him by sixty to seventy pounds. “Suit yourselves.” He tapped his spurs and rode to the head of the line.
Roland was a study in glum. “I just don’t get it,” he said as Fargo came up. “I just don’t get it at all.”
“Get what?”
“Why the killer chose Emmett. He could have shot any of us. Why Emmett? Emmett was just a kid.”
“He also shot at Charles.”
Roland gave a start. “The next oldest. It’s almost as if the killer started with the youngest and was working his way up.”
Fargo hadn’t thought of that. “How long until we reach the hunting lodge?”
“Another hour and a half yet, maybe more. Why?”
They were about to go around a bend in the trail.
“Keep going,” Fargo said. “I’ll catch up.” He rode past the bend and promptly reined into the woods. A dozen yards in he drew rein. No one else had seen him break away. He sat and watched them file by, one by one until the last of the pack animals went past.
Fargo was alone. Silence fell but it didn’t last long. A jay shrieked and a robin broke into song and presently a doe and a fawn emerged from the greenery and crossed the trail farther down.
Fargo was acting on another hunch. Odds were, whoever shot Emmett wanted to add to the tally, in which case the killer might be stalking them. He stayed where he was as the minutes crawled on turtle’s feet. He was about convinced he had been wrong and was raising the reins when the Ovaro pricked its ears and turned its head toward the trail.
Around the bend came a rider. A middle-aged man of middling height who looked as if he never bathed and wore clothes that looked as if they had never been washed. He was chewing lustily and his cheek bulged, and a moment later he spat tobacco juice. He held a rifle by the barrel, the stock propped on his thigh.
This, then, was the killer. Fargo let him go by. He mentally counted to thirty, reined to the trail, and shadowed the shadower.
Fargo could have shot him. He could ambush him as the killer had ambushed them but he needed answers and the only way to get them was to take him alive.
Spitting tobacco every now and again, the man rode along as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Fargo stayed well back. At each turn he slowed and checked before riding on. A quarter of an hour went by. Half an hour. More. By Fargo’s reckoning they were near the hunting lodge. At the next bend he slowed again and warily risked a peek.
The man had stopped. Thirty yards away he sat his horse in the middle of the trail. For a few moments Fargo thought the man had heard him. Then it hit him—the killer was waiting for someone.
Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. He quietly ratcheted a round into the chamber and swung down. Holding on to the reins, he led the Ovaro in among some oaks and tied the reins to a limb. Then, paralleling the trail, he crept forward. The killer had his back to him. It would be so easy to fix a bead between his shoulder blades and bring him crashing down.
The man’s sorrel stamped and the man twisted in the saddle.
Fargo froze. He was in a crouch in high weeds and hoped he blended in.
The man was staring back down the trail and had his head cocked to one side.
A second later Fargo heard the thud of hooves.
Around the bend came two more on horseback, a man and a woman. Both were young, no older than twenty-five, and wore matching riding outfits and polished boots. Both had brown hair and brown eyes. Both had oval faces, thin eyebrows and thin lips. Judging by how much alike they looked, Fargo took them for brother and sister. Neither wore a revolver that he could see, but from the saddle scabbard on each horse jutted the hardwood stock of a rifle.
Tobacco Man didn’t seem surprised or alarmed. He turned his mount sideways and leveled his Spencer and when they were ten feet out he said, “That’s close enough.”
The pair came to a stop. They glanced at one another and smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Tobacco Man
Roland was a study in glum. “I just don’t get it,” he said as Fargo came up. “I just don’t get it at all.”
“Get what?”
“Why the killer chose Emmett. He could have shot any of us. Why Emmett? Emmett was just a kid.”
“He also shot at Charles.”
Roland gave a start. “The next oldest. It’s almost as if the killer started with the youngest and was working his way up.”
Fargo hadn’t thought of that. “How long until we reach the hunting lodge?”
“Another hour and a half yet, maybe more. Why?”
They were about to go around a bend in the trail.
“Keep going,” Fargo said. “I’ll catch up.” He rode past the bend and promptly reined into the woods. A dozen yards in he drew rein. No one else had seen him break away. He sat and watched them file by, one by one until the last of the pack animals went past.
Fargo was alone. Silence fell but it didn’t last long. A jay shrieked and a robin broke into song and presently a doe and a fawn emerged from the greenery and crossed the trail farther down.
Fargo was acting on another hunch. Odds were, whoever shot Emmett wanted to add to the tally, in which case the killer might be stalking them. He stayed where he was as the minutes crawled on turtle’s feet. He was about convinced he had been wrong and was raising the reins when the Ovaro pricked its ears and turned its head toward the trail.
Around the bend came a rider. A middle-aged man of middling height who looked as if he never bathed and wore clothes that looked as if they had never been washed. He was chewing lustily and his cheek bulged, and a moment later he spat tobacco juice. He held a rifle by the barrel, the stock propped on his thigh.
This, then, was the killer. Fargo let him go by. He mentally counted to thirty, reined to the trail, and shadowed the shadower.
Fargo could have shot him. He could ambush him as the killer had ambushed them but he needed answers and the only way to get them was to take him alive.
Spitting tobacco every now and again, the man rode along as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Fargo stayed well back. At each turn he slowed and checked before riding on. A quarter of an hour went by. Half an hour. More. By Fargo’s reckoning they were near the hunting lodge. At the next bend he slowed again and warily risked a peek.
The man had stopped. Thirty yards away he sat his horse in the middle of the trail. For a few moments Fargo thought the man had heard him. Then it hit him—the killer was waiting for someone.
Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. He quietly ratcheted a round into the chamber and swung down. Holding on to the reins, he led the Ovaro in among some oaks and tied the reins to a limb. Then, paralleling the trail, he crept forward. The killer had his back to him. It would be so easy to fix a bead between his shoulder blades and bring him crashing down.
The man’s sorrel stamped and the man twisted in the saddle.
Fargo froze. He was in a crouch in high weeds and hoped he blended in.
The man was staring back down the trail and had his head cocked to one side.
A second later Fargo heard the thud of hooves.
Around the bend came two more on horseback, a man and a woman. Both were young, no older than twenty-five, and wore matching riding outfits and polished boots. Both had brown hair and brown eyes. Both had oval faces, thin eyebrows and thin lips. Judging by how much alike they looked, Fargo took them for brother and sister. Neither wore a revolver that he could see, but from the saddle scabbard on each horse jutted the hardwood stock of a rifle.
Tobacco Man didn’t seem surprised or alarmed. He turned his mount sideways and leveled his Spencer and when they were ten feet out he said, “That’s close enough.”
The pair came to a stop. They glanced at one another and smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Tobacco Man
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