Beartooth Incident by Jon Sharpe Page A

tire. The heavy snow was sapping its vitality.
    Fargo had to try something. He looked for another large pine, bent low, and soon spied a huge one so covered with snow, it resembled a white hill more than a tree. Reining around it, he came to a stop and hunched low over his saddle. Now it was up to fickle fate, which had already betrayed him once.
    Off to the right hooves drummed. One of the outlaws flew past without seeing him.
    To the left, more hooves. That made two.
    Tense with hope, Fargo waited. Another rider was briefly visible, staring straight ahead. He heard one crash through the growth and twisted his head. The man had bushy red hair and a bushy red beard and, like the others, didn’t notice him. That made four.
    Only two to go and Fargo would be safe.
    A man in a mackinaw went past.
    Then it was Cud Sten himself, his club held high as if he couldn’t wait to bash in Fargo’s skull.
    Fargo waited. He didn’t hear the seventh. After a bit he decided the man must have gone by without him noticing and he gigged the horse around the pine.
    Rika was barely ten feet away, the stock of a rifle wedged to his shoulder. The instant Fargo appeared, he fixed a bead on Fargo’s head and said quietly, “It’s up to you.”
    Fargo had the Colt at his side. He could jerk it up and fire, but he had no doubt that even if he got off a shot, he was as good as dead. Rika wouldn’t miss, not at that range. “Don’t do anything I’ll regret,” he said, smiling. Then, holding the Colt by two fingers, he slowly raised his hand and slid it into his holster. “There. How’s that?”
    Using only his legs, Rika goaded his horse nearer. “Turn so your back is to me and hold our arms out from your sides.”
    Fargo did so, chafing inside at his run of bad luck. He felt a slight tug on his holster. The pearl-handled Colt was gone.
    “You can turn around now.”
    Rika had moved back out of reach and lowered the rifle to his waist, but it was still fixed on Fargo’s chest. He hefted the Colt. “This belonged to a friend of mine. That horse is his, too. How is it you have them?”
    “I lost my horse in the blizzard. I about died from the cold and the snow, and then I came on this animal and a man lying dead with a broken arrow stuck in him.”
    Rika’s face showed no hint of whether he bought the story. “And why is it you were hiding behind that tree when we came by?”
    Fargo shrugged. “I was on my way out of the mountains. I heard you and your friends coming and didn’t know if you’d be friendly.”
    Again Rika showed no emotion. He wedged the pearl-handled Colt under his belt, pointed the rifle at the ground, and fired two quick shots, which echoed off the high slopes like so much thunder.
    Fargo tried another smile. “What are you doing here, anyway? And with a bunch of cows? Is there a ranch nearby I don’t know about?”
    “Cud Sten will ask the questions. He’ll be here shortly.”
    Fargo wore his best poker face. He was in for it unless they believed him.
    His nerves tingling, he heard riders approach. Soon they were all there, ringing him, their revolvers out and cocked.
    Cud Sten hadn’t drawn his. He reined up next to Rika and listened to a brief recital of Fargo’s account. Then Cud fixed his dark eyes on Fargo.
    “That’s your story, is it, mister?”
    Fargo nodded.
    “It could be you’re telling the truth. Then again, it could be you’re an egg-sucking bastard. And if you killed my pard to get his horse and gun, you’ll die in more pain than you can imagine.”
    “I’ve never stolen a horse in my life,” Fargo said. “If I’d know your ranch was nearby, I’d have guessed the man rode for you and gone there to tell you I found him.”
    “My ranch?” Cud said, and glanced at Rika.
    “The cows,” Rika said.
    That seemed to amuse Cud Sten. “So you reckon I’m a rancher, huh? Do you hear that, boys?”
    Some of the others laughed.
    “Why else would you be herding cows in all this snow?”