was extra careful but he couldn’t help scraping and nicking himself. It was slow going. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a minute to spare.
The torches were converging on the rear of the cabin, on the corral. The outlaws were about to throw saddles on their horses and come after him.
Fargo sawed harder. If he cut himself that was too bad. The important thing was to live.
A shot cracked from the vicinity of the cabin.
Fargo looked up in surprise. He couldn’t think of why anyone would shoot. The torches were moving every which way. There was some sort of commotion. He speculated it was a signal.
Then another possibility occurred to him and turned him colder than the temperature. It made the best sense and spelled trouble for Mary and her children.
Someone was shouting. Cud Sten, it sounded like. The wind carried his voice clear.
“Take her inside and keep her there! And make sure those kids stay in their bedroom!”
Fargo swore. Mary must have tried to stop them.
He wrapped his wrists around the lower jaw. There was more give in the rope. He strained but it refused to cut all the way through. Or at least to where he could break it.
Two of the torches were higher off the ground than the rest, and they were coming in his direction. It meant two of the outlaws were on horseback, and tracking him.
“Damn it.”
Fargo sawed faster. He was beginning to doubt it would ever work—when it did. His forearms and his hands were loose. They hurt. God, they hurt. But he was free.
Gripping the bottom jaw, Fargo wrenched with all his might, breaking it off. He turned and swung his legs in front of him. Pressing hard, he cut at the rope. It went faster now but not fast enough to suit him. Finally, it was done. He went to push to his feet.
He had run out of time.
Hooves pounded the snow.
Fargo looked up.
The starlight lent a spectral cast to the pair of riders who were almost on top of him.
15
The torches had yet to catch Skye Fargo in their glow. Whirling, he ran a dozen long strides and threw himself flat. He still held the jawbone.
The two outlaws were almost to the wolf when they spotted it. They slowed, and gun metal gleamed.
“What the hell is that?” Lear snapped.
“Looks like a dead animal to me,” the other rider said. He drew rein and swung down. Dropping to one knee, he declared, “Yep. It’s a dead wolf.” He scoured the snow around it. “From the look of things, the hombre we’re after knelt here a while.”
“What the hell for?”
The other man shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he was hungry.”
“There’s not anything left of that wolf to eat,” Lear observed. “Get back on your horse, Boyce. We’ll keep searching. He can’t be that far ahead.”
Boyce unfurled and turned to his mount. Lear was gazing into the night.
Fargo would never have a better chance. Leaping to his feet, he rushed them, his legs flying.
“Look out!” Lear bawled.
Boyce spun and brought up his six-shooter.
But Fargo was close enough that all he had to do was swing the jawbone in a short arc. The teeth ripped across Boyce’s throat. Blood spurted, and Boyce shrieked and stumbled back, frantically pressing his other hand to the wound in a vain bid to stanch the flow. He banged off a shot that missed.
Fargo hadn’t slowed; he veered toward Lear. Lear fired, but in his fear and his haste, he missed.
Taking a last running step, Fargo launched himself into the air. He hooked one arm around Lear’s waist even as he slashed at Lear’s face. Then they were falling. So was the torch. Lear cursed when he hit.
Fargo was up in a twinkling, and he sprang. He cut at Lear’s gun hand and drew more blood; the revolver fell to the snow.
Lear bleated and scrambled back.
Fargo went after him. He avoided a bootheel to the knee and was coiling to spring when a battering ram slammed into his back and threw him to his hands and knees. He twisted, and a knife flashed past his face.
“I’ll kill you, bastard!” Boyce raged. “Kill you dead!”
Fargo was amazed the man had life left. The wolf jaw had done a good job; the cut, which was half an inch deep, gushed blood.
Boyce thrust at Fargo’s heart. Lightning swift, Fargo seized the man’s arm and jacked his knee into the elbow. The
Hooves drummed.
Thinking it was more of Sten’s men, Fargo spun. But it was Lear, back in the saddle and fleeing toward the cabin. The man had all the backbone of a soggy slice of bread.
Terrible gurgling sounds issued from Boyce’s ravaged throat. He had fallen and was kicking and twitching. Gamely he sought to cover the wounds but blood spewed between his fingers. He arched his back, his mouth parted, and he uttered a last strangled cry. Then he went limp.
Fargo had no time to lose. He threw the jawbone away and groped for the man’s six-gun. A hole in the snow seemed a likely spot. He plunged his hands in and brought them out holding a long-barreled Remington. It wouldn’t fit in his holster, so he swiftly unbuckled Boyce’s gun belt, jammed the revolver into the holster, and rose.
Boyce’s horse, a small dun, had gone a short way and stopped. Its head was up and its nostrils flared. The violence and the scent of blood had it poised to bolt.
“Easy, boy, easy.” Walking slowly toward it, Fargo held out his hand. He let it sniff him, then patted its neck. “See? I’m as friendly as he can be.” He went on talking softly and soothingly as he gripped the saddle horn and raised his boot to the stirrup.
Another moment, and Fargo was in the saddle. He strapped Boyce’s gun belt around his waist so the holster was on his left side, the Remington butt-forward. His own holster was on the right.
Now he had riding to do. He lifted the reins and paused. The fading light from the sputtering torch bathed Boyce’s pale face, ringed by bright scarlet
Lear was shouting up a storm.
Fargo reined toward the mountains to the north. He figured Sten’s entire gang would be after him. In fact, he was counting on it. He rode hard. Although smaller than the Ovaro, the dun made up in vitality what it lacked in size and plowed through the snow as neatly as a knife. When he had gone about a hundred yards, he reined toward the trees that sheltered the cabin.
Red and orange fireflies were coming the other way, heading for the dead wolf. Every rider save one had a torch; the one without was probably Lear. Cud Sten was in the lead, holding both a torch and his club.
Fargo slowed and bent low over the saddle. He wasn’t taking any chances. When the outlaws were well past, he straightened and jabbed his spurs. The dun seemed to delight in pushing itself.
The glow of the cabin window served as a beacon.
Fargo slowed again when he reached the trees. He reined to the rear, hoping against hope, and smiled when he beheld the Ovaro tied outside the corral, along with Tull’s sorrel. He was off the dun before it stopped moving. There was no sign of his saddle or saddle blanket. He ran around to the front and was about to pound on the door when it was jerked open.
“Skye!”
Fargo wasn’t expecting Mary to throw herself into his arms. She hugged him close, her breath warm on his neck.
“Thank God you’re alive! I was so worried. I tried to stop them from going after you by grabbing a revolver,
