had been Tork’s Sharps.
Fargo figured the little man had seen the Henry’s muzzle flash. He rose to change position but had gone only a step when Tork shouted words he did not quite catch. But he could guess what it was. He dashed around the boulders a heartbeat before fireflies sparkled and a swarm of lethal hornets blistered the air.
To stay in those boulders invited a dirt nap.
Shoving the Henry into the saddle scabbard, Fargo vaulted up. More shouts warned him that Durn’s cutthroats were converging. A flick of his reins and he melted into the darkness before they could spot him.
Fargo paralleled the lake. Now and then he had to thread through vegetation that grew clear down to the water’s edge. He was in no hurry. He figured Durn would wait until first light to come after him.
He figured wrong.
The clink of a horseshoe on rock was Fargo’s first inkling he was being chased. He glanced back, and there, at the limit of his vision, vague shapes hove out of the gloom. Seven or eight, by his count, coming on swiftly. He gave the Ovaro its head. No sooner did it break into a gallop than shouts arose.
“Do you hear that? It’s him!”
“After him, boys!”
“Remember, we get paid extra for the bastard’s head!”
Fargo did not like riding flat out at night. A hole, a rut, a fallen limb, a jagged rock could bring the Ovaro down with a broken leg, or worse. Hoping for the best, he goaded it to go faster. On his right, the shimmering surface of Flathead Lake flew past; on the left, darkling woodland. Suddenly a boulder the size of a cabin reared out of nowhere and he reined sharply to go around.
A rifle thundered and lead ricocheted off the boulder.
Tork and his Sharps again.
Fargo raced on. He reined toward the water where going would be easier, only to find a legion of boulders strewn about like so many giant marbles. He had no choice but to rein back toward the timber.
“I see him! There!”
“Faster, boys!” Tork bawled. “By God, we have him!”
Fargo glanced back. They were optimistic; they had not gained any ground. He faced front again.
Too late, he saw the low limb.
A tremendous blow to the chest ripped Fargo from the saddle and sent him tumbling.
13
Stunned and flooded with pain, Fargo was vaguely aware the Ovaro had not stopped. A tide of inner blackness threatened to wash over him but he resisted. Dimly, he was conscious of pounding hooves and loud voices, and he braced for certain discovery.
Thunder filled his ears. Riders were on either side of him. He tried to move his right hand to draw his Colt but his body would not do what he wanted.
Someone—it sounded like Tork—shouted, “There’s his horse!” A fresh flurry of shots spiked Fargo with fear for the Ovaro’s life. The pounding faded and quiet descended, complete, utter quiet.
Fargo’s senses returned. He hurt. He hurt like hell. He tested his arms and poked at his chest and he decided nothing was broken. Sitting up, he listened but heard only the sigh of the wind.
Fargo got his hand under him, and stood. The same whimsical fate that had twice thwarted his attempts to put an end to Mike Durn had now saved his life. Thanks to the moonless night, Tork and his men had not seen him when he was lying practically under the hooves of their horses. It was a wonder none of their mounts had stepped on him.
Fargo started north, walking slowly at first and then faster as he regained his strength. He could not shake the awful feeling that he would find the Ovaro dead. But if that were the case, Tork and the others would have turned back by now, and there was no sign of them.
Striding purposefully along, Fargo was pondering his next move when a grunt similar to the one he had heard earlier brought him up short. Whatever made it was close, very close.
Anxious to go on, Fargo strained to pierce the gloom. Loud sniffing caused the nape of his neck to prickle. The thing was no more than twenty feet away, to his left. A rumbling growl told him it had caught his scent.
It was definitely a bear. Whether it was One Ear or another, Fargo had no way of knowing. He drew his Colt but he did not use it. A wild shot in the dark would only succeed in wounding the thing, and a wounded bear was ferocity incarnate.
Suddenly a huge bulk reared. The brute had risen on its rear legs and was sniffing again.
Fargo braced for the worst. If the bear attacked, he was done for. He would fight but he did not stand a chance against the steely sinews, saber teeth, and thick claws of one of the most formidable creatures on the continent.
Yet more sniffing.
Fargo prayed the bear had fed recently and would soon wander off. Each second he stood there was an eternity of suspense. He broke out in a cold sweat, and his mouth went dry.
The bear dropped onto all fours.
Fargo started to hike his leg to palm the Arkansas toothpick. He would stab at the bear’s eyes and the throat, and maybe, just maybe, hurt it so badly he would drive it off. Buffalo could fly, too.
Another grunt, and just like that the great beast vanished. When a bear wanted, it could move as silently as a ghost, and this one slipped away with nary a sound to mark its passage.
Fargo stayed where he was. Sometimes bears circled to come at prey from behind. He scanned the woods but the nocturnal behemoth did not show itself. At last, convinced it was safe, he moved on.
Continuing to stay close to the lake, Fargo hiked for over a mile. The night around him came alive with the cries of wildlife; the howls of wolves, the yips of coyotes, the occasional screech of a mountain lion, and once, the roar of a bear that might be One Ear. Now and again the death squeal of prey spoke of a predator’s success.
Fargo’s brow puckered when he spied a triangle of red and orange ahead. Apparently Tork had made camp for the night. He crept along the water’s edge until he saw figures seated around a fire and a string of tethered horses. They had pitched camp on an open strip of shore.
Fargo snuck as near as he dared. He removed his boots, drew his Colt and the toothpick, and holding them above the water, waded into the lake, moving slowly so as not to splash. The cold brought goose bumps to his flesh. The water rose to his knees, then to his waist.
Fargo figured Tork and his friends would not pay much attention to the lake.
Danger, if it came at them, would come from the woods. When the water was as high as his chest, he slowly moved toward them until he could hear what they were saying.
“—happened to him. He must have jumped off his horse when he saw he couldn’t get away.” This from a mustachioed man in a brown hat.
“Jumped, hell!” Tork snapped. He was poking at the fire with a stick. “That doesn’t make any damn sense. A man like him, he would never let us catch his horse.”
Fargo glanced at the string. Sure enough, the Ovaro was one of them, tied in the middle.
“You almost sound like you admire him,” another man said.
Tork glared until the speaker averted his gaze, then snarled, “The only thing I admire is toughness. Durn is tough, and I respect him for that. Kutler is tough, and I respect him. I don’t respect you because you are a puny peckerwood who would not last a week in the wild by your lonesome.” He jabbed the fire again. “Skye Fargo is as tough as they come. He has to be, the things they say he has done.”
“No one can accuse him of being yellow,” commented another. “He took on all of us to try and save that girl.”
“He has done a hell of a lot more,” Tork said. “He has killed Grunge and probably Hoyt, and those other two. And now he has burned the ferry. You realize what that means, don’t you?”
