The Trailsman 317 (12 page)

It was Devil.

Fargo had not expected the hound to come after them. It had to be Cyst's doing. The dog had kept pace with them along the shore, and now there it crouched, snapping and gnashing its teeth. He dropped his right hand to his Colt but his waterlogged buckskins slowed his draw. As he gripped the revolver, Devil sprang.

Morning Dove cried his name.

Fargo got his other hand up in time to catch the hound by the thick folds of its throat as it slammed into him. Devil was big and bony and weighed over a hundred pounds. The impact sent Fargo tottering back. He slipped on the slick river bottom, and the next thing he knew, he was underwater with a ferocious dog on top of him, doing its utmost to clamp its teeth on his jugular.

Getting his other hand on Devil's throat, Fargo kicked upward. He succeeded in reaching the surface and gulped precious air but almost immediately the struggling hound drove him under again. Under, and backward. Fargo was dimly aware of the current tugging at them, but being swept away was the least of his worries. He must concentrate on staying alive.

The hound was so wet and slippery, Fargo could hardly hold on. Gnashing teeth missed his neck by a hair. Claws raked his chest. Twisting, Fargo sought to fling the hound from him but Devil surged at him anew, biting in a frenzy. Again and again Fargo avoided those formidable fangs. Then the unforeseen reared its unwanted head. Fargo slipped, and the dog's teeth sheared into his shoulder.

Fargo tore free. His lungs were fit to burst. He thrust both legs against the dog's hairy chest, pushing Devil away. Then he stroked for the surface. He gulped air and glanced about, trying to determine where he was in relation to everything else. With a start he discovered he was near the middle of the river. The current had him in its grip and was sweeping him along as if he were a twig. He promptly struck out for shore, but as he did, something collided with his side.

Devil was back.

Fargo got an arm around the dog's neck. Tightening his hold, he took a deep breath and went under, pulling the hound with him. They tumbled this way and that, Devil resisting in a fury. Several times his teeth almost found Fargo's flesh.

Gradually, the dog's movement weakened. Fargo's chest was on fire but he locked his jaw muscles and refused to heed his body's demand for air. He stayed under until Devil stopped thrashing and snapping and went limp in his arms.

Releasing his hold, Fargo cast the dog from him and kicked for the surface. He swallowed some water but he made it. Seldom had the simple act of breathing felt so good. He drew each breath in a great racking gasp. Exhausted and sore all over, his chest and shoulder throbbing, he turned and began swimming. It seemed to take forever but at long last his feet brushed bottom. He staggered toward the bank, then stumbled when the bottom fell out from under him. Quickly recovering, he swam a few feet and found footing again. Nearly spent, he staggered up out of the river and collapsed on a grassy slope.

If Skagg's cutthroats found him, he was a goner. His arms and legs were dead weight. He could scarcely crook a finger. His eyes closed but he snapped them open again. He must fight the impulse to sleep.

How long Fargo lay there, he was unsure, when suddenly footsteps pattered out of the dark, coming toward him. With a grunt he heaved onto his side and clawed for the Colt, hoping against hope it was still in his holster. It was, but he did not draw.

“You are alive!” Warm hands gripped his face and warm breath fanned his cheek as Morning Dove cradled his head in her lap. “I thought you would not live.”

Fargo grinned. “Nice to know you care.”

“Let me see you,” Morning Dove said. Her fingers delicately probed his shoulder. “The bite is not deep but you must be in a lot of pain.” She bent over his chest. “What are these? Claw marks?”

“Either that or a fish was nibbling on me.”

“How can you make light at a time like this?” Morning Dove asked. “I was frantic with worry.”

“Were you, now?” Fargo teased. “Keep this up, and after I am done with Skagg and his boys, I might let you take me to your lodge and doctor me a spell.”

“I might like that,” Morning Dove said quietly. “I might like that very much.”

Fargo slowly sat up. “Where are we?” he asked.

“In the middle of nowhere, as you whites would say.”

The current had carried them miles from Skagg's Landing. They had a long hike back up the mountain ahead of them unless they could get their hands on horses.

“I have another plan,” Fargo said, and grinned.

Morning Dove laughed.

“The man who owned that dog will be along soon with his pard,” Fargo guessed. “We must be ready for them.”

“Are you in shape for a fight?”

“I was figuring you could question them to death,” Fargo said.

Morning Dove started to laugh some more, then abruptly fell silent, and half rose. “Listen!”

Fargo had heard it, too, the drum of hooves to the west, approaching swiftly. Clasping her hand, he rose and moved toward the trees. His buckskins made squishing sounds, and the wind on his face and hair felt cold. He reached up, and scowled. His hat was gone.

“Looking for this?” Morning Dove asked, and held it out to him.

“How—?” Fargo began.

“It fell off when the dog attacked you. I thought you might want it, and I grabbed it before it could float away.”

“I am obliged.” Without his hat Fargo felt only half dressed. He jammed it back on. “Save a man's hat and he is yours to do with as you please.”

“Oh really?”

“It's another white saying,” Fargo said. “I am surprised Chester Landry never told you.”

“There is another saying I remember,” Morning Dove said. “Something having to do with being full of it.”

The crashing grew louder. Fargo ducked behind a spruce and pulled her down beside him, then molded the Colt to his hand.

A horse snorted. Out of the brush came Cyst and Welt. They drew rein and Cyst rose in the stirrups, swearing luridly.

“No sign of them! If that bastard has hurt my dog, I will gut him and make him eat his own innards.”

“That I would like to see,” Welt said.

Cyst cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Devil! Here, boy! Come here!” He listened for a howl or a bark that would never come. “Damn Skagg, anyway.”

