Outlaw Trackdown (4 page)

8

A round moon of a face popped above the log, a face with laughing eyes almost as blue as Fargo's own, and a mocking smile. A face as smooth as a baby's bottom save for peach fuzz on the chin. A face so boyish it belied the body it was attached to.

“Howdy, mister.”

Fargo had frozen with that muzzle an inch from his nose. “Howdy, yourself,” he said.

“What're you doin'?”

“Enjoying the day. You?”

The boy-man laughed. “Me, too. It tickled me seein' you sneak up on us. You're good at it.”

“You're not bad yourself,” Fargo said. “I didn't hear you come up on me.”

“When it comes to sneaky, I'm the cat's meow.”

“You'd be Hoby Cotton?”

Hoby bobbed his laughing moon face but his Colt stayed rock steady. “I'm plumb amazed sometimes at how many folks know me and I've never set eyes on them. Take you, for instance. We've never met. I'd recollect if we had. I have a good memory for faces.”

“Skye Fargo,” Fargo said.

“Sky what?”

“My name. Skye Fargo.”

“Really? Your folks named you after the sky? Mine named me after my great grandpa on my ma's side.”

“There's an ‘e' on it.”

“How's that again?”

“S-k-y-e,” Fargo spelled it out for him.

“Well, now. That's too pretty to be a fella's name. You ought to be a girl.” Hoby grinned. “As for spellin', I can't read or write a lick. Never learned how. My ma didn't believe in schoolin'.”

“Your mother didn't think it might be good to know how to read?”

“She couldn't. She always said as how she didn't need no ABC's to get through life and we didn't, neither. We bein' me and my brothers yonder, Granger and Semple.”

“You're from the South, I take it?” Fargo reckoned from his accent.

“Texas.”

“There's a lot of that going around.”

“I don't savvy.”

“Marshal Luther Coltraine is from Texas. He's not far behind me with a posse.”

“I know all about the great Luther Coltraine,” Hoby said. “I'm guessin' he sent you on ahead to scout things out.”

Fargo made a mental note not to underestimate this kid. Those laughing eyes hid a shrewd little monster. “You killed a man back in town.”

“The teller,” Hoby said. “I didn't like his ears. They were so big, it was a wonder they didn't flap when he moved.”

“You shot him because of his ears?”

“Well, that, and I needed to scare the banker into openin' the safe. There's nothin' like splatterin' brains to scare folks.”

“So what now?” Fargo asked. “You splatter mine?”

Hoby Cotton turned his head to the right and the left, inspecting Fargo's. “No, I like your ears. And I don't need to scare anybody at the moment.”

“Thank you, God,” Fargo said.

Laughing, Hoby rose while keeping him covered. “Suppose you let loose of that rifle and get to your feet with your hands in the air.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I like that,” Hoby said.

“Like what?”

“I like to train folks to do whatever I want. My brothers, the others, they do what I tell 'em even though I'm the youngest because they know if they don't, I'll splatter their brains.”

“You're big on splattering brains.”

“The biggest.”

Fargo set the Henry down and stood with his arms straight up. Part of him wanted to swat the boy's six-shooter and go for his own. He was quicker than most. But something—call it an instinct, a hunch, whatever—warned him that this killer with the laughing eyes might be his match.

“You listen real well,” Hoby complimented him.

“I try.”

“Keep it up and you'll live longer.” Hoby turned his head without taking his blue eyes off Fargo and hollered, “Semple! Granger! The rest of you. Get the hell over here. We've got company.”

There were shouts of surprise and the crash of underbrush, and in no time Fargo was surrounded by six hard cases with drawn six-guns.

“What have we here?” asked one of the older brothers.

“A fella with a girl's name,” Hoby said. “I want you to watch him like a hawk, Granger.” So saying, with dazzling speed he twirled his Colt into his holster.

“Want I should kill him?” Timbre Wilson asked.

“If I did I'd say so.”

“He's with the posse, I bet,” said the brother who must be Semple.

“Figured as much my own self,” Hoby responded.

“What do you want to do with him if you don't want to kill him?” Timbre Wilson asked.

“Bring him along. We'll have coffee while I ponder on it some.”

With the outlaws ringing him, Fargo was escorted out of the trees and over to the fire.

Amanda Brenner had sat up. Her brown hair was disheveled from the riding she'd done but otherwise she appeared unruffled by her ordeal. She hadn't been tied.

“Miss,” Fargo said as he went by.

“Amanda sure is pretty, ain't she?” Hoby Cotton said.

“She has nice ears.”

Hoby cackled and slapped his thigh. “That was a good one, mister. You have a knack for makin' me laugh.”

