Free Outlaw Trackdown by Jon Sharpe Page A

said.
    â€œWe should climb down and go on on foot,” Fargo suggested.
    Coltraine alighted and shucked his rifle. “I’ll swing to the left and you to the right.”
    â€œSplit up?”
    â€œWe’ll catch them between us. When you hear me shoot, drop them as fast as you can.”
    â€œIt’s better to stay together,” Fargo objected, but the lawman was already moving off.
    â€œHell,” Fargo said. The lawman was being too high-handed to suit him. He told himself that Coltraine had been in situations like this dozens of times and knew how to go about it.
    Reluctantly, Fargo slid the Henry from the scabbard, and circled. The small square became a window. Judging by how the light flickered and danced, it was a candle and not a lantern or lamp.
    The wind had picked up and was cool on his face. He moved slowly so the high grass didn’t rustle against his legs and give him away.
    Since everyone called it a farm, Fargo figured there would be a farmhouse and a barn. But there was only one building, a small one, at that. It wasn’t until he was close enough to throw a rock and hit it that he realized it wasn’t made from logs or frame-built. It was a soddy; squares of sod had been cut from the soil and stacked to construct the walls and laid over rafters for the roof.
    No sounds came from within. Nor did Fargo see any mounts. He reckoned the animals must be around back. Edging forward, he discovered that the candle had been placed on the bottom sill of the glassless window.
    Fargo stopped cold. No one would put a candle there. Especially not outlaws on the run.
    A premonition came over him. Instinctively, he flattened. Over a minute went by and nothing happened and he had about convinced himself that he was giving the outlaws more credit than they were due when someone coughed. But not inside the soddy. From outside it.
    Fargo raised the Henry. It must be a lookout. He hoped that Coltraine had heard the cough or the marshal might blunder onto him and all hell would break loose.
    The smart thing was for Fargo to let the outlaw give himself away. Instead, out of concern for the lawman, he snaked toward where the cough came from. He tried not to make noise but something scraped, his belt buckle maybe.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    Fargo turned to stone.
    â€œAbe, is that you?”
    Inside the soddy someone said, “What the hell is goin’ on out there, Rufus? Who are you talkin’ to?”
    â€œI thought I heard somethin’,” Rufus said.
    Fargo centered the Henry on where he thought Rufus was concealed but he didn’t shoot. He needed a target.
    â€œGive yourself away, why don’t you?” Abe whispered.
    â€œI hate this,” Rufus said. “I don’t see why it had to be us. They should be here helpin’.”
    â€œYou could have spoke up when Hoby laid out his plan. But I don’t recollect hearin’ a peep.”
    â€œTell Hoby Cotton no?” Rufus Holloway snorted. “That’ll be the day. I’m too fond of livin’.”
    â€œThen shut the hell up and we’ll do as we were told.”
    A shape rose off the ground. Rufus Holloway was changing position or stretching his legs.
    Fargo held his breath to steady the Henry and fixed a bead on the center of the shape. He was supposed to wait for Coltraine to start the fireworks but the marshal was taking too long.
    Smiling grimly, Fargo twitched his trigger finger.

16
    At the blast there was a sharp cry of pain and then an oath. The night stabbed with flame and answering shots sizzled the air uncomfortably close to Fargo’s head. He rolled, levered another cartridge into the Henry’s chamber, and fired again.
    From the soddy window came a bleat of “What the hell?” The candle was extinguished and a rifle boomed.
    Rufus and Abe were shooting wild and lead thwacked the ground all around.
    Heaving upright, Fargo ran for the side of the soddy. Rufus