45

Luther Coltraine cried out.

The firing came from two points. Fargo saw the muzzle flashes and realized that, once again, Hoby Cotton had outsmarted them. The boy hadn’t expected them to wait until morning. Hoby had rightly figured they’d be too eager to wait, and he and his brother had taken positions where anyone heading south from the campfire was bound to run into them.

Hauling on the reins, Fargo got out of there. One of the rifles spanged and a hornet buzzed his ear. For shooting in the dark it was either considerable luck or the shooter was a marksman.

The other rifle was banging, too, and Fargo heard a high whinny from Coltraine’s horse and a curse and the crash of the lawman’s mount.

Worried sick the same would happen to the Ovaro, Fargo didn’t stop. But no lead was sent his way. He went over a hundred yards, far enough to convince himself the Cottons had lost track of him in the dark.

Vaulting down, Fargo crouched and quickly removed his spurs. He wasn’t taking any chances they would give him away. Sliding them into a saddlebag, he drew his Colt and hurried toward where he had last seen Coltraine. He heard the lawman swearing, and slowed.

Hoby Cotton’s laugh was as cold as ever. “Looks as if the scout ran out on you, Pa.”

Fargo froze. The voice wasn’t a stone’s throw off. He struggled to pierce the murk and distinguished two standing figures and a bulk on the ground.

“And here you are, tin star,” Semple Cotton said, chuckling, “pinned by your own critter. Ain’t life grand?”

Fargo edged forward.

“Get it over with, damn your hides,” Luther Coltraine growled.

“What’s the rush?” Hoby replied. “I have you right where I want you and I aim to make the most of it.”

“The scout might come back,” Semple said.

“I won’t have my fun spoiled, by him or anyone else,” Hoby said. “Go have a look-see. Make sure he skedaddled.”

Fargo crouched.

One of the figures started to the north. “Don’t finish the law dog off until I get back. I want to see it.”

“Don’t you worry none,” Hoby said. “I aim to take my sweet time. He’ll blubber like a baby before I’m done.”

“Like hell I will,” Coltraine said.

There was the sound of a blow.

Fargo didn’t take his eyes off Semple. The outlaw was coming straight toward him. His thumb on the Colt’s hammer, he let Semple get almost on top of him. “That’s far enough.”

Semple Cotton drew up short. “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t see you down there.”

“Drop your rifle,” Fargo ordered. The man was too calm, and that worried him.

“Whatever you say, mister,” Semple said, and let go. The rifle clattered at their feet and Semple raised his hands. “You caught me fair and square.”

“Holler to your brother,” Fargo said. “Tell him to throw down his pistol or I’ll shoot you.”

“You might as well go ahead,” Semple said. “Hoby don’t care a lick what happens to me. The only one Hoby cares about is Hoby.”

“You’re his brother.”

“So? Kin doesn’t mean no more to him than a stray dog. He tolerated Granger and me because we grew up together but that’s all it was. You want him hollered at, you do it yourself.”

“Fine,” Fargo said, and cupped his other hand to his mouth. “Hoby Cotton! Do you hear me?”

A chortled ended with, “My ears work right fine. Which is more than I can say about your noggin. You should have lit a shuck while you could.”

“I’m holding a six-gun on Semple,” Fargo informed him. “Drop your hardware and follow my voice with your hands in the air and he gets to live.”

“You must reckon I’m loco,” Hoby replied.

“You don’t care that I’ll shoot him?”

“In the first place, I have to find new hard cases to ride with me anyhow, so what’s one more? In the second place, you won’t kill him in cold blood. You’re not me. You don’t have it in you.”

“Told you,” Semple Cotton said.

Hoby wasn’t finished. “Fact is, I can go you one better. You hand your hardware to Semple and have him bring you here or I’ll put a slug smack between my pa’s eyes.”

“He’ll do it, too,” Semple said.

“Shut the hell up.” Fargo shifted and concentrated on the figure standing over the dead horse. He could try but he might miss.

“I won’t wait all night,” Hoby called out. “I can’t risk my so-called pa dyin’ on me from his crushed leg.”

“His what?” Fargo said to Semple.

“The horse fell on it and pinned him. We can’t see much but there’s a heap of blood. It must be broke to pieces.”

The marshal chose that moment to shout, “Fargo? Don’t give in, you hear? He’ll kill us whether you do or you don’t give up your gun, so don’t.”

“I didn’t ask for your two bits, Pa,” Hoby said. “He doesn’t do as I want, I’ll deal with him and come back even madder.”

“Do what you have to, you little wretch,” Coltraine said. “I’m through kissin’ your hind end.”

“After all I’ve done for you, too.”

Fargo had taken his eyes off Semple. A simple mistake, but he was holding a cocked Colt and doubted Semple would try anything. He was wrong.

Semple sprang and swatted at the Colt as Fargo brought it to bear, knocking it aside. It went off and Semple slammed into Fargo and both of them pitched to the grass.

Fargo kicked at Semple’s head. He still had the Colt but a hand locked on his wrist to prevent him from using it. Another hand clamped onto his throat.

“Time for you to die,” Semple snarled.

Fargo wrenched but Semple clung on. The fingers around his throat constricted. He grabbed Semple’s wrist but couldn’t budge it.

“You’re not much,” Semple hissed. “My grandma was stronger than you.”

From the direction of the dead horse came an outcry and the boom of a shot.

Fargo had problems of his own. He exerted all his strength but Semple’s fingers were steel. His breath was choked off and his lungs were starting to hurt from the lack of air.

Struggling fiercely, Fargo drove a fist into Semple’s gut but all Semple did was grunt.

Spurs jangled, and Hoby Cotton bawled, “Out of the way, Semple. Give me a clear shot.”

“Don’t!” Semple shouted. “I almost have him.”

The devil of it was, Semple was right. Fargo was beginning to black out. If he didn’t break free he’d be strangled and if he did break free he’d be shot.

He did the only thing he could.