“What's this about ears?” Granger asked.

“None of your beeswax.” Hoby hunkered and commenced to fill a tin cup and offered it to Fargo. “Here. We don't have anything else but water if you'd rather have that.”

“The coffee will do.” Fargo was studying the others. They were wary of him but showed no inclination to do him harm, except for Timbre Wilson.

“Now then,” Hoby said, cupping a tin cup of his own. “Let's get to it. You're not from Horse Creek. Ain't a soul there wears buckskins. The way you move, how sneaky you are, I'm guessin' you're familiar with Injun ways.”

“I hate redskins,” Timbre Wilson said.

“You hate everybody,” Hoby said.

“I'm a scout,” Fargo revealed. He saw no reason not to.

“I hate scouts,” Timbre Wilson said.

“You're itchin' to do him in, aren't you?” Hoby said.

Timbre Wilson pointed his pistol at Fargo's face. “Just say the word and it's done.”

9

“I already told you no once,” Hoby Cotton said, “and you know how I hate to repeat myself.”

Timbre reluctantly lowered his six-shooter. “It's a mistake to let him go on breathin'.”

“So now I'm dumb, am I?”

“You're the smartest gent I know,” Timbre said. “Don't put words in my head that aren't there.”

“And now you're tellin' me what to do.”

“Damn it, Hoby,” Timber said. “What's gotten into you? Since when do you take a stranger's side against your own pards?”

“I ain't against anybody. I just get tired of you bein' so cantankerous.”

“You want me to leave, I will.”

“No,” Hoby said. “I keep you around because you're the one person in this world who likes to kill even more than me. My brothers only do it when they have to and Abe and Rufus hardly ever at all but you and me are killin' fiends.”

“And damn proud of it,” Timbre said.

Hoby chuckled. “My ma used to say a man should always have somethin' he does that he's proud of.”

“Your ma was a wise gal.”

“She was the best ever,” Hoby said sadly. He took a deep breath and shook himself, and once again his eyes were laughing at the world. “Now then,” he said, fixing them on Fargo, “what to do about you?”

“I vote you let me go on breathing.”

“Your vote don't count. Only mine does.” Hoby sat back. “They must be pretty mad at me in town over robbin' the bank and shootin' big ears.”

“They're in shock, mostly,” Fargo said.

“Who does the marshal have with him besides that useless deputy of his?”

“Some townsmen and some punchers.”

“Hands from the Lazy J?”

Fargo nodded.

“Cowpokes can be reckless. They catch up to us, there might be shootin'.”

Fargo thought that was a ridiculous remark. “They're after you to bring you in.”

“Or kill me,” Hoby said, and chuckled. “You wouldn't believe the low opinion folks in this territory have of me.”

“It must be all that robbing and killing.”

“It's not like I do it every day,” Hoby said. “Sometimes a whole month will go by and I don't rob or kill anybody.'

Over at the spring, Amanda Brenner raised a hand as if she were in school. “Can I come over and join you?”

“No,” Hoby said.

“Please.”

“You promise to behave? Act as you should and not contrary?”

“I promise.”

“Then come ahead. But if you don't keep your word, I'll by-God wallop you,” Hoby warned her.

“You hit women?” Fargo said.

“Only when they deserve it.”

Amanda rose and demurely clasped her hands in front of her, taking small steps. “See? I'm behavin'.”

Hoby's mouth curled in a frown. “If there's anything more aggravatin' than females, I've yet to come across it.”

“Didn't your mother tell you that insulting a lady is bad manners,” Amanda said.

“Don't bring my ma into this. Don't ever bring my ma into anything.”

Amanda tucked her knees and eased down and smiled sweetly at Fargo. “I'm sorry they caught you.”

“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.

“Mr. Cotton, here, was talking to me over by the spring when he caught sight of you.”

“Just my luck.”

“No, just his,” Amanda said. “Mr. Cotton is always lucky that way. Things naturally break right for him.”

“Do they ever,” Hoby said. “But what's this Mr. Cotton business?”

“I'm being polite and formal,” Amanda said, “as a proper lady should be.”

“Hell, you ain't no lady. You must be about the same age as me,” Hoby said. “You're still a girl.”

Amanda's cheeks colored. “Why, Mr. Cotton. Haven't you heard that females age faster than males? And for your information, I'm eighteen. You, I believe, are only fifteen or sixteen. A mere boy.”

Semple Cotton laughed and drew a glare from his younger brother. “I didn't mean nothin',” he said.

“We shouldn't ought to have brought her,” Timbre Wilson broke in. “She slows us down. And now we'll have everyone in creation after us. Decent folks don't like it when their women are abused.”

