Six-Gun Gallows by Jon Sharpe Page A

she’d eat you alive.”
    Fargo bore east across the moonlit plains, letting the Ovaro run for a few minutes, then reining him back to a trot to conserve his wind if it was needed. The Trailsman’s vigilant eyes left nothing alone, and several times he was able to avoid sudden sand wallows: places where the grass had died and formed pockets of loose sand that could trip up a horse.
    Fargo could make out the pine motte well before he reached it: a dark, shadowy mass against the slightly lighter plains. As he drew near, he could make out fires—perhaps seven or eight—back within the trees. There could be sentries on the outer edge, but Fargo took that chance and moved within a hundred yards or so.
    He reined in and dismounted, hobbling the Ovaro foreleg to rear. Then, to cover some of the Ovaro’s larger splashes of white, he unrolled his blanket and tossed it over the stallion.
    â€œSorry about that tight girth, old campaigner,” he said softly, patting the pinto’s neck. “But we might have to make a hot bust out.”
    The stalwart Ovaro merely nuzzled his shoulder, inured to such necessities.
    Fargo reluctantly left his Henry behind, knowing from long experience it would impede swift, easy movement. As he drew near the mass of trees, he could hear the familiar sounds of drunken revelry: shouts, laughter, catcalls, men singing bawdy choruses of “Lu-lu Girl” and “She Had Freckles on Her Butt I Love Her.”
    Fargo reached the pine trees and hid behind one of them, deciding on the best course of movement and concealment. The motte was actually five concentric circles of trees with about thirty feet of clearing between each ring. Except for an apparent sentry on his right, so drunk he was practically walking on his knees, all of the jayhawkers were seated around campfires within the first three rings.
    And at the hub, Fargo guessed, was the dugout where the king rat and his favorite rodents stayed.
    He knew he had to work his way in closer for a better reconnoiter. Leapfrogging from tree to tree he penetrated into the third ring. Clay and corncob pipes were lit everywhere, and Fargo whiffed cheap, foul-smelling Mexican tobacco.
    â€œNever mind Fargo’s reputation,” growled a voice like rough gravel at a fire just left of him. “A fish always looks bigger underwater.”
    â€œWe’ll fix his wagon, all right,” replied a slurring drunk. “And with him planted, them other two are ducks on a fence. I plan to cut off Fargo’s nuts and use the cured sac for a coin purse.”
    A third man chimed in. “I’m gonna carve out his teeth for a necklace. Then I say we bury him up to his neck in an anthill and soak his head in honey.”
    â€œYeah, but you got to admit,” called out a voice from a neighboring fire, “Fargo’s got sand.”
    â€œListen to this sissy-bitch! A Sioux papoose has a bigger set on him. Fargo just got lucky today, that’s all. Even a blind hog will root up an acorn now and then.”
    Fargo couldn’t help an ironic grin as he moved deeper into the trees, recording every detail of the layout in his mind’s eye. If he was captured tonight, he realized, half of his body parts would end up as souvenirs.
    To preserve his night vision as much as possible, Fargo tried to avoid looking into the fires. Nonetheless, he scooted up to the next tree and literally bumped into a man taking a leak.
    Fargo’s face went cold, and he raised his right foot, getting a grip on the haft of his Arkansas toothpick. He’d have to cut this thug’s throat wide open before he could give the shout.
    â€œWatch it, you clumsy son of a bitch,” the jayhawker muttered, not even bothering to look at him. “Go drain your snake somewheres else—this is my tree.”
    â€œSorry.” Fargo scooted ahead, pressing toward the still-hidden dugout. In this heat the entrance was likely open. If not,