thought stopped him in his tracks. His brow puckered. No, it wasn’t like him. Something was wrong. The wounds and the loss of blood and the cold were affecting his mind. He plodded on, his teeth set, his shoulders hunched. He would make it there if it killed him.
The snow was terribly bright. Fargo worried about going snow-blind. Since there was nothing in front of him but snow, he closed his eyes and felt instant relief. He tried to think of something to take his mind off his plight. He thought of women he had known, and he had known a lot. Many he liked. Many more were willing partners in passion, and that was all. He tried to think of the one he liked the most, but in his dazed state all their faces blended into a confused jumble of warm smiles and hot lips.
There was one, once, though, a long time ago. She was special. He could remember her face but he couldn’t recollect her name. That bothered him, and he couldn’t say why.
Fargo opened his eyes. The woods appeared no closer than they had when he closed his eyes, so he closed them again and continued plodding. He had lost all feeling in his feet. His hands were numb. To warm his fingers he stuck them under his arms.
Fargo tried to whistle but his mouth was too dry. He decided to sing but couldn’t remember the words to any of the saloon songs he must have heard a thousand times.
“What’s the matter with me?”
A ridiculous question, Fargo told himself, since he already knew. It didn’t stop him from plodding on. It didn’t crush the flicker of hope. All he had to do was reach those trees and get a fire going.
“Is that all?” Fargo chuckled at his little jest. He was tired, so very tired. He wanted to lie down right there in the snow and fall asleep. But as weak and confused as he was, he knew that spelled certain death.
Fargo wondered why it was he couldn’t think of that woman he had cared for more than all the others. Was that all females were to him? A tumble under the quilt? Granted, he had no interest in anything lasting. He wasn’t out to get married. He had no hankering for a hearth and home. But still.
He opened his eyes. The woods were still far off. Too far, maybe. Could he reach them before he collapsed?
A shriek brought Fargo out of himself. It came from overhead. He blinked up into the glare and spied a hawk soaring on outstretched wings. A red-tailed hawk, over two feet from beak to tail. It shrieked again, as if frustrated that the snow prevented it from finding the mice and rabbits on which it loved to feast.
“I know how you feel.”
The hawk banked and glided toward the mountains, rising until it was a mere speck.
“If I had wings I wouldn’t be in this fix.”
Fargo stopped and snorted.
“That was a downright stupid thing to say.”
He took three more steps and his legs had enough. He fell to his knees, grinned at the distant woodland, and sank onto his side. The snow was warmer than it had been. It was as warm as a blanket. He closed his eyes and sank into it and drifted on tides of inner darkness.
It was buzzing that brought Fargo around. At first he thought it must be bugs. Flies, probably. Come to crawl on him now that he was too weak to stop them. He swatted at them and one of the flies grabbed his wrist. Another fly alighted on his cheek. He tried to brush it away and it buzzed at him. “I don’t talk fly.”
“What was that, mister?” a voice asked.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Jayce,” another voice said. “Look at him. He’s half out of his wits.”
Fargo opened his eyes. He had been out a good long while. The sun was low in the western sky. But it wasn’t the sun that interested him. It was the boy and the girl hunkered at his side. The boy looked to be ten or thereabouts, the girl maybe twelve. They were bundled in clothes that had seen better days. Their gloves had holes in them. The boy wore a torn hat and the girl had an old scarf wrapped around her head and ears. Both had thin, oval faces, green eyes, and sandy hair.
“I take it I’m not dead,” he croaked.
“Not yet, but you ought to be,” the boy said. “I never saw so much blood. What on earth happened to you?”
“Wolves.”
The boy stiffened and looked all around. “What wolves? There’s two that’s been trying to get at our chickens and sometime at us, and making our ma plumb mad.”
“They’re dead. Back a ways. Your ma can rest easy.”
The girl put a hand to his brow. “I think you have a fever. And you’re awful pale.”
“How far to your ranch? If it’s not far I can make it.” Fargo tried to rise on an elbow but couldn’t.
“We don’t have a ranch, mister,” the boy said.
“Your farm, then?”
The girl shook her head. “We don’t have a farm, neither. I’m Nelly, by the way. Nelly Harper. This here is my brother, Jayce. Ma said we could go play in the snow and we saw you lying way out here. We thought you were a dead deer, and we could surely use the meat.”
“We can’t eat you, though,” Jayce said, sounding vastly disappointed.
“You’re welcome to come to our cabin if you want,” Nelly offered. “It’s warm there, and there’s some soup left over.”
Jayce glanced at her. “Ma might not like it. Maybe we should go ask her first.”
“He’s hurt,” Nelly said. “Hurt bad. We can’t just leave him lying there. Maybe Sten and his men will come.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.” Jayce regarded Fargo while gnawing on his lower lip. “Say. Maybe he’s one of them.”
“I’ve never seen him with them before.”
“So? He could be new.” Jayce poked Fargo in the chest. “Tell us true, mister. Do you ride for Cud Sten?”
“Never heard of him,” Fargo said. “Seems an odd name for a man to have,” he added.
Nelly was chewing on her lip, too, but stopped. “Cud is short for Cudgel. They call him that on account of he likes to beat people with a club. His last name is Stenislaski or something like that but no one can ever say it right, so everyone just calls him Sten.”
“You know a lot about him. Is he a friend of the family?”
“Gracious, no. Cud’s a bad man, mister. A very bad man. He’s killed folks and worse, Ma says. He keeps paying us visits even though she keeps telling him not to.”
“Why doesn’t your father run him off?”
Nelly grew sad. “In the first place, no one runs Cud Sten off. In the second place, we don’t have a pa.”
“He died,” Jayce said, mirroring his sister’s sorrow. “A bear got him. He was out chopping wood and a griz snuck up and ate him.”
“I’m sorry,” Fargo said to be polite. “Was this recent?”
“Oh, no,” Nelly said. “About a year ago, it was. I miss him an awful lot. He was a fine pa.”
“Yes,” Jayce said, and his throat bobbed. Then, with a toss of his head, he stood. “I reckon sis is right and we should take you with us. Can you stand or do we have to help you?”
Fargo went to push to his feet and realized his hands were empty. He scooped at the snow near where his right hand had been when he passed out.
“What on earth are you doing, mister?”
“I lost something.”
“Is this it?” Nelly asked, and her hand came from behind her dress holding the Arkansas toothpick by the tip.
“We didn’t want you stabbing us,” Jayce said.
“Hold on to it if you don’t trust me,” Fargo suggested. Just so he didn’t lose it like he had lost everything else. He made it to his knees and then to his feet and swayed like a reed in a high wind.
“Are you dizzy?” Nelly asked.
“Some.”
She stepped in close. “You can lean on me if you need to. Just be nice is all I ask. Some of Sten’s men aren’t so nice, and I don’t like them very much.”
Fargo took note of that. He took a step, and a second, and smiled, thinking he could do it on his own. But at
