Read Online Trailsman #377 : Bounty Hunt (9781101604007) by Jon Sharpe - Free Book Online Page B

again,” Fargo warned, “I won’t be this nice.”
    â€œI’m the one friend you have, mister.”
    â€œIn that case,” Fargo said, “I don’t want any. Light a shuck unless you want to be shot.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t kill a law officer,” Cripdin said. “I have half a mind to call your bluff.”
    â€œWho’s bluffing?” Fargo said, and thumbed back the hammer.
    Cripdin puffed out his cheeks and glowered. “I resent this. Here I thought I was doing you a favor and you pull this stunt.”
    â€œFavor?” Fargo scoffed.
    â€œKeeping an eye on you in case Blasingame’s gang tried to bury you.”
    â€œYou expect me to believe that?”
    â€œI don’t care what you believe,” Cripdin said. “I’m washing my hands of you. I’ve tried to help and you won’t let me.” He started to rein around to ride off, or pretended to—his other hand dropped to his six-shooter.

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    Fargo trained the Henry on him and said, “How stupid are you?”
    Cripdin froze. “I should put you behind bars is what I should do.”
    â€œTake your goddamn hand off that smoke wagon,” Fargo said.
    The lawman jerked it off and splayed his fingers. “There. Happy?”
    â€œYou’re the dumbest son of a bitch I’ve met in a coon’s age.”
    â€œI’m the
law.
And I’m tired of you treating me with disrespect.”
    â€œGo back to town. You get this one warning and this one warning only. The next time you try to pull one on me, it will end different.”
    â€œYou have no respect for the law.”
    â€œNo,” Fargo said. “I have no respect for you.”
    Cripdin’s face twitched, and for a few moments Fargo thought he would go for his six-gun. But Cripdin only growled, “From here on out you’re on your own.”
    â€œI always was.”
    Reining around, Cripdin took out his anger on his horse by jabbing his spurs. The animal broke into a gallop and soon all that was left of them was the dust the horse had raised.
    Fargo moved to a pine and sat with his back to the trunk. Crossing his legs, he placed the Henry across them, and waited.
    Apparently he’d been mistaken. He’d thought for sure that another outlaw was watching and waiting a turn to try to kill him. But maybe, just maybe, the lawman was telling the truth. It could have been Cripdin last night who made the Ovaro whinny, and now had followed him to make sure he wasn’t bushwhacked.
    The more he thought about it, though, the more convinced he was that his initial hunch was right. Someone else was out there, stalking him. He’d learned a long time ago to trust his instincts; they’d saved his hide more than once.
    He let about half an hour go by. Just when he was convinced he had been wrong and no one was coming, a horse and rider appeared in the distance. One second they weren’t there; the next they were. The instant he set eyes on them, the rider drew rein.
    Fargo didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch. Whoever it was, the rider sat dappled in shadow, studying the woods.
    The minutes crawled, and still the rider didn’t move. Finally he came on at a slow walk and crossed a patch of sunlight.
    It was a half-breed, as folks would say, a mix of white and Indian. In his case his features showed more of the latter than the former.
    Fargo couldn’t tell exactly which tribe. He remembered Tassy at the saloon saying that one of the outlaws who rode with Blasingame was a breed.
    Stockily built, the man wore a bandanna tied round his long black hair, a brown shirt and pants. A bandoleer was slanted across his chest, half filled with cartridges for the Spencer he held. He favored Apache-style knee-high moccasins. Several times he bent down, apparently reading the sign.
    Fargo continued to stay perfectly still. The breed wouldn’t be like most men; any movement, he’d