who had been in the saloon last night.
“Well, old campaigner,” Fargo said to the Ovaro, “looks like I put our bacon in the fire again.”
The moment he fell silent, still trying to decide what to do, the whipcrack of a rifle sent ice into Fargo’s veins. That first shot hissed wide, but within seconds more bullets hummed like blowflies past his ears, some so close he felt the tickle of wind-rip.
The moment of stunned immobility passed in a blink, and the will to live instinctively asserted itself. He still had a full magazine in his sixteen-shot Henry, and six beans in the wheel of his walnut-gripped Colt. This was no time, however, to make a stand. That jackleg posse was coming at him like the devil beating bark, and clearly they had no plans to arrest him. Nor was Fargo willing to kill any of them—after all, it was his legal duty to report, or stop, the bank theft, not let it play out for his amusement.
“Fargo, you damned knucklehead,” he cursed himself as he clawed the buckskin pouch from his pannier, “I hope you enjoyed your little diversion.”
However, he didn’t toss down the pouch as he’d intended. Fargo knew that Davis and his minions would give up the chase quickly once they had the money. The initial excitement would be over, and they were townies. However, Fargo also believed this bunch would split the swag, not return it to the bank. He would send it back to Plum Creek by express rider first chance he got.
Fargo reined the Ovaro around, kicked him up to a gallop, and lowered his profile in the saddle. Fearing for the two grifters, he veered off the road and led the vengeful pursuers toward more rugged terrain, bullets thumping the ground all around him.
