Free The Trailsman 317 by Jon Sharpe

slightest sound would give him away, but fortune favored him. Another step, and he was close enough. The horse, a sorrel, paid him no mind.
    â€œWhat do you say to keeping watch while I get some sleep?” the man without the pipe asked.
    â€œThat is fine,” the smoker said. “But don’t blame me if Skagg comes out to check on us and catches you.”
    â€œOn second thought, maybe I shouldn’t.”
    Fargo sprang. He smashed the stock against the man’s head, spun, and tried to do the same to the smoker. But the one with the pipe leaped back, the pipe wedged between his teeth. Which was just as well. He could not yell with the pipe in his mouth. But he could level his rifle.
    Swatting the barrel aside, Fargo slammed the Henry against the man’s cheek. Flesh split and blood spurted, but he did not go down; he was tough, this one. Quick-witted, too. Dropping his rifle, he clawed at his six-shooter. But Fargo was faster. His next blow caught the man on the chin and rocked him on his heels.
    It was still not enough.
    The man’s revolver cleared leather.
    Fargo slammed the hardwood stock against his head. Once, twice, a third time in the mouth. The pipe broke and teeth shattered and the man swayed, blood and bits of broken teeth dribbling over his lower lip. He tried to cry out but all he uttered was a strangled gasp. Then he collapsed.
    Fargo turned toward the horse, thinking that was the end of it. But fingers clutched at his leg. The first man was still conscious and attempting to get to his feet. Fargo swept the Henry down. The thud of wood on bone was loud. Knocked flat, the man lay twitching and mewing. Fargo silenced him with a last blow to the back of the head.
    Grabbing the sorrel’s reins, Fargo turned toward the timber. He had only taken a step when the rear door to the trading post opened and out spilled a rectangle of light, impaling him in its glare.
    â€œWhat the hell?”
    Fargo whirled. It was yet another of Skagg’s wild bunch, rooted in astonishment. But he did not stay rooted long.
    â€œSkagg!” the man bawled, and clawed at the six-gun at his waist.
    Fargo shot him. He already had a round in the Henry’s chamber so all he had to do was thumb back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. At the blast, the man in the doorway was punched backward as if by an invisible fist. Fargo did not linger to see the result. Swinging onto the sorrel, he jabbed his spurs.
    Fargo was halfway to the woods when he realized Binder had disappeared. He straightened, scouring the dark wall of vegetation, and nearly paid for his mistake with his life. Behind him a revolver cracked and a leaden bee buzzed within inches of his head. He hugged the saddle as more bees sought to sting him and gained cover without being hit. A glance revealed men spilling from the trading post, Skagg prominent by his size.
    Fargo rode at a reckless pace. He reckoned it would only be minutes before the gang was after him, barely enough time to reach the clearing, switch to the Ovaro, and spirit Mabel Landry away.
    Suddenly a two-legged shape was in front of him, frantically waving its arms. “It is me!” Binder squealed. “Hold up!”
    The man would never know how close he came to being ridden down. Fargo hauled on the reins and brought the sorrel to a halt with half a foot to spare. “You ran off.”
    â€œI took you for a goner, and I didn’t care to be a goner, too.” Binder snatched at the bridle. “Get off. It is my horse. I will ride it the rest of the way.”
    â€œLike hell you will. You ran this far. I will see you in the clearing.” And with that, Fargo spurred the sorrel on.
    Binder leaped aside, bawling, “Hold on! You can’t take my animal!”
    Soon Fargo came to the clearing. He was out of the saddle before the sorrel came to a stop.
    Mabel’s mare was ready to go, and Mabel was rolling up her bedroll. “Why so frantic? And where