24

Fargo saw the rider fall and didn’t stop to greet Hope or the others. He rode to where Faith was trying to get to her feet. When he reached her, he took her hand and pulled her up behind him on the Ovaro, then wheeled the big horse around and headed back the way he’d come.

He and Faith caught up with the others easily enough, well out of range of the shotgun.

“Time for you to get out of here,” Fargo told them. “If you meet Samson, tell him to keep on coming.”

Faith climbed from the Ovaro’s back to sit behind Charity.

“How did you get away?” Charity said.

“Later,” Fargo told her. “What happened back there?”

“They tried to kill us,” Charity said. “We didn’t get a chance to say a word.”

“I’ll try to set things straight,” Fargo said, wondering just how he’d manage to do that.

“They aren’t asking questions,” Hope said. “They’re just shooting, and they might shoot you.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Fargo said. “Get back to the cabin.”

They didn’t argue about it. When they were on their way, Fargo started for the stage.

 

Dobkins had been a little sickened by what he’d done to Avinger. He hadn’t expected it to be quite so messy. Quite a bit of Avinger was stuck to the rock that had been behind him. The rest lay on the ground.

It had to be done, Dobkins told himself. It was just a part of getting the gold.

When Dobkins got back to the stage, the driver asked what had happened.

“The bastards killed Avinger,” Dobkins said, looking at Fowler.

Fowler stepped around to the front of the stage and raised the Henry.

“Put that thing down,” the driver said, just before Fowler shot him right in the brisket.

The driver pitched out of the box, dead before he hit the ground. Fowler didn’t seem bothered by what he’d done, and Dobkins didn’t look at the body.

“What next?” Fowler said.

“We hide the gold,” Dobkins told him. “Then we go back to Laramie and report what happened.”

“Looks like we might have company first,” Fowler said, pointing the barrel of the Henry toward the approaching rider.

“Shit,” Dobkins said. “Kill him.”

“Who is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” Fowler said.

 

Fargo couldn’t figure out what was happening, but he knew it wasn’t right. One of the two men still with the stage had shot the driver, and now it looked like he was going to shoot Fargo as well.

Fargo pulled up on the reins and jumped off the Ovaro, hitting the ground and rolling behind a rock.

Not far away from him lay the body of Avinger, obviously killed by a shotgun blast. None of the sisters would have killed him. Fargo was certain of that. So what was going on?

A bullet ricocheted off the rock in front of him. Whatever was happening, it was clear that Fargo didn’t have any friends on the stage and that it wasn’t going to be easy to straighten things out.

He’d thought that, once the women were gone, it would be easy enough to explain to the stage guards that he was in Ferriday’s employ, that he’d come to Laramie to prevent robberies, and that it was safe for the stage to go on its way.

Now the driver and one of the guards were dead, and it looked like the other two were out to kill him just as they’d killed the driver and the guard.

Which meant that the men weren’t guards, after all. They were after the gold, just like the sisters had been.

Well, Fargo had been sent to prevent robberies, and that’s what he intended to do, if he could.

When he looked around the rock, the two men were sitting in the box. One of them was driving and had eased the stage back to a place where it could get off the trail and try to get around the rocks on the side opposite from where Fargo was. The terrain was pretty rough, and the going wouldn’t be easy, but they might make it. And then they’d get away if Fargo didn’t stop them.

He figured he’d better do that.

 

When Fargo mounted the Ovaro and started after the stage, Dobkins recognized him.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Dobkins asked.

“Who is it?” Fowler wanted to know. He had all he could do to drive the stage and couldn’t look around.

“It’s Fargo. We can’t let him catch us.”

“I don’t know how the hell you plan to stop him.”

The stage lurched, and Dobkins nearly fell off. He grabbed the rail and hung on. He knew he couldn’t shoot anyone from where he was sitting. He wouldn’t be able to hold the gun steady.

“We’ll have to outrun him,” he told Fowler.

Fowler shook his head. “Can’t do it.” He bounced up about a foot as the stage hit a bump. “Too rough.”

“You have to try. We have a good start on him. Get back on the trail. It’ll smooth out.”

They were around the rocks, and Fowler pulled the reins to the right. The team responded, and the stage lurched hard again and tilted hard to the left. For a second Dobkins thought it would fall over, but it bounced back upright. Then they were on the trail, and the going was much smoother.

