The Trailsman #294

Fargo didn’t know how long he’d lain unconscious, but he knew it had been hours. He could see the stars twinkling in the dark sky, even though he couldn’t get up. He was colder than he should have been, even in the cool spring night, and he thought he must have a touch of fever.

The Ovaro wandered over, and Fargo managed to catch hold of one of the stirrups with his good hand. He held on as tightly as he could and pulled himself to a sitting position. He wasn’t sure he’d improved his situation since his upper body was still one big mass of pain.

He considered trying to get the horse to drag him somewhere, but he couldn’t think of anywhere to go that would be better than where he was. So he sat there, holding himself up with the arm that he’d run through the stirrup.

After a little while he started hearing voices. He thought that maybe he’d gone to sleep and dreamed them, but he hurt too much for sleeping. Maybe he’d just imagined them since there was no reason why anybody would be so far off the trail at night. He dismissed the voices as a symptom of his fever, but then he heard them again.

“Yeah,” a second voice said, “that’s what you said a half hour ago. Maybe we should just keep riding, head down to California. Change our names when we get there. Nobody’ll ever find us.”

“We’re not running any farther than that damn trapper’s cabin,” a third voice said. “I’m not leaving this state while those bastards that put me in the pen are running loose.”

The voices all ran together in Fargo’s brain. He wasn’t sure what they were saying, and he had no idea what they were talking about. But maybe someone would help him if he could get their attention.

He’d intended to call it out loudly, but it came out as a weak croak. He tried again, but the results were the same.

“Hell, no. They don’t even know we’re gone yet. It’ll take till morning for them to get ever’body back in the cells for a count. It was probably just the wind.”

There was no more talking, but after a short while Fargo heard horses moving in his direction. When they got close enough for the riders to see him, Fargo heard somebody say, “What the hell is that?”

“Hell, yes, I’ve seen a horse. I mean, what’s that hanging from the stirrup?”

“Nothing to worry about. We just ride right on by. We got our troubles, and he’s got his. From the looks of him, he won’t even know we’ve been here.”

“Yeah, maybe. But what if he does know, and what if a posse comes along here and finds him?”

“He might not last till a posse comes. He looks about three-quarters dead already.”

Fargo listened to the conversation, or tried to. He couldn’t concentrate on it, even though he knew it should be important to him. If he could have a drink of water, he thought, maybe he could talk to them.

The man knelt down and held a canteen to Fargo’s lips. Fargo took a couple of sips of water. It felt cool and good as it slid down his throat.

“You hear that?” the man said. “He thanked me. He’s burning up with fever. We ought to help him.”

“All right, goddammit. Put him on his horse. If he can stay on and ride, he can go with us. But if the son of a bitch falls off, we’re leaving him where he lays.”

“Fair enough.” The kneeling man stood up. “Get over here and give me a hand, Corby.”

Some time went by. It might have been minutes or hours for all Fargo knew. Then he felt himself being lifted to his feet by rough hands.

“He’s a heavy son of a bitch, all right,” Corby said. “Give us some help, Hob.”

Fargo could recognize their voices now and even put them with the names they were using. Maybe he was getting better. More time passed, and he felt himself being raised even higher as someone guided his leg over the saddle.

“Better grab hold of that saddle horn with one hand,” Corby said. “Hob meant what he said about us leaving you if you fall off.”

Fargo gripped the saddle horn. He didn’t know how tightly he was holding it. His hand didn’t seem to be connected to the rest of him.

He didn’t say anything about that, however, and when the others mounted and rode away, he nudged the Ovaro with his knees and urged it forward. It followed the other horses down to the stream and then along the bank. Fargo heard the water running over the rocks in the streambed. A night bird cried off in the woods.

“That cabin’s around in here somewhere,” Hob said. “I remember that big fir tree over there, the one that sticks out over all the rest.”

“Just looks like another tree to me,” Sam said. “Too damn dark to tell anything about it.”

“That’s the one, though. The cabin’s back in the woods a little ways. I ran across it one time when I was out on this creek trying to pan a little gold.”

“I’d just as soon you didn’t talk about panning for gold,” Sam said. “I’ve heard all I ever want to hear about that.”

“You’ll hear a lot more about it before all this is done,” Hob told him. “Let’s get back in those trees and see if we can find that cabin.”

They crossed the shallow stream, and the Ovaro trailed after them. Fargo wasn’t conscious of guiding the big horse, but it seemed willing enough to go along with the others. It was probably hoping it would get fed when they got where they were going.

Fargo knew when they got into the trees because the branches brushed him and sometimes swatted him in the face. He didn’t mind. Nothing so trivial as that could bother him in his condition. He felt so light that he thought he might float right up off the saddle and into the trees and then on up into the night sky. He considered tying himself to the Ovaro, but he couldn’t think how to accomplish it.

They rode through the woods for a while. Again, Fargo had no idea how long. But finally he knew that he wasn’t going to be able to ride any farther.

He felt himself slipping from the saddle, and he reached out to grab a tree limb or anything to hold on to. His groping fingers encountered nothing but air, and he slid to the right. He thought for just a fraction of a second that he might be able to hold on to the saddle horn, but he couldn’t. He didn’t even know it when he hit the ground.

“Looks like he’s coming around,” Sam said. “He must be one tough son of a bitch.”

Fargo opened his eyes and tried to look around, but he couldn’t see much. He lay on a pallet on a dirt floor. There was a log roof over his head.

Corby came and stood over him. “You’re one lucky fella. You slid off that horse of yours just as we got to the clearing where this cabin is. Otherwise, we’d have left you behind.”

Hob came and looked down at Fargo. “Should’ve left you anyway. But that brother of mine always was soft-hearted. Sam couldn’t ever even wring a chicken’s neck when it was his turn to kill the Sunday dinner.”

“Name’s Fargo,” Fargo said. His voice was rusty, but they could understand him. “Skye Fargo.”

Corby looked thoughtful. “I think I’ve heard of you. They call you the Trailsman?”

“He brought some pilgrims to town just the other day. That’s how he makes his living. One of the ways, anyhow. One of the pilgrims was Jonathan Orcutt’s cousin.”

“Orcutt,” Hob said, as if he was spitting. “Don’t talk to me about that son of a bitch.”

Fargo remembered Homer Orcutt, a little round man, too soft for the trip, but he’d made it nevertheless. Lost a good bit of weight on the way, though.

“He doesn’t just bring in pilgrims and lead wagon trains,” Sam said. “I’ve heard of him, too. He’s been in some real scrapes all over the place if all they say about him’s true. Mining camps, Injun fights. All kinds.”

“Looks like he’s been in a hell of a scrape just recently,” Corby said. “What happened, Fargo?”

“Ripped you open pretty good. I know a little about sewing a fella up, so I did the best I could while you were passed out. You feeling any better?”

“That’s right,” Sam said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

“Why change your tune?” Corby said. “A while ago you were all for leaving him lying on the trail.”