two gunnys broke into his room and kidnapped a girl he was with.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Now, did this really happen, Red?”
“It sure did. And not very long ago, either.”
“And his name is Fargo.”
“That’s right. Big fella. Tough looking.”
“I’ve heard of him,” she said. “He’s tough all right.” Liz smiled. Couldn’t help it. By anybody’s standard, Mike here had brought her one hell of a good newspaper story. She reached over and patted his hand, knowing that he was probably going to faint if she held it there very long. “You may just become a reporter yet, Red.”
6
On a sunny day like this, it was hard to imagine a more beautiful land than the Ozark Plateau. Ragged mountain tops gleaming in the light, deep forests filled with game, and streams that gleamed clean and pure, perfect for the fishing the Trailsman wanted to do.
The tracks remained clear, the impression of the wheel with the nail in it clear as a beacon, no matter how many other tracks tried to obscure it.
He’d gone maybe a mile down the red clay road, the land falling away here and there on the plateau to reveal deep gorges, when his hat went sailing off thanks to a bullet.
Fargo acted instinctively, and just in time to avoid the second bullet that immediately followed the first. He dropped down on the side of his horse so the shooter couldn’t see his head or torso, reining the horse over to a copse of pine trees several yards off of the trail.
There he yanked his Sharps from its scabbard, rolled away from the horse to a point behind the pines, and jerked up to his feet so that he could return fire.
The shooter was good but not that good. He pumped several more shots at Fargo, each one nicking at the pine behind which the Trailsman hid. But none scored a bulls-eye.
The shooter was hiding behind his own copse of pines on the other side of the road. Fargo did a little shooting of his own. He wanted to force some return fire so he knew exactly where the shooter was. They could sit here all day firing at each other and not accomplish a damned thing. Fargo wanted to know who the shooter was and what he wanted. Did he have anything to do with the kidnapping? If he didn’t, what could he have against Fargo? The Trailsman hadn’t really met anybody else except the livery man. Since the shooter didn’t seemed inclined to decisive action, Fargo took it upon himself to bring this little adventure to a close.
He pitched himself back up on his stallion, loaded up his Sharps, and started riding hard directly toward the pines that hid the shooter. But he rode in an aggravating zigzag fashion. Aggravating to the shooter because it made Fargo harder to hit.
Fargo pumped bullet after bullet into the shooter’s hiding place, making it difficult for the shooter to get off any clean shots of his own, unless he wanted to take the chance of standing up and taking a couple pieces of lead in his brain for his trouble.
The superb stallion responded magnificently. The zigzagging skill was something the stallion had taken to right away. He seemed to know instinctively how much this pleased his master.
A cry told the Trailsman that he’d hit his mark; a second cry told him that he’d not only wounded the shooter but maybe killed him, too.
Fargo ground-hitched his horse, jammed his Sharps back into its scabbard, pulled out his Colt, and set off in a crouch toward the pines.
The chatter of forest animals disturbed the silence while the sweet tang of pine scent filled the air. The jovial, masked faces of raccoons watched him from tree limbs. It would be nice to stop and appreciate all these wondrous natural gifts but for now the Trailsman couldn’t afford to.
A groan, human. The shooter. Not dead. Not yet. But he sounded very weak. Could be a ruse to draw Fargo closer but somehow Fargo didn’t think so. That moan revealed not only pain but fear of imminent death.
Fargo continued to sweep around the deep stand of pines so that he could come up behind the shooter.
The moan again. But it was more resolute this time. The shooter sounded near death.
Fargo took no chances.
He finished the rest of his attack with a few stealthy steps that brought him to two slanted pines beyond which he could see the colors of a man’s shirt. Red; checkered. The Mexican who’d been in his hotel room.
He came up behind the man but saw instantly that there was nothing to worry about now. The man was dead. Fargo had hit him twice in the chest.
Fargo made sure. He hunched down next to the man, raising a limp arm to check for a pulse. Nothing. No distant throb of a pulse in the neck, either. Fargo folded the man’s arms over his stomach, the way the undertaker would when it came time to bury him.
He stood up and that was when he saw the dog. Lonesome old boy, some kind of mixture of hound breeds. Nose to something he was sniffing with great interest.
When Fargo went over to take a look he saw the Mexican’s horse and a short shovel handle jammed into one of the saddlebags. What the hell would a man pack a shovel for?
The hound glanced up at Fargo with the old, sad eyes so common to its lineage. It moved aside as Fargo walked closer to check things out.
Not too hard to figure out what had happened here. The girl named Daisy most likely lay in the shallow grave of red clay that stretched before him. He went back to the Mexican’s horse, grabbed the shovel and went to work. The earth, being freshly dug, and the grave being only quite shallow, Fargo didn’t have any trouble.
Pennies on the eyes. Her clothes intact. At least she didn’t appear to have been raped. One bullet in the forehead. Hadn’t been dead long. The bluish tinting of her pale skin just starting.
He got the bed roll from his stallion, laid the blanket out, and then went and got the girl. Hard to believe she’d been a passionate, intelligent woman just a short time ago. She’d so desperately wanted to find her brother Clem. She’d died not knowing what had become of him.
The questions he’d had in the hotel room came back. Who was the Mexican exactly? And Whitey? And what did they have to do with the disappearance of Daisy’s brother? And now, what made it necessary to kill her?
He rolled her up in the blanket, roped the blanket tight, and set it across the back of the horse. The top of her head and her ankles and feet stuck out of either end of the blanket roll. He held the reins with one hand and held the body down with the other. It was important to keep her from falling off. That was the least he could do to show his respect.
This time, the population of the town increasing with every minute because of the celebration tomorrow, Fargo had a huge audience for his entrance.
What man, woman, or child could resist watching a man on horseback bringing a dead woman into town? He had her covered from midnose down to dangling feet. But the blond hair and shapely ankles revealed that she’d been an attractive young woman.
He had to stop at several points so the crowd could part and let him pass through. Some people were offended, of course. A few others laughed, thinking this was part of some show. Dead young blondes apparently made for great comedy material. The kids, inevitably, were both scared and spellbound. They watched with solemn little eyes. For some, it was an introduction to death. Ducks died and cows died and horses died. But they’d never before seen a dead person. And for other kids, the dead blonde was a reminder of death they knew only too well— Mom dead of bad milk or Dad dead of a horse that fell on him, or a wee one dead of diphtheria.
He rode right up to the sheriff’s office, swung down and went inside.
Larson was in the front office alone sipping a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. “Where’s Tillman?”
“What’re you so hot about?”
“You heard me.”
“He’s having lunch with the mayor.”
“Does he ever do any actual work?”