“He’ll never catch us now,” Dobkins said, but it wasn’t long before he knew he was wrong. The big Ovaro was slowly gaining ground.

The only good thing Dobkins could think of was that Fargo couldn’t do any better shooting at him than he could by shooting at Fargo. Dobkins figured Fargo wouldn’t be able to do much to stop them even if he caught the coach, so he urged Fowler to keep going.

“Faster, if you can,” he added.

“We can’t go any faster,” Fowler said. “You wanta try drivin’?”

Dobkins didn’t bother to answer.

“If he gets too close,” Fowler said, “use that scattergun of yours. You won’t have to be too steady with it. Even if you don’t kill him, some of the shot’s bound to hit him. Maybe you can knock him off that horse.”

Dobkins figured that advice was as good as any. He got the shotgun and turned to look back. “Shit,” he said.

“What now?” Fowler said.

“There’s somebody else coming after us.”

Dobkins watched the man riding along the trail behind Fargo. He was a good ways back, and he was even bigger than the Trailsman.

“Maybe he’s after Fargo,” Fowler said.

Dobkins hoped so. He didn’t want to have to deal with both of them. But if the shotgun would handle one, it would handle the other, too. Let them get close enough, and Dobkins wouldn’t mind pulling the trigger at all. It wouldn’t be messy, the way it had been with Avinger.

In fact, Dobkins looked forward to it.

 

Fargo knew he was going to catch up to the stagecoach. It was just a matter of time. What he didn’t know was what he’d do when he got there. One of the men had a shotgun, and that was a dangerous proposition.

There was something familiar about the man, and Fargo squinted his eyes. Damn if it wasn’t Ferriday’s man. Dobkins. He wasn’t wearing his dude clothes, but it was Dobkins all right. Fargo wouldn’t have figured the little man for a thief, but he was taking the gold, all right. He would have known about the shipment, being in Ferriday’s employ and trusted with the boss’ secrets, and he must have decided it would be worth the risk to steal it.

Fargo heard something behind him and took a quick gander. He saw Samson and grinned. The big man had figured out how to get out of the chains that Fargo had deliberately left a little loose.

Fargo didn’t know if the women had met Samson and told him what had happened or not. If they had, Samson might not be as angry at Fargo as he would have been under other circumstances. He’d want the men who’d shot his daughter more than he wanted Fargo, and those men were on the stage.

Fargo couldn’t afford to slow down. Samson would just have to catch up if he was able.

As he got nearer to the coach, Fargo stayed right in the middle of the trail. He didn’t want to give Dobkins a shot at him with the scattergun. If Dobkins wanted to shoot, he’d have to turn around, and if he tried that, he’d probably fall off. Or he could climb on top of the swaying stage, and if he tried that, he was likely to go flying over the side. Fargo didn’t think Dobkins would take that chance.

Mud whirled up from under the coach’s wheels and spun in Fargo’s direction. He looked at the leather boot on the back of the coach. He knew that the gold would be inside it. All he had to do was get to it.

He found himself dodging mud as he came right up to the rear of the coach. He stayed to the driver’s side so Dobkins couldn’t lean around and take a shot at him, though he didn’t think there was much chance of that.

A short rail ran from the top of the coach about a quarter of the way down the boot. Fargo turned in the saddle and reached out with his right hand to grab it. The Ovaro slowed, and Fargo was pulled free of the saddle. The Ovaro ran off the trail as Fargo swung up onto the boot.

He had to cling to the rail with all the strength of his arm and hand to avoid being thrown free of the stage. With his free right hand he pulled the Arkansas toothpick and sliced through the leather cover of the boot, cutting a sizeable opening.

Inside the boot were the mail sacks and several small wooden boxes. Fargo knew they must hold the gold.

Fargo looked back down the trail. Samson was coming along as fast as he could, but he was mighty big, and his horse was tiring. He wasn’t going to be able to catch the stage unless it came to a halt.

Fargo thought he’d give Samson something to look at, maybe even stop for. He stepped into the opening he’d cut and braced himself as best he could in the rocking compartment. It was cramped, but he still found a way to spread his legs and sheathe his knife. He bent down to reach one of the boxes.

The lid of the box was nailed tight. Fargo took hold of the box and tumbled it out of the boot. It landed on the trail and broke open. Gold bars glittered in the sun.