tricked. Tork had been working toward him the whole time.
Fargo flung himself back a split second before the Sharps went off. Lead thwacked the pine, nearly ripping off his cheek. Going prone, Fargo crabbed backward until he came to another tree.
Fargo’s anger at himself knew no bounds. Once again Tork had nearly gotten the better of him. He must stop underestimating the little killer and be as wary as he would be of an Apache.
“Did I nick you?” Tork hollered.
Fargo was not about to fall for the same trick again. Staying on his belly, he wormed toward the Ovaro. If he could get to it without Tork catching on, he could fan the breeze and maybe give Tork the slip.
“Not answering me, huh?” Tork baited him.
A long log blocked Fargo’s way. Rather than go around, he slid up and over.
“Was that you just then?” Tork called out. He was moving as he talked. “What are you up to?”
Fargo’s right arm was tingling fiercely. The feeling was returning. He extended it to test it and winced at a pain in his shoulder.
The Ovaro had its head turned to one side, patiently waiting for him.
Preoccupied with his arm, Fargo crawled several yards before he awoke to the fact that the stallion was
Quickly, Fargo took aim as best he could given that he could barely see the front sight. The figure paused, and he fired. Working the lever, he went to shoot again but the figure was gone.
Heaving erect, Fargo ran to the Ovaro. Here was his chance to put some distance between him and Tork.
Wrapping his forearm around the pommel, Fargo gave a little hop and gained the saddle. He was off like a shot, which was fitting given that the Sharps let him know Tork was still alive. He headed west for half a mile then cut to the south, his intent to reach Polson before morning.
Several times Fargo stopped to listen. At last he became convinced that Tork was not after him. He slowed and wearily slumped in the saddle. He could use a few hours of sleep but it would have to wait.
His senses dulled by his fatigue, Fargo threaded through heavy timber and presently came to a broad meadow. By now he had regained the full use of his arm. Since he was not being chased, he considered it safe to cross the meadow rather than go around. But no sooner did he emerge from the trees than riders closed in from the right and the left, and gun muzzles were practically thrust in his face.
“Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Who do we have here?”
“Damn,” Fargo said.
Kutler threw back his head and laughed.
One of the others kneed his horse up close and relieved Fargo of the Henry and the Colt.
“I did not expect you to make it so easy for us,” Kutler remarked.
Fargo sighed.
“I almost feel sorry for you,” Kutler said. “Mike Durn is madder than I have ever seen him. And the madder he is, the worse he likes to hurt those he is mad at. Before he is done with you, you will wish you were never born.”
15
Polson was quiet and still in the hours before dawn. The clomp of hooves sounded louder than usual.
Fargo’s wrists were bound in front of him. Kutler was leading the Ovaro by the reins. On either side, Kutler’s men kept revolvers trained on him. He was not about to get away again.
Now, glancing over his shoulder, Kutler remarked, “I reckon you did not expect to see this place again so soon.”
Fargo had intended to come back to confront Big Mike Durn, but he did not say anything.
The street was deserted save for a dog scratching itself and a pig poking about in a pile of horse droppings.
They came to a stop at the hitch rail in front of the Whiskey Mill. Kutler climbed down, looped the reins, then smirked at Fargo. “If you are waiting for a hand, you will wait until doomsday.”
Fargo swung off. He was immediately grabbed by two of Kutler’s men and hustled into the saloon. Evidently it stayed open all night; the bartender was wiping the bar, and at a corner table a drunk was fondling a nearly empty bottle.
“I don’t know about the rest of you boys,” Kutler said, “but some coffin varnish will do me right fine for breakfast.”
“Food is overrated,” said a string bean packing two pistols.
Fargo was propelled to the bar. As the bartender came up, he said, “I’ll take whiskey. Put it on Mike Durn’s tab.”
Kutler and the others all looked at him, and Kutler burst out in hearty guffaws. “You beat all. Sand up to your ears.”
“I’m thirsty,” Fargo said.
Kutler nodded at the bartender. “Give him whatever he wants. The condemned always get a last request.”
“Condemned to what?” Fargo asked. He suspected the truth but he wanted it confirmed.
“You were down below. You know what is down there.”
“No, I don’t,” Fargo said, although he had his hunch. “I never got a look at the thing in the pit.”
A grin split Kutler’s face. “You will. You will look it in the eyes as it tears you to pieces.”
