Free Texas Timber War by Jon Sharpe Page B

somebody yelled, ‘‘Hey!’’ and he twisted around to see a big bruiser he recognized as Nick Dirkson. Dirkson was carrying an ax, and with a snarl of hate, he threw it at Fargo.
    Loggers practiced such moves; they even had ax-throwing competitions in their leisure time. So the double-bitted ax flew through the air at the Trailsman with deadly speed and accuracy. If not for Fargo’s own lightning-quick reflexes, the blade probably would have split his head open. As it was, he flung himself out of the way just in time. The rapidly revolving ax whirred past him.
    Rifles crashed as the bushwhackers turned and spotted him. Fargo heard the wind-rip of a slug as it passed close by his ear. He dropped to one knee, brought the Colt up, and triggered twice. As the revolver bucked against his palm, he saw one of the gunmen spin off his feet, driven down by a bullet.
    But the odds were still against Fargo, and Dirkson had pulled a gun from a pocket in his overalls and started shooting, too. Chunks of pine bark flew from the trunk of a tree as Fargo threw himself behind it. He heard the bullets thudding into the trunk.
    â€˜â€˜Spread out some more!’’ Dirkson called to his men. ‘‘We’ll get him in a cross fire!’’
    â€˜â€˜What about those other fellas?’’ asked one of the bushwhackers.
    â€˜â€˜Forget about them! I want Fargo!’’
    Fargo didn’t recall telling Dirkson his name the day before. The man must have asked around about him and found out who he was. Dirkson might even know that Fargo had had breakfast with Lawrence Kiley that morning, which would make him more convinced than ever that Fargo was an enemy.
    Things had certainly gone too far to head off trouble by talking. Fargo pressed his back against the tree trunk as he reloaded the chambers in the Colt’s cylinder that he had emptied. He wished he had his Henry rifle, but it was still in its sheath on the Ovaro’s saddle.
    He couldn’t wait for Dirkson and the others to close in on him. If he did, they would have him right where they wanted him. It would be better to take the fight to them, and that suited Fargo’s nature more anyway. He took a deep breath and then darted toward another tree.
    â€˜â€˜Watch it!’’ Dirkson yelled as a gun roared. ‘‘He’s moving!’’
    Fargo twisted as he ran and snapped a shot toward the muzzle flash he had seen from the corner of his eye. A sharp cry told him his shot had either scored or else come mighty close. He dived behind a clump of brambles as bullets whistled above him.
    The brush hid him but wouldn’t stop a slug, so he knew he couldn’t stay there. He crawled a couple of yards, then leaped up and doubled back. One of the bushwhackers came around a tree right in front of him, obviously startled. The man hadn’t expected to run into Fargo this way. He tried to bring his rifle up.
    Fargo struck first, lashing out with his left fist. The punch landed with stunning impact on the man’s jaw and staggered him. Fargo laid the barrel of the Colt against the side of his head. Even though the blow was blunted somewhat by the hat the man wore, the solid thud as it landed told Fargo the man wasn’t going to have any fight left in him. Sure enough, the man’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he collapsed in a limp sprawl.
    That brought the odds down to two to one. Fargo leaped over the body of the man he had just knocked out and headed for the slough. He hoped Kiley’s men had taken advantage of the opportunity to get the hell out of there.
    Fargo emerged from the pines and saw that the three loggers were gone. Obviously, the one who had been hit wasn’t wounded so badly that he couldn’t travel with the help of the other two. Fargo was glad they had gotten away. He wanted them to be able to testify that some of Jonas Baxter’s men had ambushed them.
    Before Fargo could