moved. He tried again with no better success.
“I don’t have all day.”
Mary said, “I told you. He’s hurt. You saw the dead wolves. You saw all the blood. We brought him here and put him to bed, and I was just starting to feed him when you came.”
“Then you and the brats help him out. Any tricks, and I shoot your girl and boy.”
“We’ll do whatever you say,” Mary assured him. “Just go easy on that trigger.”
Hands reached under and gently dragged Fargo out. He did his best to help. Tull stayed well back, his pearl- handled Colt steady in his head.
“What’s your handle, mister?”
Fargo told him.
“Looks as if those wolves about ripped you to pieces. Get up in that bed while I ponder what to do with you.”
Mary and the children helped. Without them, Fargo couldn’t have made it. He sank wearily onto his back and clenched his fists in frustration. He had never felt so damn helpless.
“Move away from him,” Tull commanded the Harpers. He came over, the Colt’s muzzle fixed on Fargo’s head. He looked Fargo up and down, then held out his other hand, palm open. “Push on this.”
“What?” Fargo said.
“You heard me. Push my hand as hard as you can. Don’t hold back, neither. I’ll be able to tell.”
Again Fargo had to do as the man wanted. He used his left hand, and he exerted all the strength he had, grimacing from the pain it caused.
“That’s enough,” Tull said. “She was telling the truth. You’re as weak as a kitten.” He bent and peered under the bed.
Fargo had a few anxious seconds until the outlaw straightened.
“I don’t see no pistol or rifle under there. What happened to your hardware?”
Since there was no reason not to tell the truth, Fargo did, keeping his account short and to the point.
Tull chuckled. “All that, and now me. This ain’t your day, is it?” He pursed his lips. “Or maybe it is. You get to live, for now. Give me any trouble, and I will buck you out in gore.”
Mary said, “Thank you, Mr. Tull.”
“Hell, lady, I’m doing this only because Cud might want to have a few words with this gent before he kills him. And besides, he’s so puny he couldn’t hurt a fly.” Tull gestured at the doorway. “Out you go, all three of you.” He backed after them.
“Stay in that bed, mister, you hear?” He started to turn.
Fargo’s stomach growled, prompting him to say, “I can use something to eat.”
“Eh?”
“I’m half starved. I’d be obliged if you’d let Mrs. Harper finish feeding me.”
“Would you, now?” Tull chuckled. “Why waste good food on a dead man?” He shut the door and his spurs jangled.
Fargo hadn’t counted on this. He figured that with some food in him, he’d be able to crawl under the bed, get the toothpick, and have a nasty surprise for Tull the next time he came in.
“Now what?” Fargo wondered out loud. The longer he lay there without a bite to eat, the weaker he would get. He remembered Tull saying it would be three days before Cud Sten showed up. By then he would be so weak, he wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to save himself. There was only one thing to do. But could he, in his condition?
Fargo doubted Tull would come back in anytime soon. He should have all the time he needed. Placing his hand over the side of the bed, he slid toward the edge. It took all he had. His wounds weren’t to blame so much as all the blood he had lost. If he hadn’t lost it . . . He gave his head an angry toss. A long time ago life had taught him that ifs were so much thin air. Ifs were make-believe. What mattered was what
With an effort, Fargo eased his shoulder over the edge. He was careful to go slow—not that he could go much faster if he wanted to—and when gravity took over, he got his arm under him to cushion the short drop. He surprised himself. He made it without adding to his agony. After resting a minute, he crawled under the bed and extended his hand as far as he could reach. It wasn’t quite far enough. He crawled a little farther and his fingers closed on the toothpick’s hilt.
Getting out of bed had proven easy enough but getting back in wasn’t. Twice Fargo tried to rise, and twice he sank back, betrayed by his own body. He considered staying on the floor. That might make Tull suspicious and he needed Tull close to use the knife.
Putting both forearms on the bed, Fargo gritted his teeth and marshaled his muscles. He couldn’t get all of himself up, but he did succeed in sliding his shoulders and the top of his chest onto the sheets. After another break, he managed the rest of him. It left him exhausted and caked in sweat.
Fargo curled on his side with his back to the door, the toothpick low against his leg. “Puny, am I?” he muttered. “I’ll show you, you son of a bitch.” He closed his eyes, thinking to rest a bit, and was startled when he opened them again to find the room plunged in darkness. The candle had gone out, or someone had blown it out.
Fargo rolled over. The cabin was quiet. He glanced at the bottom of the bedroom door. No light showed. He reckoned night had fallen, and the others must have turned in. Tull, too, evidently.
The sleep had done Fargo some good. He felt a little better, except for a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He was so hungry his mouth watered at the thought of food.
Ever so slowly, Fargo slid his legs over and placed both feet flat on the floor. The boards were cool on his naked soles. All he had on were his pants, courtesy of Mary before she hid him under the bed. He admired that lady, admired her a lot. She had a sharp head on her shapely shoulders. And she had uncommon courage. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for her, stranded deep in the Beartooth Mountains, living on the razor’s edge of existence, the lives of her children hanging on her every decision.
Fargo tried to stand. He willed his legs to raise him and they got him halfway up. Then they gave out and he plopped back down. This wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. He concentrated all his will and this time his legs did as he wanted but when he was all the way up a bout of light-headedness nearly brought him down again. He swayed but steadied himself.
The door, a vague outline in the dark, seemed impossibly far away. He shuffled toward it, sliding first one foot a few inches and then the other. His stomach growled and kept on growling. The ache grew worse. His bite wounds oddly didn’t hurt that much. He attributed it to some kind of ointment Mary had applied when she stitched and bandaged him.
Fargo reached the door. He put an ear to it but he didn’t hear so much as a snore. The latch scraped slightly. He listened at the crack but again heard nothing. Puzzled, he opened the door farther. The room beyond was dark. Not a single candle glowed. He thought he made out the fireplace in the far wall but the fire was out.
Given the cold and the snow, Fargo thought that strange. He opened the door even more and took a step, seeking some sign of where Tull and the Harpers were sleeping. The next instant his leg struck something, throwing him off balance. He grabbed at the wall to keep from falling but it was too late. Down he crashed, onto his hands and knees, and the knife went skittering.
A harsh laugh came out of the dark. A match flared and was held to the wick of a large candle. A glow spread across the floor, revealing Fargo. Revealing, too, a rope that had been stretched across the bottom of the door about six inches from the floor.
“Pretty slick if I say so myself,” Tull declared, and came out of the shadows, his pearl-handled Colt in his hand.
Fargo spied Mary and the children, tied wrist and ankle and gagged, over in a corner.
“I didn’t want them taking an ax to me in the middle of the night,” Tull said. “Or warning you.” He chortled at his cleverness.
“You expected me to try something?”
“Let’s just say I wasn’t convinced you couldn’t get out of that bed if you put your mind to it. So I took precautions.”
Without being obvious, Fargo was searching for the toothpick. He thought it had slid to his right. The gleam
