of sadness.
“I will be thinking of you.”
Fargo would be thinking of her a lot, too. Without her clothes on. He gigged the Ovaro and rode around the house and on down Polson’s dusty main street.
Big Mike Durn and half a dozen of his underlings, including Kutler, Tork, and Grunge, were waiting out front of the saloon. Durn saw him and came out into the street. “You are early,” he said when Fargo drew rein.
“No sense in testing your good nature,” Fargo remarked.
“No danger of that since I don’t have one,” Durn shot back.
Fargo lifted the reins to go on. “Until we meet again.”
“This is the last time we will see one another,” Durn informed him. “And I can’t say it has come soon enough to suit me.”
“You take an awful lot for granted.”
Big Mike Durn did not take offense. Instead, he called out, “Hoyt!” From around the Whiskey Mill came a trio of tough characters on horseback.
“What is this?” Fargo asked.
“As if you didn’t expect it,” Durn said. “These three will make sure you leave Mission Valley. Try to turn back and they will bury you.”
Fargo suspected they were under orders to plant him anyway. He studied them from under his hat brim. His Colt was in the holster of the heaviest of the three. Hoyt, evidently.
“Any message for Sally when I see her tonight?” Durn rubbed it in. “On second thought, I don’t want to hear your name mentioned ever again.” He moved out of the way. “Off you go. Six months from now, when I am in control, you are welcome to come back and we will toast my good fortune.”
“That will be the day.” Fargo clucked to the Ovaro and pretended he did not notice Grunge rub his oversized knuckles and grin, or hear Tork mutter something about people who did not live up to their reputations.
The morning was crisp and clear, the sky a vivid blue from horizon to horizon, with only a few puffs of cloud. A golden eagle soared high on the currents off the mountains, making for Flathead Lake.
Fargo rode south at a leisurely pace. It would not do to unduly tire the Ovaro, not with the hard riding that was to come later. Every now and again he glanced over his shoulder. Hoyt and the others stayed a couple of hundred yards back, close enough that they would not lose him if he tried to slip away. Little did they know what he had in mind.
Midway between Polson and the St. Ignatius Mission, Fargo reined to the east toward the foothills. His plan was to get the three men up into the hills and spring a nasty surprise, but he went only a short way when hooves pounded and they swept down on him on either side, Hoyt swinging ahead to block his path, then drawing rein.
“Where in hell do you think you are going, mister?”
“Is something the matter?” Fargo innocently asked.
“Don’t take me for a fool,” Hoyt rasped. “Mr. Durn said you are to leave this valley.”
“What do you think I am doing?”
Hoyt leaned on his saddle horn, his other hand on Fargo’s Colt. “I told you not to take me for a fool. I know all the trails in and out of here, and there isn’t one in the direction you are heading.”
“You don’t say.” Fargo looked all around as if he was confused. No one was in sight. He decided not to wait until they reached the hills.
“I thought you are supposed to be some sort of scout,” Hoyt said. “How can you not know where you are heading?”
“This is my first time here,” Fargo lied. Without being obvious, he slipped his boots free of the stirrups.
“If you ask me, you are next to worthless,” Hoyt said, eliciting chuckles from his companions. He motioned to the south. “Keep going in that direction. I will holler when we get to the trail out of here.”
“I am obliged,” Fargo said. He lifted the reins as if he was about to ride on. They relaxed a trifle, thinking they had him buffaloed, and were unprepared when Fargo suddenly whipped around in the saddle and backhanded the man on his right across the face. Almost in the same instant he thrust his left leg up and out and caught the man on his left in the middle, nearly unhorsing him.
“Look out!” Hoyt squawked, and went for the Colt.
A jab of Fargo’s spurs, and the Ovaro bounded forward. Fargo pole-armed Hoyt across the chest, then was in the clear. He bent low as a revolver cracked and a leaden bee buzzed his ear.
The valley floor was broken by stands of trees and patches of thick brush. Fargo raced for a cluster of spruce and pines. Another shot boomed but it, too, missed. Then he was in the stand and undoing his rope. He swept around a spruce, drew rein, and shook out the noose.
One of the cutthroats came galloping past. The second man was only a few yards behind.
That left Hoyt.
Fargo timed it perfectly. His arm rose and the noose licked out and over, settling as neatly as could be over Hoyt’s head and shoulders. A lightning dally, and the deed was done.
Hoyt was catapulted backward off his horse and crashed brutally hard to the earth. He rolled after he hit and more of the rope wound around his arms, pinning them. His horse kept going.
Vaulting down, Fargo flipped Hoyt over. Hoyt’s holster was empty. Keenly aware he did not have much time, Fargo scoured the grass, turning in circles. The Colt was nowhere to be seen.
“Frank! Sam!” Hoyt recovered enough to bellow. “He has me! Get back here!”
From off in the stand came shouts. The other two were on their way back.
In growing frustration Fargo bent low over the grass. The Colt had to be there somewhere. Hooves drummed, growing louder. He was about to get back on the Ovaro and get the hell out of there when sunlight gleamed off metal. He ran over. Just as his fingers wrapped around the Colt’s smooth grips, the vegetation parted and out thundered the two hard-cases.
A pistol roared, kicking dirt at Fargo’s feet. Whirling, Fargo fired from the hip, fanning his Colt twice in swift cadence. The man on the right was punched backward as if by an invisible fist, and toppled.
The other one was taking aim. Fargo fanned another shot, coring the man’s chest. It jolted him, but he stayed in the saddle and snapped off a reply as he swept on by.
Fargo spun, taking deliberate aim. But the rider was in the trees before he could shoot. He backpedaled toward the Ovaro. Suddenly something hooked him behind his ankles, and his legs were swept out from under him.
It was Hoyt’s doing. He had sat up and was furiously struggling to shed the rope.
Fargo’s shoulders absorbed the fall. In a twinkling he was up in a crouch, only to find the other rider bearing down on him. A slug missed him by a hand’s width. He squeezed off one of his own.
The man jerked to the impact but stayed on. Another second, and he was past, and once again in among the trees.
Normally, Fargo kept five pills in the wheel. That meant he had one shot left. He needed to reload but he was denied the chance. Iron arms wrapped around his legs and he crashed down onto his hands and knees. He raked with the heel of his right boot and felt the spur dig into flesh. The vise around his legs loosened. Heaving upright, he was almost erect when a shoulder caught him in the midriff and he was violently bowled over.
The next moment, Fargo was on his back with Hoyt on his chest. He swung the Colt at Hoyt’s temple but Hoyt grabbed his wrist and sought to tear the Colt from his grasp.
“Sam! I have him! Help me!”
Fargo heaved upward and Hoyt fell off his chest but clung to his arm. In desperation Fargo clubbed him with his other fist but Hoyt still would not let go. The crackle of underbrush warned Fargo that the other one was rushing to help. His back prickled in expectation of taking a slug.
Fargo rammed his left knee into Hoyt’s gut, and at the same instant dropped his left hand to his ankle and the sheath that held his Arkansas toothpick. The hilt molded to his palm. The double-edged blade flashed once, twice, three times, and Hoyt deflated like a punctured waterskin.
A shot cracked.
But Fargo was already moving. He sidestepped, extended his arm, and planted his last shot smack in the center of the rider’s forehead. It snapped the man’s head back, and down he went.
