Texas Tornado by Jon Sharpe

don’t mean—?”
    â€œI told you. I don’t know. Probably not. One time a male prisoner tried to grope me, and Mako broke both his hands.”
    â€œTough hombre,” Fargo said.
    â€œDangerous hombre,” Carmody amended. “You can see it in his eyes. He’s vicious when he wants to be. But he has respect for the law.”
    â€œHoratio Stoddard’s law.”
    â€œI mentioned that to Mako once. I said it’s not right to say who can and can’t make love, and how much people can gamble, and things like that.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHe agreed, if you can believe it. He stood there and flat out said some of the town’s laws are stupid. But it’s his job to enforce them anyway.”
    â€œHe’s not out to fleece folks?”
    â€œNot him. The mayor, yes. Stoddard imposes fines that go into his bank account and gets all that free labor to work at his ranch.”
    She would have gone on, but just then hooves drummed. They both started and straightened.
    Out of the east flew a horse. Riderless, it came at a gallop and would have swept on by if Fargo hadn’t cut it off and grabbed its trailing reins to bring it to a halt.
    The horse tossed its mane and stamped but didn’t attempt to break away.
    Carmody came up and was the first to notice. “Say, what’s that all over the saddle?”
    Fargo bent. It was blood. A lot of it. Larger patches near the saddle horn with smaller drops behind and lower down. “Whoever was on this was gut-shot.”
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    â€œThe pattern,” Fargo said. “I’ve seen it before.” He’d been in plenty of skirmishes with hostiles and seen a lot of troopers wounded by lead, arrows, and lances. Turning in the saddle, he peered east. “I’m going back.”
    â€œWhat?” Carmody’s eyes widened. “We’re in the clear. We should push on.”
    â€œI want to know who was shot.”
    â€œWho cares, damn it?” Carmody said. “Besides, what about your precious rifle? We have to go after Alice, remember, and she went west.”
    â€œDid she?” Fargo said. “I wonder.” He scanned the dirt road to the west. Puzzled, he dismounted and searched on foot. “I’ll be damned.”
    â€œWhat now?”
    â€œThere aren’t any fresh tracks. She didn’t go west, after all.”
    â€œYou must be mistaken.”
    â€œNot about tracks.” If there was one thing Fargo did better than just about anyone, it was read sign. It was why the army considered him one of the best scouts alive. He climbed back on the Ovaro, snagged the other animal’s reins, and wheeled to the east.
    â€œThis is dumb,” Carmody said. “We’re asking for trouble.”
    â€œYou don’t have to come.”
    â€œDamn you,” she said, and did.
    Fargo scoured for sign, becoming more puzzled the farther they went. After half a mile, he remarked, “She didn’t come this way, either.”
    â€œWhat are you saying? Alice cut across country to the north or the south? She’d have to be dumber than you. We’re in the middle of Comanche territory, in case you’ve forgotten.”
    The next moment Fargo spotted a body, belly down in the middle of the road. He tapped his spurs and was out of the saddle before the stallion stopped moving.
    A pool of scarlet formed a body-sized halo. It was more—much more—than a human being could lose and go on breathing.
    Fargo rolled it over.
    The man was in his twenties and wore store-bought clothes. A derby lay nearby, upside down. The slug had entered above his groin and left an exit wound close to his spine.
    To Fargo’s surprise, the man’s eyelids fluttered and opened.
    â€œGod,” he said.
    â€œWho did this?” Fargo asked.
    The man seemed to struggle to focus. “One of you.”
    â€œLike hell,” Carmody said.