Free Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page A

guard. A .44-caliber, it packed a considerable wallop.
    â€œIt wasn’t me,” Fargo said. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have finished you off instead of riding up to see if you were all right.”
    Esther swayed and steadied herself and shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose you would at that. God, it hurts.” She blinked furiously, and only then did Fargo realize she couldn’t see for all the blood in her eyes.
    â€œEsther, you need to let me help you.”
    â€œI’d just gotten up,” she said. “The shot came out of nowhere.” She slowly lowered the Colt and eased down the hammer. “Hell,” she said and collapsed.
    In a bound Fargo caught her. As small and frail-seeming as she was, she weighed no more than a feather. Scooping her into his arms, he held on to the Ovaro’s reins and retraced her steps up the mountain.
    She had made camp in a small clearing. Her fire still crackled, and her horse and pack animal were still picketed. Splatters of blood near the fire showed where she had been when she was shot.
    Fargo eased her down. The wound wasn’t severe enough to be fatal unless it became infected. She had a water bag and he filled her coffeepot and put the water on to boil.
    In her pack he found a towel, which he cut into strips with the Arkansas toothpick.
    The whole time he worked, Fargo kept one eye on the surrounding timber. Whoever tried to splatter her brains might be lurking out there.
    Once the water was warm, Fargo washed the blood from her face and cleaned the wound. He wrapped a strip around her head and was tying it when her eyes fluttered open and she looked dazedly about.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Fargo said. “You’re safe.”
    Alertness returned, and Esther reached up and touched the bandage. “Like hell. But I thank you.” She went to sit up and he pressed on her shoulder to keep her down.
    â€œRest a while yet. You’re still woozy.”
    â€œDamned scalawag,” Esther muttered.
    â€œIs that your notion of thanks?”
    â€œNot you,” Esther said. “The son of a bitch who shot me.”
    â€œEither he’s a poor shot or you turned your head as he squeezed the trigger,” Fargo said.
    â€œThe shot came from yonder,” Esther said, pointing to the west. “It knocked me flat and I was bleeding something awful. I crawled into the trees and don’t remember much after that.”
    â€œI found you wandering.”
    â€œNo sign of anyone else?”
    Fargo told her about finding Humphries and meeting up with the Richmonds. “They’re the only ones I’ve seen besides you.”
    â€œIt couldn’t have been one of them who shot me, then, since they were with you.” Esther winced and closed her eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you? First that farmer, now me.”
    Fargo had already realized the obvious. “Someone is out to kill the bull hunters.”
    â€œThe bastard wants to be sure he collects the bounty.”
    â€œYou sure have a mouth on you.” Fargo tried to make light of the situation.
    â€œI’ve had my head creased with lead and it hurts like hell,” Esther rejoined. “Excuse me for being a grump, you silly jackass.”
    Fargo laughed. “Is there anything I can get you?”
    â€œSome coffee would be nice. I was about to put some on when I was shot.”
    Fargo busied himself, again with an eye to the forest. He also watched the Ovaro. The stallion would warn him if it caught the scent of anyone skulking about or heard something.
    â€œThis is a fine how-do-you-do,” Esther said bitterly. “There were several other women besides me, and those three redheaded sprouts with their squirrel rifles.”
    Fargo had forgotten about the kids.
    â€œWhoever it is who shot me is a miserable coward,” Esther said. “Shooting an old gal like me from ambush.”
    â€œHe was