used it by now. And that meant that Burgade, with Noah and the dogs dead, could easily stroll to the boat, get it ready for sailing and push off. He could feel a southeasterly wind starting to build now. He could be in Little Rock in under two days.
They sat and watched each other.
Noah thought: he gets leg cramps about every ten minutes. Then he stands up. Next time he stands up, I’m going to push him right off this branch. Just take my Spencer and shove him right in the crotch to get him off- balance, and then give him another poke of the Spencer and knock him all the way down. He’ll be dead when he hits the ground. Or he’ll wish he was.
Burgade thought: so what I do is get up real gentle, like I’ve just got another cramp or somethin’, and then when I get on my feet I just kick out and knock him right off this branch. He’ll be dead when he hits the ground. Or he’ll wish he was.
They eyed each other some more and continued to assess each other, refining their plans all the while—just a bit here, a bit there—and then they talked and waited to fill the time. Noah waited for Burgade while Burgade waited for some instinct to tell him that this was the exact right moment to stand up and give a boot-shove to old Noah, sending him to certain death.
“Legs,” Burgade said.
“Huh?”
“Legs. Cramps.”
“Oh.”
Here we go, Burgade thought.
Here we go, Noah thought.
And that was when it happened. If either of them had known a damned thing about the stress two full-grown bodies put on a tree branch the size of the one they were cohabiting at the moment, they would have listened carefully to the faint creaking, the faint cracking the branch made from time to time.
Burgade leaned back against the trunk of the tree, ready to lunge suddenly and push the old man off his perch.
Noah hefted his Spencer, pretending to be examining it out of sheer admiration, but ready of course to plow its butt right straight into Burgade’s crotch and send him shouting and cursing to his death, his well-deserved death.
The moment was upon them, now.
Both ready to betray and murder the other.
And then it happened.
All those tiny creaks and cracks.
All that weight on this one branch.
A scream.
Fargo’s first impression was that only one man was screaming.
Then it became obvious that it came from the both of them.
By the time he realized this, he heard their bone-crushing landing on the ground. And then something remarkable happened—or didn’t happen. No dogs appeared. No dogs barked. No dogs even whimpered.
Something was wrong here.
Fargo edged his way from behind the tree to the narrow shoreline. In the distance, he could see two prone human bodies lying in the moonlight. One of them—Burgade, it appeared—was carefully raising and moving his right arm. Noah didn’t move at all.
Here was his chance for a weapon. He couldn’t move directly on Burgade. Even injured, the man could kill him. Fargo would have to move through the forest and come up behind him.
Fargo slipped back into the darkness of the woods. He wondered what the ladies were making of all this. Screams. The hard landing. And now the strange silence.
He found a narrow trail, partly obscured by undergrowth that took him all the way to the last of the oaks that formed the natural screen and wall along the shoreline.
He had to be as quiet as possible. Burgade might have a broken bone or two but all his other faculties could still be running. He might have even heard him already, but there was no time to worry about the danger ahead. Fargo wanted a weapon and Fargo wanted off the island.
He stumbled only once, on a tree root he couldn’t see, pitching head first into a small patch of bramble that put several good scratches on his arm. A moment of sheer frustration—all these traps he had to overcome before he set this island to rights. Sometimes even the Trailsman got discouraged.
But then he found an opening to go through—one that held nothing more problematic than a few long ferns that wanted to cool and soothe and heal his body. At least, that was what it felt like after all the bramble.
Burgade wasn’t waiting for him. Burgade lay flat on his face. His rifle was four feet from his hand where, apparently, it had fallen. No sign of movement from Noah, either. His Spencer wasn’t close at hand, but scattered in pieces several feet away.
Either one of them could wake up and turn on him.
He crept up to Burgade, his eyes scanning up and down the body, looking for any sign of life. Sometime between the time Burgade had raised his arm to see if it was broken and now, he’d fallen down the long, dark well into unconsciousness.
Fargo felt a moment of pure, unreasoning, unadulterated joy. This was easy. He’d just walk over and pick up Burgade’s gun. If the dogs did show up—exactly where the hell were they anyway—he’d be prepared.
He
He started walking toward the rifle. And then he heard the growl. He scanned the shore and then the edge of the timber. Where were they? Nearby, from the sound of their low, trembling growls. And another question. Why weren’t they attacking?
He reached instinctively for his Colt but it wasn’t there. He felt as if his hand had been amputated, he was so used to his Colt riding on his hip, ready at all times when needed. He moved even faster now. He was just picking up Burgade’s rifle, just thinking that everything was in hand again, when he heard a voice that sounded as if it was coming from the realm of death.
In his rush to get Burgade’s rifle, Fargo had forgotten all about Noah. While Fargo sensed that Burgade had passed on, Noah had rallied enough to dig his pistol from its holster while sitting up on one elbow. Awkward as his position was, he could shoot just fine. “You just stay there with your hands in the air, Fargo. What the hell did you do with my dogs is what I want to know?!”
“I was wondering about them myself.” He couldn’t help himself; he just kept staring at Burgade’s rifle. His mind, as well as his eyes, was fixed on it.
Fargo took a slow step forward.
“One more and you’re dead,” Noah grunted.
“It’s all over for you, Noah.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But you try for that rifle and I’ll be glad to take you with me, Fargo.”
“Burgade may still be alive. You want me to check his pulse?”
“I want him dead. Now you just stand there and watch.”
It was something to see. For all the pain he must have been in after his fall, for all his age, for all his general infirmities, Noah found the same strength now that he’d found when he was recreating this section of country in his own image. There were only a few men like him on the entire planet. Some of them used their vision and intelligence and savvy for good and created new medicines and new laws and new businesses. And some used their gifts for bad. Like old Noah here.
He kept his gun on Fargo all the time he was getting to his feet. Twice he looked as if he would fall over. His gun hand was shaky. He winced in pain. His knees trembled. But somehow he managed to stand strong and purposeful.
“I’m getting on the boat there and you’re going to push me out in the water.”
“That’s a good-sized boat.”
“I could still do it myself if I had to. You’re a tough man, Fargo. It won’t be easy but I know you’ve got it in