“What abuse?” Hoby bristled. “I ain't laid a finger on her Highness and you damn well know it.”

“Oh, I like that,” Amanda said. “You should call me Queen Brenner.”

“Will you listen to her?” Hoby said to Fargo. “Tell me I'm right and women are plumb loco.”

“They're something,” Fargo said.

“You men have cause to talk,” Amanda said. “There's not a lick of sense among the whole male gender put together.”

“I could just spank you,” Hoby said.

Amanda tilted her nose in the air and turned to Fargo. “Can you tell me how my father is doing? This ruffian struck him back in the bank.”

“Ruffian, am I?” Hoby said.

“He'll live,” Fargo said.

“Thank God,” Amanda said. “This clodhopper hit him so hard, I was worried he'd split my father's head open.”

“I'm a clodhopper now?” Hoby said.

“You're a great many things.”

“It's like listenin' to chickens cluck,” Timbre Wilson said.

“Stay out of this,” Hoby snapped. “This loco female is playin' games with us. It's what all females do.”

“Why, Mr. Cotton,” Amanda said. “I'm just a poor frightened girl doing her best to stay alive.”

“You're a damned nuisance.”

Amanda uttered a tiny snort and said to Fargo, “If you'll excuse me, I'm going back to the spring. It's clear I'm not wanted here or they wouldn't treat me so rudely.”

“I've been polite as anything,” Hoby said.

Amanda smoothed her dress. “You're a trial on my nerves. I'll go splash water on my face to feel better.”

“Don't you dare try,” Hoby said.

“I can do as I please, thank you very much, Mr. Cotton,” Amanda said, and started to rise.

Lunging, Hoby caught her by the arm. “No means no, consarn you. You can take this ladylike silliness too far.”

“You have no couth, sir.”

“I don't even know what that is.”

“Of course you don't. Now unhand me. Or is it your intention to rape me in front of all these others?”

A look of utter astonishment came over Hoby Cotton. “Where do you get this stuff? I've never raped a gal in my life.”

“Says you.”

“I kill and I rob but I don't ever violate women.”

“Says you,” Amanda said again. “You look like a rapist to me. It's those eyes of yours. Every time you look at me, I can tell that you're thinking you'd like to have your way with me.”

Semple and Granger and Abe Foreman laughed, and Hoby turned beet red.

“Someone find me a stick,” he said.

“You're not taking any switch to me,” Amanda said.

Hoby's blue eyes weren't laughing anymore. “I will by-God beat you black and blue.”

10

Fargo was dumbfounded. For Amanda Brenner to mention rape was downright careless. It was like tossing a haunch of venison in front of starving wolves. “It might help if everyone calmed down.”

“I am perfectly calm, thank you very much,” Amanda said.

“I'm calm, too,” Hoby said angrily, “and I'll shoot any son of a bitch who says I'm not.”

“Manners, please,” Amanda said. “Don't swear in front of a lady.”

“I can only take so much of this,” Timbre Wilson said in disgust, and walked off muttering.

“Are you happy now?” Amanda said to Hoby. “You even upset your friends with your antics.”

“
My
antics?” Hoby practically yelled, and pushed to his feet. “I'm the one needs to splash water, you have me so fired up.” Bunching his fists, he stormed off.

“Isn't he sweet?” Amanda said.

“You're taking an awful chance, riling him,” Fargo told her. The boy was as unpredictable as a rattler.

“I haven't begun to rile,” Amanda replied.

Fargo figured she was too young to know better. She didn't realize she was playing with fire. “If you want to see your father again, you'd best rein in that tongue of yours.”

“I can be mildly tart at times, I suppose,” Amanda said. She looked at Semple. “What do you say? You're his brother. Am I too tart or not tart enough or, like that porridge, am I just right?”

“Don't bring me into it,” Semple said. “It's between him and you.”

“Same here,” Granger said.

“Well, you'd think his own brothers would have his best interests at heart,” Amanda said.

“Our interest is in keepin' him alive,” Semple said. “The rest is up to him.”

“He wouldn't have it any other way,” Granger said.

Amanda stared after Hoby, who had marched to the spring and hunkered. “He's so young. It's hard for me to believe that so many people are so scared of him.”

“Believe it,” Fargo said. He'd met a few natural-born killers in his travels who were just as young or younger. “It's not the age, it's how bloodthirsty they are.”

“Our brother ain't bloodthirsty,” Semple said.

Granger nodded. “Too much blood makes him queasy.”

Rufus Holloway broke his long silence with, “We are some outlaws, ain't we? I might as well be mendin' shoes.”

