Six-Gun Gallows by Jon Sharpe Page B

there had to be some kind of ventilation hole. He wanted to see the face behind the Quaker massacre—and the slaughter of Senator Drummond and General Hoffman and God knew how many others.
    Fargo crept on cat feet into the inner ring and spotted the exposed portion of the sturdy log dugout.
    Just then, however, his attention was arrested by the sound of sobbing—female sobbing.
    â€œWell, God kiss me,” he muttered.
    Guided by his hearing, Fargo shifted to his left and saw her in the moonlight: a slender young blonde in a torn and filthy white dress, her wrists tied with ropes to a tree behind her.
    â€œDon’t scream, lady,” Fargo said as he moved in. “I’m a friend.”
    A pretty but dirty, tear-streaked face turned toward him. “Oh, please,” she begged. “Don’t do it! Just kill me.”
    â€œDamn it, keep your voice down,” Fargo admonished. “I said I’m a friend. I’m not with this bunch.”
    His point sank in, and tears of relief cascaded down her cheeks.
    â€œOh, sir, these monsters murdered my husband right in front of me. They’re all filthy, depraved monsters, but their leader is . . . he’s not even . . .”
    â€œShush it,” Fargo said gently but firmly. “This is no time to be talking. We’re both far from safe.”
    Even as he cut the ropes with his knife, however, Fargo felt the weight of an excruciating choice. To this point he had been feeling triumphant. These border ruffians were so drunk they were useless, and their tight groups around the fires made them easy targets. By placing crack shots like Dub and Nate in the right spots, the three of them could mount more than the harassing raid Fargo originally envisioned: they could have killed and wounded virtually every man here. And under territorial law, Fargo could then have arrested or killed the leaders in that dugout.
    Now, however, one innocent life had changed all that.
    Fargo knew the grim reality. This girl was weak and helpless, and there was no sanctuary for her in these parts. The only choice, if he decided to save her, was the McCallister place, some thirty miles distant. Yet, the Code of the West, the code Fargo lived by and had helped to define, was clear: at any and all costs, women and children must be saved from harm. A man who violated that code was no man at all—he became like the hell-spawned scum surrounding Fargo now.
    â€œCan you walk?” he asked her.
    â€œI’ve been tied in one position for days. But I’ll try.”
    It was no use—she couldn’t even get to her feet without collapsing.
    â€œStay quiet,” Fargo warned, picking her up and tossing her over his left shoulder to free his gun hand. The fragile young woman was light as a handful of feathers.
    Fargo swept wide of the campfires and was soon out on the open plains.
    â€œWhat’s your name, miss?” he asked as he jogged toward the Ovaro.
    â€œCynthia Henning. Cindy.”
    â€œI’m Skye Fargo.”
    â€œOh, God sent you, Mr. Fargo. I know He did! I prayed and I prayed that a decent man would come help me.”
    Fargo considered himself a pagan, but he was open to the possibility of a Creator. And if God did send him on a divine mission, that made it easier to accept the fact that he just might have destroyed this gang tonight.
    â€œWe’re out of the woods as a matter of fact,” he said, “but we’re not out of the woods as a manner of speaking—not just yet. Can you stand a long ride tonight, behind me in the saddle?”
    â€œI’ll try, Mr. Fargo, with all my might. But I’m weak—they gave me food, but I couldn’t eat it. I’ve had no food or sleep in four days. But, by all things holy, I’ll try.”
    â€œGood girl.”
    Fargo reached the Ovaro and set her on the ground while he quickly rolled his blanket back up and fastened it with the cantle straps. Then he gave