“Why the hell are you telling me this?”
“I don’t rightly know. Except I don’t have long left and I wanted to talk.” Chatterly looked down at the front of his shirt. “You hit me back there. Hit me hard. My insides are on fire and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“Good,” Fargo said.
“You’re almost as mean as me,” James Chatterly said. “You probably won’t believe this, but I respect that.”
“I don’t give a damn what you respect.”
Chatterly laughed. “Not a shred of sympathy, is there?”
“Not a lick,” Fargo said.
“Then I reckon we should get to it. Only ...” Chatterly paused. “Would you do me a favor?”
“No.”
“If you live, would you tell her I’m really and truly sorry? I never hated her. I never meant for her to suffer any.”
“You are as pure a son of a bitch as I’ve ever met.”
James sighed. “I reckon I deserve that.” He gazed at the stars and then at the benighted forest and finally at Fargo. “One thing though.”
Despite himself, Fargo asked, “What?”
“If I am insane”—Chatterly grinned—“I like it.” Without warning he jerked his arm up and fired.
Fargo was expecting him to try something and even as the pocket pistol was rising he jabbed his spurs and the Ovaro leaped forward at the same instant as the crack. Pain seared his shoulder but he could tell without having to look that he had only been grazed and he was in the trees and circling before the sound of the shot died. He thought that the Ghoul would try to run off but Chatterly had other ideas; he came charging across the clearing, his pistol blazing. Fargo reined away and weaved among the boles like a four-legged needle threading through a tapestry.
Chatterly came after him, firing with grim intent.
The hunter had become the hunted. Fargo fled to spare the Ovaro from possible harm. He reined toward a thicket and at the last moment veered and galloped around it, instead. On the other side he drew rein and wheeled the Ovaro back the way he had come. He swept the Colt up just as James Chatterly came galloping around and fired as Chatterly sought to take aim, fired as Chatterly clutched at his throat, fired as Chatterly swayed.
The Ghoul pitched to the ground.
Fargo was off the stallion and over to the madman before Chatterly could rise. Not that he ever would; dark rivulets seeped from five or six wounds.
Incredibly, Chatterly wasn’t dead. His lips moved and he made a supreme effort to speak. “Remember the favor.”
“Go to hell.”
James Chatterly grinned. “On my way,” he said, and died.
A quarter of an hour later Fargo drew rein at the picket fence. The street, to his surprise, was deserted. Yet people had to have heard the shots. He opened the gate and went on in. The smell of fresh blood was strong. “Helsa?” he called out.
No one answered.
A pair of legs jutted from the parlor. It was Wilson, facedown in a halo of scarlet. Past him, vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling, lay Marshal Marion Tibbit.
Sam Worthington was on his side, his big hands over his belly. His eyes were shut and his teeth clenched and he was shaking but not making any sounds. Harvey Stansfield had fallen in a crumpled heap. Over in the rocking chair sat Helsa, slumped in despair.
“Helsa?” Fargo said again. When she didn’t respond he stepped over Tibbit and around Stansfield to the rocking chair. A pink hole high on her forehead stopped him cold. “Damn,” he said. He stepped to Worthington and hunkered. “Sam?”
The farmer’s eyes were pools of torment. “Tell me you got him. Tell me I’m not dying for nothing.”
“You’re not dying for nothing,” Fargo said.
“Good.” Worthington coughed up blood, and grimaced. “That damn Stansfield. I hope he’s dead, too.”
Fargo glanced at the heap and nodded.
“Will you do me a favor?”
“It’s my night for them.”
“Eh?”
“Whatever you want,” Fargo said.
“Go to my farm. Let my wife and my young’uns know that ...” Worthington sucked in a deep breath.
“Maybe I should go for the doc. Where does he live?”
“I’ll be hogswaggled,” Worthington said.
“What do you want me to tell your family?” Fargo asked when he didn’t go on. But the farmer was past answering. “Hell.” Fargo closed the man’s eyes and rose and stepped back to survey the slaughter just as the heap sat bolt upright and a rifle was pointed at him.
“I have you now,” Harvey Stansfield declared. Red drops were trickling from the corners of his mouth.
“You are persistent,” Fargo said.
“You bet your ass I am. I refuse to die until I take you with me.”
“There’s only one problem.”
“What?” Harvey said.
“You’re slow as hell, and stupid to boot.” Fargo drew and put a slug squarely in the middle of Stansfield’s forehead. The rifle went off but the ceiling took the lead. Walking over, Fargo kicked the rifle away and felt for a pulse. As if there was any doubt.
At that time of night Fargo had the trail to the west to himself, and he was glad. He’d had enough of people to last him a good long spell. Squaring his shoulders, he rode from the heart of human darkness into the blackness of the wilds, and it was like coming home.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening section of the next novel in the exciting Trailsman series from Signet:
THE TRAILSMAN #351
TERROR TOWN
The Smoky Mountains, 1861—where strangers
who aren’t careful wind up six feet under.
The two men with rifles came out of the trees as Fargo was filling his first cup of morning coffee. That they came up on him so quietly wasn’t a good sign. That he was still sluggish from sleep didn’t help, either. He should have heard them. He stayed calm and regarded them as if they were passersby on a street. “Gents,” he said simply.
One was older than the other by a good many years. Judging by their faces and builds they were father and son. Their clothes were homespun, their boots scuffed, their hats the kind farmers favored.
The youngest planted himself and thrust his jaw out. “What are you doing here, mister?”
“Having breakfast,” Fargo said. He set down the coffeepot and held the tin cup in his left hand while lowering his right hand to his side, and his holster. It was on the side away from them and they didn’t notice.
“You’re not from Promise?”
“Is that a settlement?” Fargo asked. So many new ones were springing up he didn’t bother to keep track.
“Did the marshal send you?”
“Boy, I just told you I don’t know the place,” Fargo said.
His right hand brushed his Colt.
“How do we know you’re not lying? How do we know you’re not here to arrest us?”
“Do you see a star on my shirt, lunkhead?” Fargo snapped. He was in no mood for this. Some mornings he tended to be grumpy until he had his coffee.
The young one colored red in the cheeks. “You shouldn’t ought to talk to me like that.”
“Then you should grow a brain.”
That did it. The young one turned entirely red and started to jerk his rifle.
Fargo had the Colt out and cocked before the rifle moved an inch. “How dumb are you?”
The young one froze, his eyes widening in fear.
“Simmer down, Samuel,” the older man said. “He ain’t no lawman. If he was here to harm us, you’d be dead.” The older man smiled. “I’m Wilt Flanders.”