Free Range War (9781101559215) by C. J. Cherryh Page B

late.
    Their rifles boomed and a cowboy swayed in the saddle. Instantly the rest grabbed for their six-shooters and Griff Wexler bawled for them to hunt cover.
    Three of the cowboys reined in the same direction Fargo had gone. They saw him—and opened fire.
    Fargo got out of there. It wouldn’t do any good to try to explain that he wasn’t part of this. Leaden hornets buzzed his head as he slapped his legs.
    The three came after him.
    Fargo was furious. Furious at himself, not at the cowboys. This was what he got for trying to play peacemaker. He should have lit a shuck days ago.
    A shot nicked his hat.
    Bending low over the saddle horn, Fargo flew for his life. He cursed all sheep and those who tended them and all cows and those who rode herd.
    Behind him more rifles and pistols blasted.
    The cowboys had opened up on the sheepherders.
    Yet another slug chipped a tree as Fargo plunged into the woods. He climbed a dozen yards and reined around, drawing the Colt as he turned.
    The three punchers burst in after him and one jerked his pistol up.
    Fargo shot him. He aimed at the man’s shoulder but the man shifted just as he squeezed the trigger and he was sure the slug hit lower. “Drop your hardware!” he bellowed at the other two.
    Instead of obeying one veered to the right and the other to the left.
    Fargo swung behind an oak. It wasn’t much cover but he hoped it would cause them to break away and hunt cover of their own.
    It didn’t.
    Yipping like Apaches, the two Texans closed on him, their six-guns blazing.

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    Slivers exploded from the oak and several stung Fargo’s face. He aimed at the rider on the right, and fired. This time he didn’t try for the shoulder; he shot dead-center and the man’s arms flew back and his legs flew up and he tumbled over the back of his saddle.
    A slug clipped a whang on Fargo’s buckskins.
    The other cowboy was almost on him. Swiveling, he stroked the trigger. The cowboy twisted to the impact, recovered, and brought his six-shooter to bear.
    Fargo shot him in the head. The cowboy’s hat went flying, as did a goodly portion of his hair and brains. His body fell hard and the dun galloped past the Ovaro and off into the forest.
    Mad as hell, Fargo climbed the mountain to a flat knob.
    The valley was quiet now, the valley floor still. A horse stood by itself in the grass. Nearby lay a prone figure but Fargo couldn’t tell who it was. To the north a lone rider was fleeing.
    Fargo reloaded. He had a choice to make. He could ride north, too, even though this wasn’t his fight, or he could circle to the south and be shed of Hermanos Valley.
    Fargo frowned. When he’d offered to hunt the Hound, he had no intention of becoming involved in a range war. If he went north he would be, whether he wanted to or not.
    â€œDamn,” he said, and reined north.
    The fleeing rider covered three miles before his horse gave out. The animal was lathered with sweat and stumbling when Fargo emerged from the timber. The man on the horse was swearing and kicking it and didn’t hear him come up.
    â€œIt would be you,” Fargo said.
    Carlos jerked his head up. “You!” he exclaimed. “I saw you run off, coward.”
    Fargo came alongside the exhausted bay. “Because of you I had to kill two cowpokes.”
    â€œYou did? That is excellent.”
    â€œNot for them,” Fargo said, and backhanded him across the face. He didn’t hold back. He used his fist and slammed it hard.
    Carlos squawked as he pitched from the saddle. He landed on his shoulder and lost his hold on his rifle. With a cry of rage he pumped to his hands and knees and scrambled to retrieve it.
    Fargo was already off the Ovaro. He took two steps and kicked Carlos in the side. The blow flipped him onto his back and he lay clutching himself and swearing.
    â€œWhy did you do that?”
    â€œI’ll say it again,” Fargo said. “I had to kill two