Free Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page B

probably scared of your Dragoon.”
    â€œMind your elders, buckskin,” Esther said. “And he should be scared. I find out who did this, I will put a bullet between their eyes.”
    â€œYou should head back down once you’re up to it,” Fargo advised.
    â€œWhat in hell for?”
    â€œYou’ve been shot.”
    â€œNo one knows that better than me, you lunkhead. But I repeat: What in hell for?”
    â€œSo you won’t be shot again.”
    â€œJust because I have wrinkles doesn’t make me stupid. From here on out I don’t put myself in a position to be shot.”
    Fargo thought of the two tries on his life by Rance Hollister. “You never know.”
    â€œHell, that can be said about anything in life. I have never been timid and I won’t start now.”
    â€œIf you get yourself killed, don’t expect me to shed any tears.”
    â€œA smart-mouth like you?” Esther retorted. “Besides, we hardly know each other. All you know about me is that I’m old and grumpy—”
    â€œAnd had a husband named Charlie.”
    â€œâ€”and all I know about you is that you’re damned good-looking and you make cow eyes at every pretty filly you see.”
    â€œI do not.”
    Esther snorted. “I saw you with that gal with the parasol down to Tyler’s. You damn near drooled over her.”
    â€œYou need your eyes checked, old woman.”
    â€œAnd you need to keep yours in the back of your head, young man. Because as sure as shooting, whoever killed poor Humphries and tried to do the same to me will get around to putting lead into you.”

22
    Fargo stayed with Esther another hour. He was willing to stay longer. He liked the feisty gray-haired hen. But she shooed him off, saying she didn’t want him sitting there staring at her. She’d recovered enough that he knew she could manage.
    Once in the saddle, Fargo searched the forest to the west. He was looking for some sign of the shooter. He spent another hour at it and found no tracks, no trace, nothing.
    He headed northwest again, on the lookout for a sign of Thunderhead. He couldn’t imagine what had brought the bull up into the high country other than the contrary natures bulls were noted for.
    A switchback brought him to a tableland rich with grass sprinkled by islands of trees. The bull would have plenty of graze but he found no evidence it had been there.
    A glimmer of blue drew him to a spring at the far end. Cottonwoods shimmered in the sunlight and a dragonfly flitted about.
    Dismounting, he let the Ovaro drink. A handy log looked inviting. No sooner did he sit, though, than who should come traipsing out of the cottonwoods but the three redheaded boys. Each held a squirrel rifle but made no attempt to bring it to bear. Their homespun clothes showed a lot of wear. Their pants had holes in them. Their shoes looked ready to fall apart. Their faces were grimy with dirt and their hair was cut so unevenly and poorly, it was obvious they did the cutting themselves.
    â€œHowdy, mister,” said the first and tallest.
    â€œWhat do we have here?” Fargo said.
    â€œYou have the Johnsons,” the tallest boy said. “I’m Solomon but mostly I answer to Sol. My middle brother here is Seth. And the youngest is Jared.”
    â€œWhere are your folks?” Fargo asked.
    â€œDead,” Sol answered. “Some four years now.”
    â€œWe make do on our own,” Seth declared.
    â€œYep,” Jared said.
    They set the stocks of their squirrel rifles on the ground and leaned on the barrels. All three had blue eyes and pug noses and oval chins. All three looked about as formidable as chipmunks.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be here,” Fargo said.
    â€œWe have the same right to go after the bull as anybody,” Sol said.
    â€œThis is no place for amateurs.”
    â€œWe’re pint-sized but we have bark on us,” Seth said. “Anyone