Six-Gun Gallows by Jon Sharpe

the flat land: the lulling crackle of insects, the bubbling chuckle of the creek, the soft song of the prairie wind. It seemed unreal to him that, only a short time ago, he had been in a life-or-death shooting scrape here. Some said the West was foreign to men, but in truth, men were foreign to the West.
    â€œMr. Fargo?”
    Reluctantly, Fargo forced his eyes open. “Yeah, Nate?”
    â€œThe first day we rode in—you said there was draw-shoot killers in that saloon where we ate.”
    â€œYeah. What of it?”
    â€œThere’s some in the border ruffians, too, ain’t there?”
    â€œSome. But drawing fast isn’t the main mile. It’s how fast you get off a shot that counts. And you boys’ve got the edge there.”
    â€œI’m not worried about no draw-shoot killers,” Dub boasted. “But I am sorta perplexed about our horses. They ain’t—”
    â€œNo need to get your pennies in a bunch,” Fargo assured him. “Whatever plan we come up with will cover our escape. First, though, I have to scout and get the lay of the land. This thing can’t be done slapdash.”
    Â 
    With the exception of a few isolated riders, all of whom swung wide of the creek, there was no more activity on the plains surrounding Sublette for the rest of that day.
    After dark, Fargo built a small fire in a pit and made corn dodgers and coffee.
    â€œYou was right, Mr. Fargo,” Dub said while the three men ate. “They didn’t try to flush us again. Prob’ly workin’ up that Dutch courage Pa told us about.”
    â€œWhen you riding out?” Nate asked.
    â€œWhen I’m ready.”
    â€œCan’t we go, too? We ain’t never done no scouting.”
    Fargo grunted. “Which is exactly why you’re not going. It’s no job for pilgrims. Your ma will skin me alive if I get you killed.”
    â€œDamn it all to hell anyhow!” Nate exploded. “Hell, all we’re doing is washing bricks.”
    â€œGood. I like clean bricks.”
    â€œYeah, but you said—”
    â€œWhat did you expect when you asked to side me, a sugar tit? Nate, this ain’t frontier school I’m running here. We’re at war, and war out here is one of two things: scary as hell or boring as hell. Mostly it’s boring.”
    â€œYeah, I noticed.”
    â€œShut up, knucklehead,” Dub snapped at his younger brother. “We’ll get our turn when Mr. Fargo comes back.”
    â€œThat’s the straight,” Fargo said. “Nate, your hour will come. Believe me, scouting is not all beer and skittles. It takes years to get good at it. Besides, with more than one man, there’s too big a chance of getting caught.”
    Fargo drank a second, a third cup of strong black coffee to keep him alert. Then he wrapped his head to improve his night vision. When a nascent moon, white as new snow, appeared low in the indigo sky, Fargo scooped up mud from the creek bank and smeared his faced with it to cut reflection.
    The Ovaro was already saddled, and Fargo had only to tighten the girth. He slipped the bridle on, and the stallion took the bit easily, eager to work out the kinks. Fargo stepped up into leather.
    â€œI’m off like a dirty shirt. Keep your weapons close to hand, boys,” he told the brothers. “It’s not likely they’ll make a play after dark, but be ready. I should be back in a couple of hours. If I don’t show by an hour before sunup, you’ll know I’m dead. Light a shuck out of here while it’s still dark, or they’ll shoot you to streamers.”
    â€œAnd just leave you here,” Dub protested.
    â€œYeah, that’s an order. ‘I’ won’t be here by then—just a slab of cold meat leaving a lot of disappointed women.”
    â€œCan we have Rosario?” Dub asked hopefully.
    Fargo grinned as he gigged the Ovaro across the creek. “Young man,