Flathead Fury

14

The next instant, Blaine was on his feet with his rifle in hand. He came around the fire, glancing at the horse that whinnied and then in the direction the horse was looking.

Fargo had flattened. He was not in the circle of light yet, and he did not think Blaine could see him. He held the toothpick in front of him while easing the Colt into his holster. He would need one hand free.

Blaine stopped next to the horse and stared hard into the darkness.

None of the sleepers had stirred. One was snoring loud enough to be heard in Canada.

Fargo tensed to spring. If Blaine kept coming, he would clamp his hand over Blaine’s throat and go for the jugular.

“What has you so skittish?” Blaine asked the horse. “Is something out there? A hostile? A mountain lion? What?”

Fargo noticed Blaine did not mention him. Maybe Blaine did not think he would be reckless enough to try something.

The horse lost interest and lowered its head.

“Has it gone away?” Blaine nervously asked. He lingered uncertainly, but not for long. He went back to the fire, and his coffee. Only now he sat with his back to the horses.

Within seconds Fargo reached the string. None of the animals acted up. He passed under muzzle after muzzle until he came to the Ovaro. Crouching, he reached up and cut the rope looped around the Ovaro’s neck. He was about to ease up into the saddle when he had an idea that brought a grin.

Blaine was refilling his cup. He had set down his rifle.

Fargo cut a second horse free, and a third. He watched Blaine out of the corner of his eye, and when Blaine started to turn, he flattened again. But Blaine was only shifting; he did not turn all the way around. As silently as possible, Fargo cut several more horses free. He did not do the last few because they were too close to Blaine.

Fargo slid the toothpick into its sheath. Easing between the Ovaro and the horse next to it, he gripped the saddle horn and pulled himself up. The saddle creaked, but not loud enough to be heard over the snorer. He smiled as he jabbed his heels, expecting the Ovaro to explode into motion. But the stallion did not move.

Not knowing what to make of the Ovaro’s refusal, Fargo slapped his legs. Again the Ovaro did not move, but the horse on the right did, nickering and shying away.

Almost immediately, Blaine swiveled at the hips and reached for his rifle. His eyes narrowed, then widened. “You!”

“Hell,” Fargo said, even as he drew. He fired from the hip and the slug took Blaine high in the forehead, blowing off the top of his head.

The blast awakened the others. They scrambled up in confusion, clawing for their hardware.

Fargo fanned the Colt twice and two men dropped. So did he, over the far side of the Ovaro to the ground. He discovered why the Ovaro had not moved—it was hobbled. The rest of the cutthroats were on their feet but they had not seen him and were turning this way and that. Two of them were bent over Blaine. His fingers flying, Fargo reloaded.

“Do you see anyone?” a man anxiously asked.

Fargo sprang out. He fanned the Colt as rapidly as he could and at each shot a man crumpled. He did not spare any of them. They would kill him if they could. As the last body lay twitching and oozing scarlet, Fargo slowly straightened. He started to let out the breath he had not realized he was holding but it caught in his throat.

Tork was not among the dead. The small man had not jumped up when the rest did. Tork’s blanket was exactly as it had been when he laid down and covered himself. Fargo looked closer. Draped partly over the saddle, the blanket was bunched in the middle to give the illusion a man was sleeping under it—but no one was.

Alarm rippled down Fargo’s spine. He had fallen for one of the oldest ruses on the frontier. Tork had slipped out from under the blanket but left it there to give the illusion he was still asleep.

Fargo dived for the earth. He was a fraction ahead of the boom of the Sharps. A horse to his left shrieked in pain and went down thrashing.

Fargo shifted, seeking sign of Tork. But Tork, like him, was not in the ring of firelight. Fear gripped Fargo, though, as he realized that Tork could make out the Ovaro, as big as the stallion was, and it occurred to him what Tork might do next. Whirling, he launched himself at the saddle. But some of the horses he had cut loose were milling about, agitated by the shots and smell of blood. One was in his way. He swatted it on the rump but it did not move so he went around. As he reached the Ovaro, the Sharps thundered again and the horse he had just swatted squealed and went down.

Reining sharply, Fargo fled for the Ovaro’s life. The Sharps was a single-shot rifle and it would take Tork precious seconds to reload. But God, the man was quick. Fargo barely went fifteen feet when the Sharps blasted again and invisible fingers plucked at his hat. Catching hold of the rim, he jammed it back on.

Fargo felt fleeting relief. Tork was trying to kill him, not the Ovaro. He raced into the woods, and once he was safe, he slowed, debating whether to circle around and try to pick Tork off or to get out of there before Mike Durn or Kutler or both showed up. The decision was taken out of his hands by the pounding of hooves behind him.

Tork was after him!

Reining to the north, Fargo brought the Ovaro to a trot. He foresaw no difficulty in eluding the little killer. Weaving at random through the timber, he covered about half a mile, then drew rein to listen. All he heard was the wind in the trees. He smiled a short-lived smile.

Hooves thudded. Tork was still back there.

Fargo was impressed. Only a frontiersman of considerable ability could have kept up with him. He lashed his reins. He would have to try harder.

After at least fifteen minutes of furious riding, changing direction frequently, Fargo again stopped. The silence was reassuring. He imagined Tork’s frustration at losing him, then succumbed to frustration himself when the beat of hooves told him the little man was still after him.

“How?” Fargo said out loud. He put himself in his pursuer’s moccasins. Since Tork could not rely on sight, he had to be following by sound alone. And he was doing a damn good job of it.

Fargo outsmarted the bastard. Instead of galloping off and making enough noise for Tork to pinpoint where he was, he rode off slowly, and quietly, avoiding brush that might crackle or snap.

Twisting in the saddle, Fargo sought to gauge whether Tork was still following. The silence was reassuring. “I have outfoxed him,” Fargo whispered to the Ovaro.

Somewhere in his wake a twig snapped.

Fargo had to hand it to him. The little man was a first-rate woodsman. And if he could not shake him off, he must try something else.

As he rode, Fargo looked for a suitable tree. Presently one appeared—a pine he could ride under, with a low branch easy to grab. Letting the reins drop, he pulled himself into the tree. The Ovaro went another ten feet or so, and stopped.

Bracing his back against the bole, Fargo clamped his legs firmly on the branch and wedged the Henry to his shoulder. He glued his eyes to his back trail, alert for movement.

The minutes passed. Two became five and five became ten and still there was no sign of Tork. Fargo grew uneasy. Something was wrong. Tork should have appeared. He shifted to scan the forest, and in doing so saved his life. A slug thudded into the trunk inches from his ear simultaneous with the boom of the Sharps.

Tork knew exactly where he was.

It left Fargo no recourse but to plunge from the branch before Tork fired again. The ground rushed up to meet him. He landed on his shoulder, as he wanted, but he did not count on the pain that shot up his right arm and the numbness that set in. Propelling himself on his other elbow, he made it behind the pine.

Fargo was mad. Not at Tork, at himself. He should have climbed higher, should have concealed himself better. He was treating Tork like an amateur and Tork was anything but. Tork was a man of the wilds, as much at home in a forest as in the saloon.