Outlaw Trackdown by Jon Sharpe

the time he lets us do as we please.”
    â€œWith little things,” Abe said.
    â€œBut when he gives an order, we ain’t got no say.” Rufus grinned. “Like his order to wait here after we were done at the sodbuster’s.”
    â€œAnd his order to meet him at sunset east of town,” Fargo mentioned.
    â€œAbout that,” Abe said, and chuckled. “We lied.”
    Rufus nodded. “We’re not supposed to meet him anywhere. Fact is, the rest are supposed to meet up with us.”
    â€œWhy are you admitting it all of a sudden?” Fargo asked.
    â€œBecause Timbre Wilson and Semple Cotton are standin’ behind you with their pistols pointed at your head.”
    Fargo half thought they were joshing. Few men could sneak up on him unawares. But when he turned, there they were: Wilson and Semple with their six-shooters cocked, on the other side of the creek. He debated throwing himself to one side and trying to drop them but he was bound to take lead himself. “Damn me for being careless.”
    Semple Cotton grinned. “They saw us come up and kept you talkin’. Pretty clever, huh?”
    Timbre Wilson waded across, grabbed the Henry, and ripped it from Fargo’s grasp. “I’ll take that.” Sneering, he pressed the muzzle of his revolver to Fargo’s temple. “I should gun you here and now.”
    â€œYou heard Hoby,” Semple said. “He wants him alive.”
    Timbre stepped back and his sneer became a scowl. “You have more lives than a damned cat.”
    With a sinking feeling in his gut, Fargo said to Semple, “Your little brother is here, too?”
    â€œWe all are,” Semple replied with a jerk of his thumb.
    Hoby and Granger Cotton rode out of the trees with Granger leading the two mounts that must belong to Semple and Timbre Wilson—and the Ovaro, as well.
    â€œLook at what we found,” Hoby said with his usual devil-may-care smile. He winked at Fargo and said, “Did you miss me?”
    Semple laughed and crossed the creek and relieved Fargo of his Colt. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ ideas.”
    Timbre Wilson tossed the Henry a good ten feet. Gripping Fargo’s shirt, Timbre pulled him to his feet.
    Fargo balled a fist and Wilson jammed his six-shooter against Fargo’s ribs. “Go ahead. Try.”
    â€œNot yet,” Hoby Cotton said. Drawing rein, he lithely swung down. “Bring him here. I ain’t ever talked to a dead man before so this should prove interestin’.” He stared pointedly at Abe Foreman and Rufus Holloway, both of whom looked uncomfortable.
    Semple took one arm and Wilson the other, and together they hauled Fargo over. Wilson thrust out a foot and Semple shoved, and Fargo wound up on his knees in front of Hoby.
    â€œLet me kill him,” Timbre said.
    â€œI just said not yet.” Squatting, Hoby grinned and poked Fargo in the chest. Not hard, but playfully. “Funny. You don’t look dead. You don’t feel dead. Yet you’re supposed to be.”
    â€œI don’t die easy,” Fargo said.
    Rising, Hoby moved to Rufus Holloway. “That must be true, huh, Rufus?”
    â€œNow Hoby . . .” Rufus began.
    â€œWhy is he still breathin’? I told you two to bed him down permanent, but there he is, as big as life.”
    â€œWe tried,” Abe said. “Honest we did. Somehow he got onto us and shot Rufus, so we lit a shuck.”
    â€œSomehow?” Hoby said, and glanced at Fargo. “Mind tellin’ me how?”
    Fargo saw a way to whittle the odds. It depended on how mad he could make Hoby Cotton. “They were talking.”
    Hoby glared at the pair. “Is that how you bushwhack somebody? By talkin’ him to death?”
    â€œWe only spoke a couple of times,” Abe said. “Quietlike, so no one would hear us.”
    â€œThe scout did.” Hoby turned to Fargo again. “Do