“At last it has gone my way,” Cud Sten said. After him came Howell, who was limping, and the last outlaw.
“It was easy as could be,” Lear boasted.
Cud had a revolver in one hand and his club in the other. He shoved the club nearly in Fargo’s face, saying, “Scared yet? You should be. The breaking is about to begin.”
Fargo was amazed at how careless they were. Not one had demanded he shed his Colt. But then, he was partly on his side, propped on an elbow, his holster hidden by his arm.
Mary suddenly stepped close to Cud. Lear went to strike her, but Cud shook his head and Lear reluctantly lowered his revolver.
“I have a proposition for you. It involves him.” Mary pointed at Fargo. “Let him live and I’ll agree to be your woman. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”
“Bitch,” Cud said.
“You’ve wanted me for a long time, haven’t you? I’m yours. All you have to do is let him get on his horse and ride off.”
“Is that all?” Cud made as if to strike her, himself. “You rub my nose in it, gal. You offer yourself for him. And you expect me to let him waltz away?”
All eyes were on Sten and Mary.
Fargo slowly sat up, careful to keep his holster hidden. He propped his hand on the ground and went to rise, but a rifle was pointed at his chest.
“Stay right where you are, mister,” Howell warned.
“Whatever you say.” Fargo shrugged and started to sink back down. In reality, he was girding himself, and when Howell glanced at Sten and Mary, he exploded into motion. Drawing as he rose, Fargo fired from the hip and shot Howell smack between the eyes. He swiveled and put lead into the chest of the outlaw whose name he didn’t know. He swiveled again, saw Lear jerk his rifle, and fanned two swift shots that jolted Lear off his feet.
That left Cud Sten.
Fargo swiveled toward him—just as a streak of brown slammed against his gun hand, knocking the Colt from his grasp. He lunged for it but the club was faster. His entire arm flared with searing pain. He tried to grab the club with his other hand, only to have Cud Sten step in close and club him over the head. Snow rushed up to meet his face, and for a few seconds, he was too dazed to move. A hand gripped the back of his shirt and roughly flipped him over.
“God, I’m going to enjoy this,” Sten said.
“No!” Mary cried, and threw herself at Cud Sten. He backhanded her with the club, and down she went.
“Ma!” Jayce leaped at Sten, Nelly a step behind him.
Cud clubbed them both. “Damn gnats,” he growled. Then, looming over Fargo, he raised the club on high. “Don’t worry. I didn’t kill them. I aim to have fun with them first. After I’m done with you.”
Fargo tried to push to his feet, but he couldn’t make his body do what he wanted. A blow to the shoulder flattened him. Another rendered his legs next to useless. Again he was grabbed and turned.
“I’m just getting started,” Sten said.
Fargo got an arm up to protect himself but it did no good. The club connected with his wrist, with his ribs, with his hip. Through a haze of pain, he watched Cud raise the club overhead for the most brutal blow yet. And a strange thing happened. Cud’s left eye sprouted feathers. A second later his right eye did the same. Cud’s mouth opened and he tottered back, tripped, and keeled onto his back. He twitched once, and would never twitch again.
Fargo turned his head.
There were three of them: the old Indian he had shared his pemmican with and two young warriors. The younger ones held bows. The old Indian looked at Fargo with kindly eyes and smiled. Then he said something and the three of them turned and walked off, just like that.
It took every ounce of will Fargo possessed, but he made it to his hands and knees and over to the Harpers. All three had bumps on their heads, but they would live. Mary was already coming around, and he helped her to sit up.
“What happened?”
Fargo stared at the arrows sticking out of Cud Sten’s face. “Three pieces of pemmican saved our lives.”
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
THE TRAILSMAN #333
BLACK HILLS BADMAN
The Black Hills, 1861—woe to the white man who
invaded the land of the Lakotas.
It was like looking for a pink needle in a green-and-brown haystack.
Or so Skye Fargo thought as he scanned the prairie for the girl. She would be easy to spot if it weren’t for the fact there was so
North of him, not yet in sight, were the Black Hills.
Fargo didn’t like being there. He was in Sioux country, and the Sioux were not fond of whites these days. More often than not, any white they came across was treated to a quiver of arrows or had his throat slit and his hair lifted so it could hang from a coup stick in a warrior’s lodge.
Fargo was white but it was hard to tell by looking at him. His skin was bronzed dark by the relentless sun. He had lake blue eyes, something no Sioux ever had. He wore buckskins. A white hat, a red bandanna, and boots were the rest of his attire. A Colt with well-worn grips was strapped around his waist. In an ankle sheath nestled an Arkansas toothpick. From his saddle scabbard jutted the stock of a Henry rifle.
Rising in the stirrups, Fargo squinted against the glare of the sun and raked the grass from east to west and back again. It wasn’t flat, not this close to the Hills. A maze of gullies and washes made spotting her that much harder.
“Damn all kids, anyhow,” Fargo grumbled out loud. He gigged the Ovaro and rode on, vowing that there would be hell to pay when he got back to the party he was guiding.
A shrill whistle drew his gaze to a prairie dog. It had spotted him and was warning its friends.
Fargo swung wide of the prairie dog town. The last thing he needed was for the Ovaro to step into a hole and break a leg. He intended to keep the stallion a good long while. It was the best horse he had ever ridden. Often, it meant the difference between his breathing air or dirt.
“Where could she have gotten to?”
Fargo had a habit of talking to himself. It came from being alone so much. He was a frontiersman or, as some
