Free The Trailsman 317 by Jon Sharpe Page B

did not care to be shot in the back.
    It was Fargo’s intention to push on all day. But by noon it was apparent Mabel could not hold out much longer. She kept falling asleep in the saddle, and would snap awake with a jerk of her head. Twice she almost fell off.
    Fargo hollered for Binder to make for a bend in the river visible through the trees. On a wide grassy bank speckled with wildflowers, they at last drew rein. Fargo offered to strip Mabel’s mare for her. She thanked him, spread out her blankets, and was asleep within seconds.
    â€œI am about to do the same,” Binder said. “My eyelids feel like they weigh more than my horse.”
    â€œGet some shut-eye, then,” Fargo said. He would not go to sleep until the other did.
    â€œShouldn’t one of us have a look around? The Untillas are as thick as fleas on an old coon dog in these parts.”
    Fargo had not seen sign of the Indians all morning, but that did not mean much. When Indians did not want their sign found, they were masters at erasing it. “We will leave them be if they leave us be.”
    â€œIf I see one, I am shooting him on sight.”
    â€œGo right ahead,” Fargo said, “and I will shoot you.”
    Binder glanced up from unfolding his bedroll. “What are you? An Injun lover?”
    â€œWhat are you?” Fargo retorted. “Stupid?”
    â€œIt is not stupid to kill those who are out to kill you.”
    â€œIt is if you have no proof they are out for your blood, and so far as I know, the Untillas are only mad at Skagg and anyone who rides with him.”
    â€œI would not count on that were I you. They are red and we are white and that is all the excuse most Injuns need.”
    â€œNo shooting at them unless I say so,” Fargo said.
    â€œIt would serve you right if you got an arrow in the back,” Binder said.
    Fargo did not bother with a fire. They would not need one until later, and he would rather not advertise their presence. He sat and watched the water flow by, with one eye always on Binder. The man took forever turning in, but eventually he laid on his back with an arm over his eyes,
    Fargo’s own eyelids were wooden but he fought the urge to sleep for as long as he could. He did not succumb until Binder began to snore. Then he dipped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He slept fitfully, waking at the caw of a raven and a splash in the river. Once it was the chattering of a squirrel. Sounds that ordinarily would not disturb him. Nerves, he scolded himself. It would help if he spread out his bedroll and crawled under his blankets, but then he might sleep too soundly and awaken to find Skagg standing over him.
    It was pushing four o’clock when Fargo stirred and sluggishly stood. He had not had nearly enough rest but it would have to do. He shuffled down the bank, dropped to his knees, removed his hat, and dipped his whole head in the river. The water was ice-cold. He broke out in gooseflesh and a grin as he shook his head and drops flew every which way. Then he lowered back down and thirstily drank, the water a balm to his dry throat.
    Fargo roused Mabel, then Binder. Both wanted to go on sleeping but he pointed out they had several hours of daylight left and could cover a lot more ground before night fell. “Or don’t you want to reach your brother’s cabin as soon as we can?” he asked Mabel.
    That got her up. “There is nothing I want more.”
    Binder had to be poked a few times before he rose, with great reluctance, complaining about aches in his joints and an empty belly and how they better stop early for the night.
    â€œDoes either of you have a needle and thread?” Fargo asked.
    â€œWhatever for?” Mabel responded.
    Fargo nodded at Binder. “So I can sew his mouth shut.”
    Binder indulged in more swearing.
    â€œI would be grateful, Mr. Binder,” Mabel said, “if you would spare my ears your indecent