The Trailsman 317 (6 page)

Fargo was about to stand when he saw one of Skagg's men stiffen, and the man's eyes go wide with surprise. The man was gazing past them. Glancing over his shoulder, Fargo saw only the night-shrouded woods.

Then a bowstring twanged, and out of the forest sped a feathered shaft—straight at Mabel Landry's back.

Fargo's reflexes were second to none. He leaped even as he saw the arrow, and tackled Mabel. As quick as he was, she had only started to buckle when the arrow streaked past her head, missing her ear by the width of a fingernail.

The shaft embedded itself in Malachi Skagg.

“Untillas!” the man whose eyes had widened shouted, and he and his three companions unleashed a leaden firestorm on the forest.

Mabel had no idea why Fargo had brought her down. She had not seen the arrow strike Skagg. Twisting, she pushed against him, demanding, “What on earth?”

“Stay down.” Fargo could not see the warrior who'd let the shaft fly, and he doubted Skagg's men did, either. They were firing blind, out of panic.

Amazingly, the one person who was calm and composed was Malachi Skagg, and he had the feathered end of an arrow sticking out of his side and the barbed tip jutting from his back. Skagg had to be in extreme pain but he did not show it. Gripping the arrow, he moved it slightly, as if to gauge whether he should pull it out. “Stop shooting!” he bellowed.

The frightened foursome complied.

The man whose eyes had widened ran to Skagg, saying, “How bad is it? What can we do?” He was lean but muscular, with a thick mustache although hardly any beard.

“Keep an eye on the woods, Keller.” Skagg drew one of his knives and cut his buckskin shirt where the arrow had gone through. Grunting, he remarked, “I think it glanced off a rib. I would be a goner if it hadn't.”

“The damn Untillas!” Keller snapped. “This makes the third time they have let loose an arrow on us.”

“It is me they are after—” Skagg began. Catching himself, he glanced sharply at Fargo and Mabel.

The other three riflemen had fanned out and moved to the edge of the clearing. One of them asked, “Should we go after the red bastard?”

“What good would it do, Hemp?” Skagg responded. “He is long gone by now, and you can't track him in the dark.”

Fargo rose and helped Mabel up. She brushed at her clothes, then turned to Malachi Skagg.

“I can get that out for you if you want. I have doctored a few hurt people over the years.”

Skagg was as surprised as Fargo. “That is all right. I know what to do, lady.” Reaching behind him, he gripped the barbed end of the shaft and broke the tip off as easily as Fargo might break a dry twig, then held the bloody barb near to the fire to inspect it. “It is a good thing the Untillas don't poison their arrows like some tribes do.”

“Why are they out to get you?” Mabel asked.

“They don't like whites, is all.” Skagg cast the tip to the ground. Then he gripped the feathered end, and slowly pulled the arrow out. Along with it came blood but the flow quickly dwindled to a trickle. “Hurts a mite,” he grunted.

“You handle pain remarkably well,” Mabel said.

Skagg gave her a pointed look, his brow knit as if he were puzzled. “A little nick like this is nothing to get upset about.” He threw the arrow down and pressed his hand to his side. “But I thank you for your concern.”

“It is nice to know you can be a gentleman when you try.”

Skagg was turning to go but he stopped and said gruffly, “Don't make me out to be something I am not. I am no damn gentleman. I am not an animal, either, although Fargo, there, might think so.” He waited for Fargo to comment, then scowled and marched off, barking, “Let's go! I need to have Tamar bandage me up.”

“A strange man,” Mabel Landry said.

“A killer,” Fargo stressed. He scoured the woods. “Maybe we should pack up and go to the trading post.”

“Whatever for?”

Fargo nudged the feathered half of the bloody arrow with his boot. “The Untillas might come back.”

“They didn't harm me when they took my hairbrush.”

“Those were women,” Fargo pointed out.

“So you think we are in danger?”

Fargo honestly didn't know. To the best of his knowledge, the Untillas were not on the warpath. But why would the Untillas want to kill Skagg, their sole source of trade goods? There was a mystery here.

“I would as soon stay put,” Mabel was saying. “The Indians did not bother us until Skagg showed up.”

“All right,” Fargo said. They were in as much danger from Skagg, if not more, than they were from the Untillas. “But move your blankets closer to mine, and sleep with your revolver in your hand.”

“There is something you should know. I have never shot anyone, and I doubt that I ever could.”

“You are not taking this seriously enough,” was Fargo's opinion.

“On the contrary,” Mabel assured him. “But I know my limitations. I am counting on you to protect me, should it come to that.”

Wonderful, Fargo thought. She would be next to useless if they were attacked. Hunkering, he added fuel to the fire so the flames blazed brighter than he normally would let them, casting their glow well into the timber. It should keep the Untillas away, he reckoned.

Mabel busied herself doing as he wanted. “I must say,” she commented as she slid her saddle over, “this is turning into quite an adventure. If only Chester is still alive.”

“It is looking less and less likely that he is,” Fargo said without thinking.

“What a cruel thing to say. Just because no one has seen him in a while does not mean he is dead.”

Fargo almost said that she was grasping at a straw, but he held his tongue. “We should learn more when we reach his cabin.”

“I can't wait! I have missed Chester so much. He is the only sibling I have.” Mabel arranged her blankets so that they overlapped his. Sinking down, she lay on her back, her head propped on her saddle, her hands behind her head. The soft material of her blouse molded to the contours of her ample bosom, outlining her breasts.

Fargo felt a familiar constriction in his throat, and looked away. She was mighty attractive, this Mabel Landry. But now was hardly the right time or place. Sitting cross-legged, he placed the Henry across his lap. “You can go to sleep any time you want.”

“What about you?”

