needed. Anyone who killed animals for the hell of it deserved to be shot themselves. He wasn’t like Gwen’s brothers, who picked off turkey buzzards for target practice.
Part of the reason had to do with the time Fargo had spent among the Sioux. They were mighty hunters, but they never slew to excess and they always used every part of whatever they killed. Buffalo alone provided dozens of everyday items, everything from mittens to soap.
Another reason had to do with a lesson Fargo’s widespread travels had taught him. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t witness one animal kill another. It might be a grizzly eating fish, a pack of wolves culling deer, a bird of prey swooping down on a rabbit or prairie dog, a snake swallowing a frog, or a bird devouring a worm. The daily parade of death made Fargo realize how precious life was. No creature, from the smallest to the largest, deserved to be senselessly slaughtered.
Now, Fargo lowered the Henry rather than shoot the mule. Inserting two fingers into his mouth, he whistled shrilly. Obediently, the stallion trotted toward him. As for the mule belonging to the dead man, it was more interested in grazing than in running off. Fargo smiled. The extra mount would come in handy.
Then a hard object gouged into the base of Fargo’s spine and he heard the click of a hammer. He didn’t need to look to know it was the Spencer, or who had scooped it up while he was preoccupied with the Apaches.
“The boot is on the other foot now, hoss,” Burt Raidler said. “I want you to drop your rifle and shuck that pistol, and do it real slow. I’d rather not blow a hole in you, but by God I will if you try anything.”
Gwen Pearson had been watching the Apache flee. “Burt! You wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, taking a step.
“That’s far enough!” the Texan warned. “I don’t know whose side you’re on. But I ain’t about to trust you, seein’ as how you didn’t raise a fuss when he took my shootin’ iron.”
Gwen stamped a foot. “Sakes alive, but you two get my goat! Why are men so pigheaded? We should be working together, not against one another. More Apaches could be close by. Skye needs his guns.”
“If we’re attacked I’ll give them back. Not before.” Raidler prodded Fargo. “Now do as I told you, mister, and no one has to be hurt.”
Frowning, Fargo lowered the Henry until the stock rested on the ground, then he let it fall. Using two fingers, he slowly pulled the Colt and extended it behind him for the cowboy to take. “Here. I’ve got a pill under the hammer and I don’t want it to go off.”
“I don’t blame you,” Raidler said, grasping the barrel.
For an instant the Texan’s eyes were on the Colt and not on Fargo. Whirling and swatting the Spencer in one lightning move, Fargo slammed into Burt Raidler, tackling him around the waist. The cowboy futilely tried to level the Spencer but by then he was flat on his back and Fargo had pressed the Colt against his cheek.
“Damn, you’re a clever cuss!” Raidler said, not batting an eye at having a revolver shoved in his face.
Fargo slowly straightened, lowered the Colt, and twirled it into his holster. “You can keep your hardware.”
Raidler looked as if he had just swallowed a scorpion, whole. “Are you addlepated? Make up your mind. A minute ago you were ready to shoot me if I so much as touched a gun. Now I can keep ’em?”
The lady from Missouri shared his confusion. “You sure are fickle, Skye.”
To Burt, Fargo said, “You could have shot me and didn’t. If you were the one who murdered Elias Hackman, you wouldn’t pass up the chance. Gwen and I are the only two who know. You’d kill us to protect yourself.”
“I suppose the killer would,” Raidler agreed, sitting up. “But you seem to have overlooked the fact I’m not the only jasper who might have done it. There are eight other men from that stage wanderin’ around somewhere.”
The cowboy didn’t know. Fargo told him about the two immigrants and the boy. About Buck Dawson being wounded. About the drummer taking the team to the oaks. Everything.
“I’m sure sorry to hear about Jones and those funny fellers. But if they’re dead, and old Buck is bad hurt, and Virgil Tucker ain’t anywhere near here, that leaves just one of us, don’t it?”
“William Frazier the Third,” Fargo said.
Gwen was skeptical. “What do you two use for brains? Oatmeal? He’s the richest one of us all. He has more money than most of us will see in our lifetimes. Why would he stoop to stealing? You’re both crazy as a peach- orchard boar.”
