40

Fargo made camp out on the prairie. Some of the good citizens of Horse Creek might still blame him for shooting one of their own during the skirmish with the outlaws, and he didn’t care to be strung up by a lynch mob.

He slept soundly and was in the saddle at the crack of dawn. He reasoned that since the Cottons had headed south, he might strike their trail if he rode due east far enough. By his reckoning he shouldn’t have to go more than ten or twelve miles.

He hadn’t gone more than five when Nature reared her temperamental head.

A storm front swept in and for more than six hours a steady rain fell. Any hope of tracking the Cottons and their captive was lost.

Fargo didn’t give up. He counted on sooner or later coming across their sign or spotting smoke from their campfire.

Two days went by with him the sole speck of human life in a vast sea of grass.

The morning of the third day, Fargo crested a rise and spied gray wisps rising from low hills. It could be anyone, including hostiles, but he had high hopes.

In case it was a war party he approached from downwind. Their horses might catch the Ovaro’s scent and act up and give him away.

The heat of summer had browned the grass and the wildflowers were wilted.

Buffalo wallows testified to a large herd that had gone by recently. Flies were thick in the wallows, drawn by the urine mixed with the dirt.

When Fargo judged that his quarry was just over the next hill, he drew rein and swung down. Taking the Henry, he climbed. Below the crown he flattened and removed his hat.

It was the Cottons, sure enough. They had a fire going, and Semple was relaxing and drinking coffee.

Not Hoby. The boy-man was pacing and kept glancing to the north.

Fargo knew why. Timbre Wilson was overdue. They’d expected him to overtake them by now.

Marshal Luther Coltraine was trussed from his shoulders to his ankles with rope. He’d been gagged, as well. His hat was gone and his gun belt, too.

Fargo craned his head to hear better.

“—give him another day,” Semple was saying. “You know how he is. He’d poke her until he couldn’t poke anymore.”

“It’s been too long, I tell you,” Hoby said.

“What do you want to do, then?” Semple asked. “Keep goin’? It’ll take Timbre even longer to find us.”

“Don’t I know that?” Hoby snapped. He did more pacing and rubbed his chin. “I have half a mind to turn back.”

“It’s your decision but I think you’re worried over nothin’. Timbre can take care of himself.”

“We should have stayed. That scout is a tricky cuss.”

“What could he do, tied like he was?”

“I don’t know.” Hoby suddenly stopped and walked over to the marshal. Squatting, he tugged the gag free. “How are you holdin’ up, Pa?”

“Go to hell,” Luther Coltraine said.

Hoby laughed. “Is that any way to talk to your own flesh and blood? The least you can do is be polite.”

“If you thought highly of bein’ my son, you wouldn’t be doin’ this.”

“Highly?” Hoby said, raising his voice. “Why, you rotten bastard. You abandoned me all those years and you expect me to think highly of you?”

“I didn’t know your ma got pregnant,” Coltraine said. “I had her that one night and moved on.”

“That one night,” Hoby said.

“Grow up,” Coltraine said angrily. “Men sleep with women all the time and go their separate ways, and that’s that. You might have done it yourself, even as young as you are.”

“She was a married lady.”

“She didn’t act married,” Coltraine said. “God’s own truth, boy, she threw herself at me. I hadn’t known her an hour and she was peelin’ her clothes off.”

“Keep talkin’,” Hoby said.

“What is there to say? She had a hankerin’ and I wanted to, and we did it. And the next mornin’ I rode off and never heard from her again. If she’d written me that she was with child, I’d have gone back.”

“Like hell you would. What did you care? She had a husband. You’d have let them raise me.”

“Better them than me,” Coltraine said. “I wasn’t fit to be a father. Hell, I’m still not.”

“At last somethin’ we agree on.”

Coltraine seemed to study his son. “Why do you hate me so much? Because I wasn’t there for you when you were growin’ up? The man who did raise you, Sam Cotton, wasn’t he a good pa?”

“He thought I was his own and treated me as such,” Hoby said. “When I turned bad, as folks call it, he didn’t know what to do. He figured I’d change my wild ways if he went on showin’ how much he cared. But I like the wild ways too much to ever give them up.” Hoby paused. “Poor Sam never suspected my blood was tainted.”

“Tainted how?” Coltraine asked.

“With yours.”

Coltraine struggled to rise on an elbow. “You can’t blame how you are on me. I’m as law-abidin’ as they come. I’ve worn a tin star for pretty near twenty years.”

“And how many women have you poked in that time?”

“Pokin’ females isn’t a crime, boy. It’s a need like eatin’ and sleepin’.”

“Is that a fact?” Hoby said, standing. “I have needs, too. Do you know what one of mine is?” Without warning he kicked Coltraine in the chest. “I feel a need to hurt and to kill. It just comes over me and there’s nothin’ I can do. Like the need I’m feelin’ now about you.”

Fargo pressed the Henry to his shoulder. The moment had come. He didn’t like Luther Coltraine but he wouldn’t let the boy murder him. He pressed his cheek to the brass receiver.

“Up there!” Semple Cotton suddenly bellowed, pointing. “It’s the scout!”

Fargo went to fix a bead but Hoby Cotton spun and drew with lightning speed and fired twice from the hip. Fargo dropped flat and it was well he did. The slugs whistled narrowly over his head. He rose to shoot but now Semple and Hoby both fired and again he was forced to flatten. More shots boomed, kicking miniature geysers from the hill.

A horse whinnied and hooves pounded, and Fargo heaved up yet again. The Cottons were racing to the south, and each had swung onto the off-side of their mount, Comanche-fashion. He aimed at Hoby’s horse but hesitated. He never killed a horse if he could help it. The hesitation proved costly as the pair galloped around the next hill and were gone.

Jamming his hat on, Fargo descended to the Ovaro, shoved the Henry in the scabbard, and led the stallion to the fire.

“Thank God,” Luther Coltraine said. “I’m obliged for the rescue.”

“Are you?” Fargo squatted and lifted the coffeepot. It was half-full. He got his cup and filled it.

Coltraine was gaping. “What in hell are you doin’. Cut me free so we can go after them.”

“Soon enough.”

“They’ll get away.”

“No,” Fargo said. “They won’t.”

Coltraine’s jaw muscles twitched. “What are you playin’ at? Is this your way of gettin’ back at me for that prison business? Untie me, damn you, or there will be hell to pay.”

“There will be anyway,” Fargo said. “This isn’t over until the Cottons are dead. Or we are.”