“Hush up, Rufus,” Granger said.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Amanda Brenner said politely, rising, “I'll go apologize to young Mr. Cotton for angering him.”

“You ought to leave it be,” Semple said.

“Are you telling me what to do?”

“Not in this life,” Semple replied.

Amanda smiled and gave a little curtsy and sashayed toward the spring.

Fargo thought she should stay away from Hoby but he couldn't very well jump up and try to stop her. He was astounded at her grit. Where most women would be in tears, she acted unafraid.

“That gal is trouble,” Rufus said.

“I told you to hush,” Semple reminded him.

The outlaws all looked at Hoby and Amanda, even Granger, who was supposed to be covering Fargo.

Timbre Wilson was over at the horses, going through a saddlebag.

His Henry and Colt, Fargo saw, had been set on the ground near Abe Foreman. He stared at Hoby and the girl as the outlaws were doing to give the impression that escape was the last thing on his mind, and picked up Hoby's tin cup. The coffee wasn't hot but it would have to do. Gripping the cup by the bottom, Fargo started to raise it to his mouth and suddenly flung it in Granger's face. Granger instinctively recoiled. It bought Fargo the split second he needed to spring to his feet. He kicked Granger in the jaw, punched Semple in the mouth, whirled, and grabbed a burning brand.

Abe and Rufus were riveted in disbelief, which Fargo shattered by thrusting the brand at Abe's face. Abe did as Granger had done and jerked back. Fargo sprang past him, flung the brand at Rufus, and scooped up the Henry and the Colt on the fly.

Over at the horses, Timbre Wilson shouted, “Stop him! He's gettin' away, you lunkheads!”

Fargo streaked for the cottonwoods. A revolver boomed and lead whistled past his ear. Weaving, he was almost to cover when another shot, from over by the spring, brought a spike of pain to his shoulder. He didn't stop. He crashed into the brush and broke into a sprint. It galled him to leave Amanda Brenner behind but he had to get out of there while he could.

Behind him the woods crackled and snapped to the outlaws' hurtling forms.

Shoving the Colt into his holster, Fargo gripped the Henry in both hands and ran faster. They'd likely kill him on sight to keep him from informing the posse where they were.

Another shot cracked and a slug struck a bole with a loud thwack.

To discourage them, Fargo twisted and banged off two swift shots at elusive targets. He didn't hit them but they did drop back a bit.

He reached the end of the trees. Ahead was the hill. Expecting at any instant to take lead in the back, he flew with the sun hot on his face and sweat pouring in buckets.

The Ovaro was where he'd left it.

Snagging the reins, Fargo vaulted into the saddle and got out of there. A last shot cracked but it came nowhere near. Then he was around the hill and out of their sight.

He hated to run. But they would be ready for him if he tried to go back for the girl, and he couldn't do her any good dead.

He checked his shoulder. The slug had only creased him. His arm didn't require stitching. He'd bled a little, was all.

Pretty near an hour went by before he spied dust being raised by the posse. They saw him coming and drew rein, apparently figuring he'd do the same. They were mistaken. He rode up, hollered, “I've found them!” and wheeled around again.

“Hold on!” Marshal Coltraine shouted.

Fargo did no such thing. They'd waste more time with him having to explain. He held to a gallop until he saw that the Ovaro could use a breather and slowed to a walk. Only then did the posse catch up.

“Didn't you hear me back there?” Marshal Coltraine demanded.

“I heard.”

“Why didn't you listen?”

“The Brenner girl is alive and unhurt,” Fargo told him, “and I'd like to keep her that way.”

“How much farther?”

“A couple of miles yet.”

Deputy Wilkins came up on the other side. “Her pa will be happy to hear they haven't touched her.”

“How close did you get?” the marshal wanted to know.

“Close,” Fargo said.

“Do they have the money with them?” This from Wilkins.

“I didn't ask.”

Marshal Coltraine said, “That was a damned silly question.”

“You never know,” Deputy Wilkins said. “Some outlaws bury their loot and come back for it after they've gotten away.”

“These wouldn't,” Coltraine said.

“Did you see Hoby Cotton?” Deputy Wilkins asked.

“I did.”

“You should have shot him. He's the brains of that bunch, from what we hear. With him dead the others might go elsewhere.”

“You didn't, did you?” Coltraine said in alarm to Fargo. “Shoot him, I mean?”

“No.”

“Thank God. If you'd killed him, his friends might do Amanda in out of spite.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Deputy Wilkins said.

“That's your trouble,” Coltraine said. “You don't think things through.”

“I think good enough to know that if we don't rescue that poor girl,” Deputy Wilkins said, “she's as good as dead, anyway.”