“Maybe there’s another white feller hereabouts,” Raidler remarked. “Someone we don’t know about.”
It was Fargo’s turn to be skeptical. No sane man would be traipsing around Apache country with a band of renegades on the warpath. “We’ll find out soon enough,” was his reply.
The Ovaro had arrived. Fargo stepped into the stirrups, then the Texan gave Gwen a hand up. They headed for the grazing mule, Raidler blowing and brushing dust from the Spencer’s magazine.
Fargo had been meaning to ask him a question. “What happened last night after you left the gully?”
“It was too ridiculous for words, pard. We followed the Apaches a spell but couldn’t keep up with ’em. And we couldn’t track ’em because it was too dark to see worth a hoot. I thought they had gone one way, Frazier thought they’d gone another, and Elias Hackman didn’t give a damn one way or another. He wanted to go back. Kept sayin’ as how we were all dead if we didn’t.” Raidler kicked a small rock. “I got tired of hearin’ him jabber so I walked on ahead. I was thinkin’ about the fix we’re in, and how I’d rather be shot than ever take a stage again. And next thing I know, the greenhorns had up and vanished.”
“They lost sight of you and went another way,” Gwen said.
“I reckon, although all they had to do was give a holler and I’d have come runnin’.”
“Did you yell for them?” Fargo asked.
“Well, no. I was afeared the Apaches would hear. But I searched all over. And when I was done, I was as lost as they were. I got so turned around, I couldn’t be sure which way the gully was. So I just started walkin’.” The Texan looked down at his well-worn boots. “I’ve walked more in the past twenty-four hours than I have in the past twenty-four years. Once I get me a new horse, I ain’t ever gettin’ off him. I’ll eat in the saddle, sleep in the saddle, change clothes in the saddle. You name it.”
Fargo laughed. “You didn’t see any sign of the others until you found Hackman’s body?”
“No, but I did hear some shots once and a lot of whoopin’ and hollerin’. When the sun came up, I was as lost as lost could be. Then I stumbled on some footprints and followed ’em into that canyon where Hackman was lyin’. I didn’t see anyone else. Once I found he was dead, I left. Headed south, hopin’ to reach the road before old age set in.”
“Then we came along,” Gwen interjected.
“Yes, ma’am. And I apologize again for takin’ those shots at you. I was worn to a frazzle, so tired I couldn’t see straight. And with the sun in my eyes and all—”
“We don’t hold it against you,” Fargo said.
“Still, what I did was terrible. I know better than to shoot unless I’m sure what I’m aimin’ at. If I’d shot either of you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I’m a puncher, not a man-killer.”
There was no denying the Texan’s sincerity. Fargo no longer distrusted him, even a little. “I’ll take Gwen and you to the others,” he said. Then what? Should he go after William Frazier III? Or get everyone else out of there while he could? Before something else happened and more lives were lost?
“I sure will have some exciting stories to tell my kin in California,” Gwen mentioned. “Nothing like this has ever happened to anyone in my family.”
Raidler arched an eyebrow. “Your notion of excitement and mine are two different things, ma’am. Lordy. You must be one of those who likes to read those trashy dime novels.”
At the mention, Fargo could not help scowling. About a year ago, back East, a writer had come out with the first of what were now known as dime novels. Short stories, crammed with thrilling adventures. And hardly two words in any tale were true. The writers made up whatever struck their fancy, inventing characters out of whole cloth. The novels were very popular. Incredibly, many readers took them as gospel. Easterners got so caught up in the exploits of their favorite characters, they wanted to be just like them.
Several writers had tried to get Fargo to sit down and relate his life’s story so they could do a series of novels. Friends of his, fellow scouts and lawmen, had done just that and had regretted it afterward. Facts were always changed to suit the writer’s whim. As a scout at Fort Laramie put it, “My memory must be going. Beats me how I could forget I wrestled grizzlies, rode tornadoes, and wiped out half the Blackfeet.”
Now, climbing out of the arroyo, Fargo saw the mule had drifted closer. It raised its head but didn’t run off. Talking softly, Burt Raidler was able to get near enough to grab the bridle. He mounted, then said, “I’m glad none of my pards back home can see me. They’d laugh themselves to death.”
