34

“Go ahead. Pull the trigger,” Amanda Brenner said. “How could you imagine he means anything to me?”

“I would have hurt you by now but for him buttin’ in,” Hoby told her. “He’s been lookin’ out for you, and just like with Coltraine, you’re too stupid to see it.”

“Quit insulting me.”

“I’ll by-God do more than that,” Hoby said, once more fixing the Colt on her. “Say your prayers.”

From out of the vegetation that surrounded them, which was brightening with the glow of the rising sun, came a bellow.

“You there! This is the law! We have you surrounded. Throw down your guns and raise your hands in the air or we will open fire.”

“It’s Coltraine!” Granger exclaimed in alarm, and swung toward the cottonwoods and banged off a shot.

“No!” Amanda Brenner cried, but the harm had been done.

Bedlam erupted. The outlaws bolted for their horses while firing in all directions at enemies they couldn’t see. Fargo threw himself at Amanda just as a return volley thundered, lead and smoke pouring from everywhere. He slammed into Amanda with his shoulder and drove her to the ground as above them slugs whistled and buzzed.

“Stay down,” he hollered in her ear, and rolled off.

The outlaws had targets now. They were shooting at muzzle flashes and vague figures. For its part, the posse was trying to bring the weaving, twisting bad men down, and doing a terrible job of it even though the Cotton Gang was in the open and the posse wasn’t.

Plunging his fingers into his boot, Fargo palmed the Arkansas toothpick. It made short shrift of the rope. His Colt and his Henry still lay close by, and sliding the toothpick into its ankle sheath, he lunged and scooped them up.

Lead clipped the earth next to him as he flung himself at the low bank. Whether from an outlaw or a posse member, he couldn’t say. Rolling over the edge, he landed in a crouch. He shoved the rifle into his shoulder, worked the Henry’s lever, and popped his head up.

Granger Cotton was down. He’d taken a round in the chest. Semple had an arm under him and was helping him up while Hoby and Timbre Wilson covered them.

No sooner would a posse member fire or show himself than Hoby or Timbre would spin and shoot.

From out of the brush a death rattle sounded.

“Aim, damn you! Aim!” Luther Coltraine roared. “Make sure of your shots.”

The outlaws were almost to their mounts.

Fargo raised up and instantly Timbre Wilson fanned a slug that kicked dirt in his face and drove him down.

“Don’t let them get away!” the marshal bellowed.

Fargo raised his head again. This time it was a clerk who appeared from behind a tree and snapped a shot at him. Fargo was about to yell that he was on their side, and then he remembered. They thought he’d abducted Amanda.

Amanda. Fargo glanced at her and swore.

She had been hit. She was on her back with a hand to her shoulder, grimacing in pain. Blood seeped between her fingers and was staining her dress.

Even as Fargo looked, another slug struck the ground inches from her head. A stray shot, of which there were many. The posse was made up of townsmen who rarely, if ever, used a firearm. They might be able to hit the broad side of a barn but only if they were standing next to it. In their wild shooting, it was a wonder they didn’t hit their own men.

Scrambling over the bank, Fargo crawled to her and got an arm around her waist. She didn’t resist as he dragged her toward the bank. All she did was groan and say through clenched teeth, “It hurts.”

Clamping her to his chest, Fargo slid over and set her beside him. “Let me see how bad it is.”

Amanda moved her hand.

The slug had penetrated under her collarbone and exited out her back, leaving a hole the size of a walnut. She would live if she didn’t bleed to death.

Just then a horse whinnied shrilly.

Fargo looked over the bank. The outlaws had succeeded in shoving Granger onto his animal and Semple and Hoby had climbed on theirs while Timbre Wilson continued to blast at the posse. Semple’s animal had just been hit and was staggering. Quickly, Hoby reined alongside him and Semple sprang from his horse to Hoby’s.

“Shoot their animals!” Luther Coltraine bawled. “Don’t let them get away!”

Fargo saw a posse member appear and take deliberate aim. But not at the outlaws and their mounts. At the Ovaro.

Fargo shot him. He aimed for the man’s arm and winged him and the man stumbled from sight. Launching himself over the bank, Fargo darted to the Ovaro, grabbed the reins, and was in the saddle before anyone could get off a shot. A jab of his spurs and the stallion went over the bank in a flying bound.

Amanda had passed out and was still pumping blood.

Fargo should leave her and fly like the wind, but if he did she might die before the posse found her. Angry at the turn of events, he sprang down, shoved the Henry into the scabbard, lifted the girl, and was in the saddle and away. Crossing the creek, he passed through a stretch of woods to open prairie. Some hills a quarter mile off were the next cover. Lashing the reins, he brought the Ovaro to a gallop.

No one gave chase. No one fired at them.

The marshal and the posse were so intent on the outlaws, they’d forgotten about Amanda and him.

Good, Fargo thought.

The Ovaro reached the hills in under two minutes, but it was two minutes of more blood loss for Amanda, and when they got there, the whole front of her dress was scarlet.

Hastening to a patch of timber, Fargo brought the stallion to a stop and was out of the saddle with the girl in his arms. Setting her down, he hurriedly collected fallen limbs and broke them and got a fire going. The smoke might give them away but he had a graver concern.

Drawing the toothpick, Fargo cut her dress at the shoulder to expose the wound. He was no surgeon; he couldn’t go in and tie the vein off. The best he could do was take the unlit end of a burning brand and press the burning end to the bullet hole.

Her flesh sizzled and hissed and she moaned and writhed even though she was out to the world.

Selecting another brand, Fargo did the same to the exit wound.

Her blood finally stopped oozing.

Sitting back, Fargo threw the brand away. She might live. She might not. Only the proverbial time would tell. By rights he should take her to town or at the very least hand her over to the posse. Only the posse might shoot him on sight, and in town he’d likely be taken into custody and thrown behind bars again.

Fargo frowned. She needed to be looked after until she recovered enough to get by on her own and there was no one but him handy. As much as he wanted to go after the Cotton Gang and have a talk with Luther Coltraine, he was stuck being nursemaid.

He summed up his sentiments with, “Well, hell.”