29

Fargo couldn’t think of anything to say. He tensed to spring when Wilson unexpectedly glanced toward the street.

“What in hell is she doin’ out so late?”

Amanda Brenner was returning from the marshal’s. Whistling happily, she swung her handbag from side to side and pranced as if to music.

“Stupid female,” Timbre spat. “What he sees in her I’ll never know.”

“Hoby Cotton?” Fargo said.

“The marshal, you idiot.”

Fargo didn’t hide his surprise. “You know about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Hoby’s had us keepin’ an eye on her ever since he found out about it.”

Fargo was more confused than ever. “I don’t savvy. What’s the Brenner girl to him?”

“You’ll never know because in a minute you’ll be maggot food,” Timbre Wilson replied.

The Ovaro whinnied.

Fargo was as surprised as Wilson. The stallion was usually so quiet, he sometimes forgot it was around.

Out on the street, Amanda Brenner stopped and gazed at the trees. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

“Hell,” Timbre hissed.

“I heard your horse,” Amanda said. “Hoby, is that you? Show yourself. I won’t hold it against you.”

The Ovaro stomped a hoof and Wilson pointed a pistol at it.

“Damn your animal, anyhow.”

Amanda was cautiously approaching. “Is that you, Semple? Or Granger? I’ve caught you spying on me before. Don’t be bashful.”

“Stupid female,” Timbre said again. He was intent on her, his own pistol still pointed at the Ovaro, Fargo’s Colt leveled at Fargo but he had let the barrel dip.

Fargo would never have a better chance. Exploding off the ground, he slammed into Wilson like a battering ram, driving his shoulder into the outlaw’s gut even as he clutched at both of Wilson’s wrists to prevent him from using the six-shooters.

Timbre Wilson cursed as he was slammed against an oak. He drove a knee at Fargo’s groin that Fargo caught on his hip.

“What’s going on in there?” Amanda called out.

Struggling fiercely, Fargo and Timbre fell. They landed on their sides and Timbre butted at Fargo’s jaw with his forehead. Twisting, Fargo spared himself the brunt of the blow but pain still shot from his chin to his ear. He rammed his forehead into Timbre’s mouth and felt wet drops spatter him. Timbre erupted in swearing a mean streak even as he wrenched furiously to break free.

Rolling back and forth, barely aware of their surroundings, they collided with another tree. Fargo’s arm was jolted and he almost lost his hold on Timbre’s right wrist. Wilson tugged and got loose and raised the Colt to smash it over Fargo’s head. Seizing the outlaw’s forearm, Fargo drove it against the trunk. Wilson cried out, and then did the last thing Fargo would have expected—he tried to sink his teeth into Fargo’s throat.

Fargo rolled, sweeping Timbre with him. They hit another tree. A boot caught him on the shin. He rammed Wilson’s elbow to the ground and Wilson’s arm must have gone numb because he dropped the Colt.

Timbre Wilson was smaller but he was iron hard with muscle and a dirty fighter. He tried again to plant a knee where it would hurt any man the most. This time it glanced off Fargo’s inner thigh but still hurt.

Fargo had to end it. The longer their fight lasted, the more likely he’d be wounded, or worse. Tucking his chin to his chest, he whipped the top of his head into Wilson’s jaw.

Timbre Wilson went berserk. Uttering animal growls, he yanked and kicked and tried to butt Fargo again and again.

Fargo was getting nowhere. He belatedly realized they had rolled into the open and thought he glimpsed someone at the periphery of his vision. Bunching his shoulder muscles, he flipped Timbre Wilson under him. Before Wilson could react, he let go of Wilson’s forearm and smashed his fist into the killer’s jaw. Not once but four times, putting all his strength and weight into each swing.

Timbre Wilson went limp.

Grabbing his Colt, Fargo heaved onto his knees. He had the man dead to rights. But he’d never shot an unconscious enemy in his life. He was debating what to do when a gun muzzle was pressed to his temple.

“I don’t think I’ll let you kill him,” Amanda Brenner said.

Fargo looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She had Wilson’s revolver, and it was cocked. “Be careful with that thing. You’re liable to shoot me.”

“That’s the whole idea,” Amanda said with a grin. “Lower your six-shooter or I shoot.”

“Whose side are you on?” Fargo stalled.

“My own. Now do as I say. I don’t have much patience.”

“What will your beau say?”

“Who?”

“Luther Coltraine.”

“I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest notion what you are talking about.”

“You and him making love at his office.”

Amanda gasped. “You saw us? Why, you lousy peeping Tom, you. I’ll shoot you now on that account.”

“You’ll have a hard time explaining it,” Fargo said while slowly moving his free hand toward her leg. In the dark, she didn’t notice.

“No, I won’t,” Amanda countered. “Timbre Wilson will have shot you, not me. Slap him so he’ll come around and he can light a shuck after it’s done.”

“You want me to help you kill me?”

Amanda laughed. “Fitting, don’t you think?”

“Fit this,” Fargo said. Throwing himself down, he seized her ankle and wrenched her leg out from under her. She squawked and thudded onto her rump and the revolver went flying. Fargo was about to tell her to sit there and not move but she flew at him like a wildcat, raking at his face and eyes with her fingernails. He got his arms up to protect himself.

Fargo clipped her, thinking she would drop like a limp sack of flour. But no. Amanda shook herself and snarled and came at him in a fury. He was trying not to hurt her and doing a poor job of keeping himself from being hurt. Scrambling back to gain some space, he lost his balance and fell. Instantly she pounced, like a cougar on its kill. Wild gleams lit her eyes and her face was a mask of demonic rage. For a slip of a girl, she was ferocious.

Fargo stopped holding back. He punched her in the belly, heard the breath whoosh from her lungs as she doubled over, and followed through with a stroke of his Colt to the side of her head.

Amanda crumpled.

His cheek stinging from where she had scratched him, Fargo got to his feet.

“You little witch,” he said. He looked toward the Brenner house and scanned the street to be sure no one was coming to investigate the commotion. Other than the meow of a cat, the night was quiet.

Turning, Fargo figured he would tie up Timbre Wilson.

Only the outlaw wasn’t there.