Free Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860) by Jon Sharpe

wagon but Ranson was already up and running. Fargo gave chase and they pounded past the general store and a tailor’s. Ranson came to an alley and darted into it. Fargo recklessly followed suit and nearly paid for his folly with his life. A pistol cracked and lead bit into the wall inches from his head. Fargo raised the Colt but Ranson sped out the other end of the alley.
    â€œDamn.”
    Fargo flew. When he came to the end he stopped and poked his head out. Another shot nearly clipped his hat. He brought the Colt up but once again Ranson thwarted him by flying up a side street.
    Shouts were erupting. Soon the law would come.
    Fargo needed to end it quickly. He sprinted to the side street. Ranson wasn’t in sight. Fargo peered into windows, looked into doorways. People got out of his way, mothers clutching their small children, men with hands in their pockets or inside their jackets.
    Ahead was a hotel. It had a balcony on the second floor. How Ranson got up there, Fargo would never know, but as he neared it, a shadow reared and two shots banged. Fargo felt a slight sting in his left shoulder; he had been nicked. He was passing a horse trough and threw himself flat and got off a shot of his own but the shadow had disappeared.
    People yelled and a woman screamed and a lot of pedestrians were running or had dropped to the ground.
    Taking his hat off, Fargo inched an eye to the end of the trough. The balcony seemed empty but he couldn’t see all of it. He inched out farther. Ranson popped up and fired, and Fargo nearly lost an eye to exploding slivers. He slid back.
    Inside the hotel, a woman screeched in fear.
    Fargo grabbed his hat and ran to the entrance. He threw himself inside and to the right of the doorway. Upstairs, feet pounded. “Is there another way out?” he hollered at the petrified clerk.
    The man nodded and pointed at a narrow hall.
    Fargo raced to it and saw Ranson going out the other end. He didn’t slow. He figured Ranson would keep on running. But as he cleared the threshold a foot was thrust in front of his legs and he pitched headfirst to the dirt.

20
    Fargo started to rise and turn. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ranson bending, a Starr revolver pointed at his head. Ranson was smiling, thinking he had him, thinking there was no way Fargo could turn and shoot before Ranson squeezed the trigger. And he was right. But Fargo didn’t turn and shoot. His Colt was already pointing in Ranson’s direction, belly high—all he had to do was fire.
    At the blast Ranson cried out and staggered. Colliding with the wall, he clutched his stomach. Blood pumped between his splayed fingers. He looked down, aghast, and said breathlessly, “No.”
    Fargo leveled the Colt. “I want a name.”
    Ranson oozed to the ground, his legs too weak to support him. “What?” he said, still staring at the wound and the blood.
    â€œThe name of whoever hired you and your pard, and why they want me dead.”
    â€œBastard,” Ranson said.
    â€œThe name or I’ll shoot you again.”
    Ranson had dropped the Starr. He saw it and gritted his teeth and lunged.
    Fargo kicked it away.
    â€œBastard, bastard, bastard,” Ranson hissed. Shutting his eyes, he groaned.
    â€œThe name.”
    â€œGo to hell.”
    â€œYou first.” Fargo extended the Colt and thumbed back at the hammer.
    At the click Ranson looked up. “Jules was more than my partner. He was my cousin.”
    â€œBeing stupid must run in your family.”
    Red beads trickled from the corner of Ranson’s mouth.
    â€œI won’t tell you a thing. Finish me off. It won’t stop it. Nothing can stop it.”
    â€œStop what?”
    â€œNot a word more.” Ranson bowed his head and shuddered. “I’m so damn cold.”
    â€œI’ll get you to a doc if you tell me.”
    â€œWe were to get five thousand for you,” Ranson said weakly. “That was our