“One of us needs to keep watch.”

“That is hardly fair,” Mabel said. “I will spell you in the middle of the night. Wake me.”

Fargo disliked trusting his life to greenhorns. She rolled onto her side, and those long, willowy legs of hers, so close to his, stirred notions better left alone. To take his mind off them, he refilled his tin cup to the brim and sat sipping coffee and going over everything that had happened since she hired him. There were so many unanswered questions. What had happened to Chester Landry? What were the Untillas about? Where had Cyst and Welt gotten to? And when and where would Malachi Skagg make his move?

Another question occurred to him. Could they trust Binder? The man appeared to be sincere about leading them to Chester's cabin, but what if the whole thing was a ruse cooked up by Skagg?

Off in the woods an owl hooted. Fargo listened intently but it was not repeated. It had sounded like a real owl, but some Indians were so skilled at imitating bird cries, it was hard to tell the real from the fake. Shifting, he studied the timber.

Time dragged. Fargo finished the cup and poured another. By the position of the North Star it was close to midnight. Mabel snored lightly in peaceful repose. He smothered a yawn, set down the cup, and stretched. Some sleep would be nice but he had to stay awake.

Suddenly a twig snapped. Throwing himself to one side, Fargo wedged the Henry to his shoulder.

Binder stood at the clearing's edge, his arms over his head to show he meant no harm. “It's just me!”

Wary of a trick, Fargo looked for others but saw none. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“You don't trust anyone, do you?” Binder came over. The scarred and mottled skin where hair had once been lent him a grisly aspect. “I am in a powerful fix, and that's no lie.”

“Where have you been all this while?”

“Off in the woods. I was too scared to move for fear the Untillas would spot me.”

“Are they still out there?”

“I only saw the one who put that arrow in Skagg. He ran off, but where there is one there are usually others, and I have no hankering to be skinned alive.”

“They hate whites that much?”

“They hate Skagg,” Binder said, “and anyone who works for him.” He glanced nervously about. “Can I lower my hands now?”

Fargo nodded. “Have a seat.” He kept the Henry trained on him.

“I should never have offered to help you,” Binder said, running a hand across the scarred skin on his head.

A sudden insight prompted Fargo to ask, “Who tried to scalp you?”

“The Untillas. Which is why I want to head for Denver. But no one quits Malachi Skagg unless he lets them and he isn't about to let me.”

“Why?”

Binder ignored the question. “I can't head to Denver without money, and I am broke. Which is why I need the hundred dollars. But someone must have seen me slip away from the trading post and told Skagg, and he figured out what I was up to. He will turn me into worm food if he gets his hands on me.”

“Do you have a horse?”

“At the trading post.” Binder spied Mabel's empty cup and snatched it up. “Do you mind if I help myself?”

“The coffee will have to wait,” Fargo said, coming to a sudden decision. Bending, he shook Mabel's shoulder until she mumbled and stirred and finally sat up. She blinked in confusion, then saw Binder.

“Where did he come from? What have I missed?”

“We are not waiting for morning,” Fargo revealed. “Gather up your things and saddle your horse. We will leave as soon as Binder and I get back.”

Binder glanced in the direction of the trading post, and paled. “No, no, no. Skagg will have men watching my animal. We will only get ourselves shot.”

“You are not riding double with us,” Fargo said.

“Damn it all,” Binder grumbled. “Why can't things ever be easy?”

“Mind explaining to me?” Mabel requested.

Fargo did, concluding with, “I don't like to leave you by yourself. You're to keep your revolver handy, and if the Untillas show up, scream your lungs out.”

Binder was nervously fidgeting. “Why don't we wait until daylight? I can't see in the dark.”

“Neither can your friends. It is better now. Skagg and the others will be asleep.”

“That is what you think. They like to stay up late drinking and having fun with the women.”

Fargo wagged the Henry. “Lead the way.”

“I am sorry I ever made the offer,” Binder bellyached. “Your pigheadedness will get us killed.”

The woods were black as pitch. There was no moon, and what little starlight penetrated to the forest floor did not relieve the gloom. Fargo made no more noise than an Apache but Binder rustled brush and stepped on twigs and once blundered smack into the trunk of a tree.

“You must have eyes like a cat,” he grumbled.

“Take your time. Feel your way with your hands,” Fargo advised.

“What do you think I have been doing?” Binder swore. “I have half a mind to say forget it and take my chances with Skagg. I will tell him I had a change of heart and beg him to let me live.”

“He does not strike me as the forgiving sort,” Fargo observed.

“He sure as hell isn't,” Binder agreed.

There was no more talk of changing his mind.

The cabins and lean-tos and tents were all dark but light glowed in the trading post window. Through the burlap that covered it came rowdy voices and lusty mirth. Some of the voices were female.

“What did I tell you?” Binder said.

“Where is your horse?”

Binder peered at the hitch rail, and swore some more. “Someone has taken it. Skagg, most likely.” He scanned the Landing from end to end. “I bet he has it hid.”

There was no stable or barn. The only place to hide a horse was behind one of the buildings, or off in the trees.

“Stick with me,” Fargo said, and circled until he had a clear view of the rear of the trading post. A horse was picketed close to the back door. “Would that be yours?”

“It would,” Binder said, brightening. “But there has to be a lookout.”

The very next moment, two men stepped from the shadows near the horse and looked about them. One was puffing on a pipe. Both bristled with rifles and revolvers and knives.

“What did I tell you, mister?” Binder whispered. “Now we can forget your loco notion, right?”

“Wrong. There are only two of them.”

“It only takes one bullet,” Binder said. “I am not taking another step and that is final.”

“No horse, no hundred dollars, no Denver,” Fargo told him.

“Just so you know, I hate you.”