New Mexico Madman (9781101612644) by Jon Sharpe

Fargo did not pause to think—with the instincts honed from long survival in a harsh land, he simply reacted from reflex, slumping hard to the right side only an eyeblink before a slug thwacked into the tree right beside him. Almost simultaneously he heard the precision crack of a rifle.
    Fargo still held the reins and tugged the Ovaro into the cover of the trees as a withering hail of bullets chunked in around them. He quickly wrapped the reins around a weak branch—if he were killed, the Ovaro could easily break free and avoid the fate of becoming an outlaw horse, for no sane man would kill such a mount.
    Fargo had six beans in the wheel of his Colt, six more in the spare cylinder in his possibles bag. Hooking left to get out of the line of fire, he sprinted across the trail, letting his experienced ears give him a good idea where the shooters were. Moving quickly and with instinctive dexterity, he leapfrogged from tree to tree, firing as he moved, run and gun.
    The enemy fire abated and he heard a man shout, “Pull foot, boys!” Fargo homed in on that voice, pressing forward and changing cylinders as he moved. Firing a round every five seconds or so, he heard the frantic rustle of branches as his attackers panicked.
    Even when his twelfth shot was fired Fargo didn’t give up. He paused only long enough to thumb reloads into his Colt, then resumed his run-and-gun pursuit. He had to frazzle their nerves enough that they would lack the fighting fettle for another ambush attempt in the bosque.
    Then, just before he reached the Rio Grande, he heard hooves pounding toward the north in the three-beat drumming of a gallop. They were escaping along the grassy bank of the river, and more foot pursuit was folly.
    Fargo heaved a sigh and leaned against a cottonwood for a moment, his legs trembling now that it was over—at least for now. The shootout and the pursuit were piddling and he had faced no grave danger. But the suspense leading up to that first shot, and the narrow miss, had taken its delayed toll on his nerves.
    â€œFargo,” he muttered as he recruited his strength for the return to his horse, “maybe you
could
stand a little of that punkin-butter monotony.”
    * * *
    The El Paso to Santa Fe stagecoach cleared Bosque Grande without further incident. The valley opened up again and Fargo breathed easier. By late afternoon they reached the swing station at Luna Bluff and acquired a fresh relay team.
    â€œAll them gunshots back in them trees,” Trixie remarked to Fargo as the passengers stretched their legs at the swing station. “Didja kill anybody, Skye?”
    â€œPah!” Booger interceded, ogling her pulchritude. “The man admits he spent damn near eighteen cartridges and shot nothing but trees. Up in Dakota he once tried to take a scalp and it made him puke. And can he drink Indian burner like a man?”
    The preacher overheard this. He stared at Booger, the corners of his mouth turning down in a frown. “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?”
    â€œAhh, go blow your horn, Gabriel. I’ll credit no man who claims a virgin can have a baby. And I s’pose oysters can walk up stairs?”
    Pastor Brandenburg clutched his Bible like a drowning man clinging to a log. “Satan, get behind me!”
    â€œAye, you’d like that, eh? Buggered by Beelzebub.
That
would leave you slouching toward Bethlehem.”
    â€œWhack the cork,” Fargo snapped. “He’s a preacher and you’re a blasphemer. How do you expect him to act?”
    â€œBlasphemy, is it? Old Booger knows shit from apple butter,” Booger groused as he walked away to help the swingman with the traces.
    â€œMr. Fargo,” Kathleen said, “do you expect those men to attack again?”
    â€œSure as sun in the morning. I’d say Zack Lomax went to a mort of trouble to get vengeance on you.”
    â€œIs the man a Capricorn?” Malachi Feldman