“Skagg?” Welt repeated. “Why are you mad at him? Fargo is the one we are after.”

“At Skagg's bidding,” Cyst snapped.

“So? He is our friend and he asked for our help. And he is paying us, isn't he?”

“Malachi Skagg is no one's friend but his own,” Cyst said. “And he did not give us money. He offered us shares in his brainstorm. Like an idiot, I agreed. But I shouldn't have.”

“You heard what he said,” Welt said. “He stands to be a rich man. Our shares will be worth a lot. Thousands, he claimed.”

“Only an idiot would believe in his fairy tale,” Cyst said. “Oh, sure, maybe in two hundred years, when there are a lot more people, our shares will be worth something. But all they are now is so much hot air.”

“It might not be that long,” Welt said. “I heard a man in Denver say that in fifty years the Rockies will be overrun with settlers.”

“Why am I sitting here having this stupid argument when my dog is missing?” Cyst scanned the river. “Come on. We will find him, then keep on going. Let Skagg stomp his own snakes.”

“He won't like it.”

“Ask me if I give a damn.” Cyst went to gig his horse.

In two bounds Fargo was in the open, his Colt extended. “Hold it right there.”

Cyst imitated a statue but Welt stabbed for his six-shooter. Fargo fired twice, thumbing back the hammer and squeezing the trigger so fast, the two shots were as one. Welt reacted as if he had been kicked in the chest. Clutching himself, the whites of his eyes showing his astonishment, he oozed from the saddle like so much wax.

Fargo wagged his Colt at Cyst. “You always were the smart one.”

“Where is my dog?”

“Wherever the river carried its body.”

Cyst's scowl was a slash in the darkness. “I will neither forgive nor forget. Until the day you die, I am your mortal enemy.”

“Blame yourself,” Fargo said. “You sent him after me.” He thumbed back the hammer. “Now it is your turn. Go for your gun.”

Cyst slowly held his arms out from his sides. “I'm not loco. You won't shoot so long as I just sit here.”

The hell of it was, the man was right. Fargo's trigger finger twitched but he did not squeeze.

“I have heard about you, Fargo,” Cyst went on. “I know you never kill in cold blood. You are not like Malachi Skagg. Or me.”

“Climb down,” Fargo directed.

“Sure, sure,” Cyst said, smirking. He slowly dismounted, exaggerating each movement to show he would not try anything. Straightening, he raised his hands in the air. “What now? Are you fixing to tie me up?”

“Undo your gun belt.”

“Whatever you want.” Continuing to smirk, Cyst lowered one arm and pried at the buckle until it came undone, then let the belt and holster fall. “There. I am as agreeable as can be when someone is pointing a pistol at me.”

“Turn around,” Fargo said.

“Turning,” Cyst mocked him, and did, his hands aloft. “I'm not the least bit worried. You don't have it in you to gun an unarmed man in the back.”

“Walk straight ahead until I tell you to stop.”

“Walking,” Cyst said, and sauntered forward until he was almost to the water's edge.

“That is far enough for the moment.”

Cyst stopped, and chuckled. “Go ahead. Take our horses. But don't think you have seen the last of me.” He paused. “It is better this way, now that I think about it. You will always be looking over your shoulder, never knowing when I will show up to pay you back for Devil.”

“You were attached to that dog, weren't you?”

Cyst's smug attitude was replaced by anger. “I raised him from a pup. I taught him to hunt, taught him to kill. Not just game, but people too. And he took to it like a duck to water.”

“Speaking of which,” Fargo said.

“Which what?” Cyst asked in confusion.

“Water. Your dog went for a swim. Now it is your turn. Keep going. Walk right into the river.”

“The hell I will.”

“The hell you won't.”

A note of panic crept into Cyst's voice. “You don't understand. I can't. If I do it will be the death of me.”

“If you don't I will shoot you in the shoulder in the exact spot where your dog bit me.”

Cyst glanced back. “You know, don't you?”

“Like you say, we hear things,” Fargo said. “You heard somewhere that I don't kill in cold blood. I heard somewhere that you are afraid of water.”

“I can't swim.”

Fargo did not say anything.

“Aren't your ears working? I can't swim. If you make me go into the river, it will be the same as killing me in cold blood. And you don't do that, remember?”

“I don't
shoot
people in cold blood,” Fargo amended.

“Hold on!” Cyst exclaimed. “You are quibbling over my life. Whether you do it with lead or do it with water, it is all the same. I will be dead and you will be to blame.”

“If you drown it will be your doing, not mine.” Fargo took a step. “In you go.”

“No.”

“Stand still, then, so you don't spoil my shot.” Fargo took deliberate aim at the other's shoulder.

“Wait!” Cyst practically screeched. “If you shoot me I might bleed to death, or come down with lead poisoning.”

“Could well be,” Fargo allowed. Both occurred frequently on the frontier. “It is either that or learn to swim. Make up your mind. I don't have all night.”

“You bastard. You miserable bastard.”

“I will count to five and then I will shoot,” Fargo said, and commenced right in with, “One, two, three, four—”

“Stop!” Cyst bleated. Cursing viciously, he slid his right foot into the river up to his ankle. “Damn, it is cold! How far in do you expect me to go, anyhow?”

“Keep wading in. I will tell you when to stop.”

Cyst placed his other foot in the water. “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“You should be all right provided you don't fall into a sinkhole,” Fargo told him.

Fear contorting his countenance, Cyst whined, “You can't do this! I won't stand a prayer if I go under!”

“You stand more of a chance than I did against your dog,” Fargo said. “The river isn't trying to rip your throat out or claw you to pieces.”