The Trailsman 317 by Jon Sharpe

was thirty feet away.
    Fargo’s Henry was propped on his saddle. Bounding over, he scooped it up and turned this way and that, seeking sign of the Untillas. There was none. Either they were gone or they were in hiding.
    Fargo did not know what to make of it. Why Binder? Why then? Why not him or Mabel or both?
    Mabel! Jarred by his lapse, Fargo whirled and raced toward the pool. A vague outline low to the ground assured him she was still there, but was she alive or did she have an arrow through her eye? “Mabel?” he said, loud enough to wake her but not to scare her. She did not respond or sit up.
    Fargo came to the blanket and discovered it was only the blanket and her clothes, lying in a heap. Mabel was nowhere to be seen. Stunned, he turned from side to side. She was not in the pool; she was not by the waterfall. “Mabel!” he hollered.
    Fargo was incredulous. It was inconceivable to him that the Untillas had whisked her away almost right from under his nose without him hearing a thing. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Mabel! Where are you?”
    Silence taunted him.
    Fargo ran to the fire, selected a burning brand, and, holding it high, ran back to the blanket. Scuff marks were evidence of a struggle. Two furrows in the dirt showed where Mabel had been dragged Her captors had skirted the pool and headed west, up the slope that flanked the waterfall.
    Fargo was an easy target with the torch in his hand but without it he would have to wait until daylight to track them. By then Mabel might end up like Binder. It helped that the warriors were on foot. He reckoned at least a half dozen were involved.
    Fargo came to the top of the slope. The river had carved a channel that rose steadily. Bordering it was dense woodland. He climbed, his legs pumping, aware that every second was crucial. He dreaded to hear a scream for it would only mean one thing.
    A flat shelf appeared, no more than ten feet long by half that wide. Fargo crossed it in long bounds, then drew up short. A figure was to his left, sitting on the lip of a drop-off above the river. Pale skin and long dark hair told him who it was. “Mabel?”
    She did not answer.
    Fargo envisioned an arrow sticking from her eye or her breast. He sidled toward her, expecting shafts to rain down on him. “Mabel? Answer me. Are you all right?”
    From below came the hiss of rapids. She was dangerously close to the edge, her legs pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her face against her knees. Her shoulders were moving up and down.
    â€œMabel, answer me.” Fargo hunkered and placed a hand on her arm. She flinched and drew away. “Are you hurt?”
    Her head moved from side to side but she did not glance up or answer him.
    â€œWhat did they do to you?” Fargo saw no wounds, no trace of blood. He shook her. “Damn it, Mabel. Look at me. What happened?”
    Sniffling, she finally raised her head. She was crying. “I was never—” she began, and had to cough to clear her throat. “I was never so scared in my life.”
    â€œI am listening,” Fargo said.
    Mabel sniffled again, then wiped her nose with her forearm. “I was asleep. I felt hands on me. For a few moments I thought it was you. Then I realized there were too many.” She stopped and quaked.
    â€œTake your time,” Fargo said.
    â€œThey carried me off,” Mabel related. “I tried to fight. I tried to shout to you for help. But one had his hand over my mouth. They carried me off and I was helpless to resist.” She stopped and more tears flowed. “Completely and utterly helpless!”
    â€œYou are safe now.” Fargo sought to soothe her.
    â€œI thought I was done for. I thought they would kill me, or have their way with me and then kill me.” Mabel scowled. “Where were you? Didn’t you see them? Didn’t you hear them?”
    â€œI was over by the