Free Arizona Ambushers by Jon Sharpe Page B

I get it.”
    Fargo eased higher to try to see over the mesquite. The blast of the rifle disabused him; he swore he heard the slug whistle past his ear.
    â€œWhoever it is,” Geraldine said, “they’re not a very good shot.”
    A whinny filled Fargo with fresh worry. The Ovaro and her sorrel had stopped, and it might occur to the shooter to kill their mounts and strand them on foot.
    â€œWhat do we do?” Geraldine whispered.
    â€œ
We
do nothing,” Fargo said. “You stay put while I get closer.” To forestall another argument, he crawled off. A boulder offered some protection. From there he snaked into a gully. It was shallow but it pointed in the right direction.
    This was what came from letting Geraldine come along, Fargo chided himself. He’d been spatting with her instead of staying alert, and now look.
    Putting her from his mind for the time being, Fargo concentrated on finding the shooter. There appeared to be only one. Or was it a trick, and others were lying in wait for him to show himself?
    The snap of a twig caused him to freeze. It came from his left.
    As quietly as possible, Fargo crawled to the top of the gully. High grass and scrub brush were all around him. Extending the Colt, he thumbed back the hammer.
    A stone’s throw away, grass parted and out of it poked a rifle barrel.
    The shooter had seen him.

12
    Fargo threw himself at the bottom of the gully just as the rifle boomed. He rolled, pebbles clattering under him. Quickly rising to his knees in case the shooter rushed him, he waited with every nerve jangling.
    No one appeared.
    Keeping low, Fargo glided up the gully. When he had gone far enough to consider it safe, he moved to the top again.
    The rifle barrel was gone.
    Tensing, Fargo raced for the cover. He was halfway there when a rifle spanged. It felt as if his hat was slapped but it stayed on his head and in a few more bounds he was prone in the grass.
    Time for some cat and mouse, Fargo told himself. Crawling away from the shooter, he circled wide to come up on the assassin from behind.
    The rifle banged, and he hugged the ground, thinking he was the target. But, no. A revolver answered from over near the horses. It was Geraldine. She hadn’t stayed put as he’d told her to.
    The shooter fired again.
    Throwing caution aside, Fargo rose. The shots would drown out whatever sounds he made. He spied a crouched form partially hidden by mesquite and flew toward it.
    Geraldine blasted twice with her six-gun.
    The shooter ducked, then straightened, craning to try to see Geraldine. Fargo glimpsed a floppy brown hat and a man’s shirt. Streaking around bush, he hollered, “Hey!”
    The shooter spun. A pair of green eyes widened in alarm.
    Fargo slammed into her with his shoulder. The impact sprawled her on her back and her rifle, a Spencer, tumbled from her hands. Not missing a beat, she grabbed for a Smith & Wesson at her waist, worn for a cross draw. She was quicker than he’d have thought but not quite quick enough. He arced the Henry at her head. At the thud, she collapsed.
    â€œGot you,” Fargo said. He relieved her of the Smith & Wesson and patted her clothes. There were no other weapons.
    Fargo was about to yell to Geraldine when her revolver cracked. The bullet chipped mesquite not an inch away. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he bellowed, “Hold your damn fire!”
    â€œSkye? Is that you?”
    â€œWho the hell else?”
    â€œSorry. I couldn’t tell what was going on over there.”
    Fargo swore under his breath. He was in as much danger from his “partner” as from the outlaws. “Bring the horses and get my rope.”
    While he waited, he studied his prisoner. She looked to be in her mid- to late thirties. Brown hair hung from under her hat, and she had a dimple on her chin. She wore men’s clothes, except for her footwear. Popular with the ladies, they were called “riding