Free Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe

to have your company,” Aramone said to Fargo. “My brother isn’t much of a conversationalist, I’m afraid.”
    Neither was Fargo. “We’ll be parting ways.”
    â€œWhat?” Aramone looked hurt. “We should stick together for our mutual protection.”
    â€œI don’t need protecting,” Fargo said. And he could cover more ground alone.
    â€œI must say I’m surprised at your attitude,” Aramone said.
    â€œI’m not,” Glyn said. “It’s the money. He doesn’t want us with him if we come on the bull because he doesn’t care to share it.”
    â€œIs that how it is?” Aramone asked. “You’re just as greedy as everyone else?”
    â€œThink what you want,” Fargo said.
    â€œI think I’d like some eggs,” Glyn said.
    They’d brought some, pressed into the flour so the shells would be less likely to break. Aramone plucked them out and her brother broke them over a frying pan. They also had bacon.
    â€œCare for some?” Aramone asked Fargo. “To show there are no hard feelings?”
    â€œWhy would there be?” Fargo rejoined. He had to admit, the aroma of the sizzling bacon made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.
    He almost changed his mind about going his own way. With food like that, and Aramone to treat himself to at night, he was giving up some prime pleasures. But as soon as they were saddled, he reined to the northwest, saying, “Keep your eyes skinned.”
    â€œBe careful, handsome,” Aramone called after him.
    â€œEnough with him,” Glyn said, sounding annoyed. “We have a bull to find.”
    So did Fargo. The sooner he picked up Thunderhead’s trail, the sooner he could claim the five thousand and be shed of the whole mess.
    The trappers had seen Thunderhead about ten miles from the Tyler ranch. Fargo reckoned he had two or three miles to go yet before he would be in the vicinity.
    To the east the sun blazed the sky as overhead a few cumulus clouds drifted. Sparrows flitted in the brush, a squirrel scampered in the high branches and several deer watched him from a distance.
    Fargo breathed deep and smiled. He’d take this any day over the bustle and stink of a town. Then again, up here he couldn’t sit in on a game of poker or bed a dove or wet his throat with whiskey unless he brought a bottle.
    He was thinking that his ideal place would be a town far up in the mountains where he could enjoy the best of both worlds when movement snapped his gaze to a two-legged figure a quarter-mile higher.
    Whoever it was, they were shambling along as if they were drunk. They weaved. They staggered. They were in the shadow of timber and he couldn’t make out much until they stumbled into the open.
    Fargo gave a start.
    The figure wore a dress.
    A jab of his spurs brought the stallion to a trot. He climbed half the distance before he recognized who it was, and then he rode faster.
    She was barely able to stay on her feet. Stumbling, she almost fell. The heavy Colt Dragoon in her hand didn’t help her balance any.
    She didn’t seem to notice him, not even when he drew rein not ten feet from her.
    â€œEsther?” Fargo said.
    The old woman’s eyes were half shut and she had blood smeared over most of her face. She had been shot in the head, just below the hairline. A crease, it looked like, and it had bled fierce.
    â€œEsther?” Fargo said again, alighting.
    Esther blinked and jerked her head up. “Who’s there?” she demanded, weakly raising the Dragoon in both hands.
    â€œSkye Fargo. You met me at the Tyler’s, remember?”
    Esther pointed her hand-cannon in his direction. “Was it you who shot me?”
    â€œSure wasn’t,” Fargo said.
    â€œI don’t believe you,” Esther said and cocked the Dragoon.

21
    Her Colt Dragoon was an older model. Fargo could tell by the cylinder notches and the trigger