on the ceiling, lay Marshal Marion Tibbit.
Sam Worthington was on his side, his big hands over his belly. His eyes were shut and his teeth clenched and he was shaking but not making any sounds. Harvey Stansfield had fallen in a crumpled heap. Over in the rocking chair sat Helsa, slumped in despair.
“Helsa?” Fargo said again. When she didn’t respond he stepped over Tibbit and around Stansfield to the rocking chair. A pink hole high on her forehead stopped him cold. “Damn,” he said. He stepped to Worthington and hunkered. “Sam?”
The farmer’s eyes were pools of torment. “Tell me you got him. Tell me I’m not dying for nothing.”
“You’re not dying for nothing,” Fargo said.
“Good.” Worthington coughed up blood, and grimaced. “That damn Stansfield. I hope he’s dead, too.”
Fargo glanced at the heap and nodded.
“Will you do me a favor?”
“It’s my night for them.”
“Eh?”
“Whatever you want,” Fargo said.
“Go to my farm. Let my wife and my young’uns know that ...” Worthington sucked in a deep breath.
“Maybe I should go for the doc. Where does he live?”
“I’ll be hogswaggled,” Worthington said.
“What do you want me to tell your family?” Fargo asked when he didn’t go on. But the farmer was past answering. “Hell.” Fargo closed the man’s eyes and rose and stepped back to survey the slaughter just as the heap sat bolt upright and a rifle was pointed at him.
“I have you now,” Harvey Stansfield declared. Red drops were trickling from the corners of his mouth.
“You are persistent,” Fargo said.
“You bet your ass I am. I refuse to die until I take you with me.”
“There’s only one problem.”
“What?” Harvey said.
“You’re slow as hell, and stupid to boot.” Fargo drew and put a slug squarely in the middle of Stansfield’s forehead. The rifle went off but the ceiling took the lead. Walking over, Fargo kicked the rifle away and felt for a pulse. As if there was any doubt.
At that time of night Fargo had the trail to the west to himself, and he was glad. He’d had enough of people to last him a good long spell. Squaring his shoulders, he rode from the heart of human darkness into the blackness of the wilds, and it was like coming home.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening section of the next novel in the exciting
THE TRAILSMAN #351
TERROR TOWN
The two men with rifles came out of the trees as Fargo was filling his first cup of morning coffee. That they came up on him so quietly wasn’t a good sign. That he was still sluggish from sleep didn’t help, either. He should have heard them. He stayed calm and regarded them as if they were passersby on a street. “Gents,” he said simply.
One was older than the other by a good many years. Judging by their faces and builds they were father and son. Their clothes were homespun, their boots scuffed, their hats the kind farmers favored.
The youngest planted himself and thrust his jaw out. “What are you doing here, mister?”
“Having breakfast,” Fargo said. He set down the coffeepot and held the tin cup in his left hand while lowering his right hand to his side, and his holster. It was on the side away from them and they didn’t notice.
“You’re not from Promise?”
“Is that a settlement?” Fargo asked. So many new ones were springing up he didn’t bother to keep track.
“Did the marshal send you?”
“Boy, I just told you I don’t know the place,” Fargo said.
His right hand brushed his Colt.
“How do we know you’re not lying? How do we know you’re not here to arrest us?”
“Do you see a star on my shirt, lunkhead?” Fargo snapped. He was in no mood for this. Some mornings he tended to be grumpy until he had his coffee.
The young one colored red in the cheeks. “You shouldn’t ought to talk to me like that.”
“Then you should grow a brain.”
That did it. The young one turned entirely red and started to jerk his rifle.
Fargo had the Colt out and cocked before the rifle moved an inch. “How dumb are you?”
The young one froze, his eyes widening in fear.
“Simmer down, Samuel,” the older man said. “He ain’t no lawman. If he was here to harm us, you’d be dead.” The older man smiled. “I’m Wilt Flanders.”
“Means nothing to me.” Fargo wagged the Colt. “Have your son set down his rifle. Nice and slow.”
“I will not,” Samuel said. “And, Pa, how’s he know you and me are related if he’s not from Promise?”
“Use your head, son,” Wilt said. “Do like the man wants and maybe we’ll live through this.”
Sulkily, Samuel bent and placed his rifle on the ground and straightened. “I don’t like this.”
“Then you shouldn’t go around pointing guns at people.” Fargo trained the Colt on the father. “Now you, old man.”
“Be glad to.” Wilt did as his son had and held his arms out from his sides. “There. No need for lead chucking. Suppose we just talk.”
Fargo took a sip of coffee and savored the heat that spread down his gullet and into the pit of his stomach. “For nearly spoiling my breakfast I should shoot you anyway.”
“Pa!” Samuel said, and glanced down at his rifle.
“He’s joshing, son. Stand still and be quiet while I talk to him.”
“He treats me like I’m stupid,” Samuel pouted.
“Hush now, son.” Wilt gestured at Fargo. “Can I come close and sit?”
“No.”
“Fair enough.” Wilt cleared his throat. “We have a small farm down this hill and out on the prairie a piece. We’re up here after deer.”
“Why would you think I was a marshal?”
“We’ve had some trouble with the law in Promise,” Wilt said. “It’s to the north, about half a day’s ride.”
“What sort of trouble?” Not that Fargo cared. He just wanted them to be gone so he could finish his breakfast in peace.
“My Martha refuses to wear a bonnet when she goes into town.”
Fargo wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Martha being your wife, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell does a bonnet have to do with anything?”
“It’s against town ordinance for a female to be out in public without one on her head.”
Fargo would have thought the farmer was joking if not for his earnest expression. “That is about the damned silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
