donât meanâ?â
âI told you. I donât know. Probably not. One time a male prisoner tried to grope me, and Mako broke both his hands.â
âTough hombre,â Fargo said.
âDangerous hombre,â Carmody amended. âYou can see it in his eyes. Heâs vicious when he wants to be. But he has respect for the law.â
âHoratio Stoddardâs law.â
âI mentioned that to Mako once. I said itâs not right to say who can and canât make love, and how much people can gamble, and things like that.â
âWhat did he say?â
âHe agreed, if you can believe it. He stood there and flat out said some of the townâs laws are stupid. But itâs his job to enforce them anyway.â
âHeâs not out to fleece folks?â
âNot him. The mayor, yes. Stoddard imposes fines that go into his bank account and gets all that free labor to work at his ranch.â
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 hadnât cut it off and grabbed its trailing reins to bring it to a halt.
The horse tossed its mane and stamped but didnât attempt to break away.
Carmody came up and was the first to notice. âSay, whatâs that all over the saddle?â
Fargo bent. It was blood. A lot of it. Larger patches near the saddle horn with smaller drops behind and lower down. âWhoever was on this was gut-shot.â
âHow can you tell?â
âThe pattern,â Fargo said. âIâve seen it before.â Heâd 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. âIâm going back.â
âWhat?â Carmodyâs eyes widened. âWeâre in the clear. We should push on.â
âI want to know who was shot.â
âWho cares, damn it?â Carmody said. âBesides, what about your precious rifle? We have to go after Alice, remember, and she went west.â
âDid she?â Fargo said. âI wonder.â He scanned the dirt road to the west. Puzzled, he dismounted and searched on foot. âIâll be damned.â
âWhat now?â
âThere arenât any fresh tracks. She didnât go west, after all.â
âYou must be mistaken.â
âNot about tracks.â 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 animalâs reins, and wheeled to the east.
âThis is dumb,â Carmody said. âWeâre asking for trouble.â
âYou donât have to come.â
âDamn you,â she said, and did.
Fargo scoured for sign, becoming more puzzled the farther they went. After half a mile, he remarked, âShe didnât come this way, either.â
âWhat are you saying? Alice cut across country to the north or the south? Sheâd have to be dumber than you. Weâre in the middle of Comanche territory, in case youâve forgotten.â
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 moreâmuch moreâthan 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 Fargoâs surprise, the manâs eyelids fluttered and opened.
âGod,â he said.
âWho did this?â Fargo asked.
The man seemed to struggle to focus. âOne of you.â
âLike hell,â Carmody said.
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