Five riders were a half mile off.
It was Cud Sten and his killers.
19
Fargo reined to the right and shouted for the Harpers to follow him. Their one hope was to get over the ridge before Sten arrived. He searched for a way to reach the top that wouldn’t result in disaster. Ahead, the slope ended at a belt of forest. He could find a spot for the Harpers to hide, and then end this thing once and for all. He was tired of running. It went against his grain.
Mary was grim. Nelly showed terror. Jayce was intent on keeping up with the rest of them.
Sten and his men had brought their mounts to a gallop. Even at that distance Fargo recognized the red-haired Lear and the short man called Howell. He’d never learned the names of the other two.
The snow became deeper. Fargo hadn’t counted on that, but he should have; snow nearly always fell heavier at higher elevations. He goaded the Ovaro on, breaking the snow for the others. The night’s rest had lent the stallion new vitality, and it showed no signs of tiring.
The air was colder. It cut into Fargo’s lungs like icy knives. But that was good. The cold would keep them alert.
It seemed to take forever but it wasn’t more than five minutes before they reached the woodland. Fargo drew rein and the others came up on either side of him.
Sten and company were less than a quarter of a mile away and had spread out.
“What will we do?” Nelly asked.
“What we’ve been doing.”
“They’ll catch us. And he’ll do terrible things to Ma. And maybe beat Jayce and me.”
“Over my dead body,” Mary vowed.
Fargo entered the trees but only went far enough to keep from being seen from below. Dismounting, he shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and gave it to Mary after she climbed down.
“I thought you’d want to use it,” she said.
“I need range.” Fargo went to the sorrel and yanked the Sharps from the scabbard. A cartridge was already in the chamber. He told them to stay put and walked back to within a few steps of the open slope and squatted behind a tree.
Sten and company were coming on hard.
Fargo gauged the distance. He adjusted the sight and tucked the Sharps to his shoulder. He aimed at Cud Sten. Sten was the key. Kill him and the others might give it up.
Fargo thumbed back the hammer. He pulled on the rear trigger to set the front trigger, then curled his finger around the front trigger. He held his breath to steady the shot, and when he was absolutely and positively sure, he stroked the front trigger. Thunder echoed off the peaks.
Hundreds of yards out, Cud Sten’s horse stumbled. Not because it was hit. It stumbled a split instant
Swearing, Fargo reloaded. If he was superstitious, he might be inclined to think Cud Sten lived a charmed life.
Sten and his men had swung down and were on the other side of their mounts, using their horses as shields. Rifles cracked and lead thwacked nearby trees. They had a fair idea of where he was.
“Stay down, children.”
Fargo turned. Mary and the kids were huddled only a few yards away. “Don’t you ever listen?”
“We were worried.”
Fargo swore again, in his head. He nodded toward the figures out on the snow. “I’ll keep them pinned down as long as I can. I want you to take your horses and go. I’ll catch up when I can.”
“No.”
“Damn it, woman.”
“We’re not you. We don’t ride all that well. We’re bound to take a spill and maybe break a leg or an arm. Or get lost.”
“I’ll find you,” Fargo insisted.
“Maybe too late. No. We’re staying and that’s final.”
They begged him with their faces.
Fargo made up his mind then and there to never again get involved with a woman with kids. Not that he would stick to it. When it came to good-looking women, he’d never met a pair of thighs he didn’t want to spread.
“You’ll let us stay, then?” Mary asked when he didn’t say anything.
Fargo just looked at her.
Out on the snow the firing had stopped and Sten and his men were peering over their saddles.
“Mount up,” Fargo said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” They left, and he raised the Sharps and took deliberate aim at the horse Cud Sten was behind. He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to shoot a horse. But he had to. The horse would drop and he’d have a clear shot at Sten. He thumbed back the hammer and set the trigger and was ready.
Nelly Harper screamed.
Fargo jerked around. Mary yelled something and the horses commenced to whinny, and he was up and running, kicking snow every which way. He thought maybe it was Indians, but he burst through the trees and dug in his heels in consternation at the sight of the Harpers trying to hold on to the reins of their mounts. Mary had hold of both the dun and the Ovaro, and the dun was trying to rear and kick.
It had cause. Crouched nearby was a large mountain lion about to spring. Fangs bared, tail twitching, it uttered a ferocious snarl.
Jayce was nearly pulled off his feet by the sorrel, which wheeled to bolt. Fargo got there in a few bounds, seized the reins, and brought it to a stop. Then he was past them and charging toward the mountain lion, raising the rifle as he ran.
The mountain lion saw him. Cats were unpredictable and this one was no exception. It wanted fresh meat, but the shouts and the whinnies and the commotion were too much for it. One moment it was there, poised to rip and rend, the next it was a tawny streak, lost amid the trees.
Fargo lowered the Sharps and did more swearing. By now Sten and his men were racing for the trees. He had to get the Harpers out. “Mount up!” he roared. He had to help Nelly because the claybank wouldn’t stop prancing.
Fargo shoved the Sharps into the sorrel’s saddle scabbard, then ran to the Ovaro. Mary was on the dun and held the stallion’s reins, and the Henry, out to him. Forking leather, he looked but couldn’t see Sten and his men.
“Ride for your lives.” Fargo led off.
Mary dropped back so she was behind Nelly and Jayce and could help them if either flagged.
Fargo couldn’t waste precious seconds trying to pick the easiest way. He just rode, avoiding obstacles, and there were a god-awful lot of them: snow-covered trees, huge drifts, logs and boulders next to impossible to spot until he was almost on top of them. He was constantly reining this way and that.
The Harpers kept up. Sweat slicked their faces and they were as pale as the snow, but they rode as they had never ridden in their lives.
Fargo felt strangely proud of them. Strange because they weren’t his wife and kids. Pride suggested he cared more than he did.
From somewhere to their rear rose shouts.
The forest went on and on, unending white chaos. The strain on Fargo’s eyes, the relentless glare, and the strain on his nerves from the endless near brushes with disaster began to tell. He could only imagine how hard it was for the Harpers, who weren’t used to much riding, and none whatsoever like this.
Fargo kept hoping the forest would end. On an open plain, they could widen their lead. When, at long last,
