The Trailsman 317 by Jon Sharpe Page A

fire.” Fargo held off telling her about Binder for the time being. She was upset enough as it was.
    â€œYou left me lying there all alone?”
    The accusation in her tone made Fargo inwardly wince. He was about to explain when he sensed movement, and whirled.
    Seven darkling forms stood only a few yards away, arrows notched to their bowstrings, and this time the arrows were pointed at him.

11
    So much for the Untillas not being abroad at night.
    Fargo froze, aware that so much as a twitch on his part would cause those bowstrings to twang.
    â€œI can’t believe you walked off and left me,” Mabel was saying. “What were you thinking?” When he did not respond she snatched hold of his sleeve. “Answer me!”
    â€œLater,” Fargo said, not taking his eyes off the warriors.
    â€œNo. Now. I am so mad I could spit. It is a wonder I wasn’t killed, thanks to your neglect.”
    â€œYou still might be,” Fargo warned, and nodded at the Untillas.
    Mabel swiveled, and gasped. “Oh, God! They haven’t gone. They left me here as bait to catch you!”
    That was Fargo’s guess, too. With the gorge at his back, he had nowhere to retreat to. The Untillas had picked the perfect spot. He would have to make a fight of it. Outnumbered as he was, he stood little chance.
    â€œWhat do we do?” Mabel whispered. “I don’t want to die.”
    Neither did Fargo. But he would not die meekly. It went against his grain. He was about to draw his Colt when the warriors parted and one of their number advanced.
    An older warrior, he did not have a bow. He stopped an arm’s length away and calmly regarded them. “What you do here?”
    To hear English gave Fargo a flicker of hope. It occurred to him that the Untillas were bound to have learned some of the white tongue through their dealings at the trading post. “How are you called?” he asked.
    Instead of answering, the elderly warrior repeated, “What you do here?”
    Fargo gestured at Mabel. “We are looking for her brother. He lives up in these mountains somewhere. The man you killed for no reason was to take us to him.”
    â€œWe have reason,” the old warrior said.
    â€œCare to tell me what it is?”
    The warrior said something in his own language to the younger warriors. Then he said to Fargo, “Man we kill Skagg’s man.”
    â€œYes, Binder was one of Skagg’s men,” Fargo said. “What difference does that make?”
    â€œSkagg enemy.”
    Fargo was not as surprised as he would have been had Skagg not taken an arrow earlier. “I thought your people traded with him. Why is he now your enemy?”
    Touching a bony finger to his chest, the elderly warrior said, “Me want daughter.”
    For a moment Fargo thought the old man was saying he wanted to take Mabel as his daughter, but that was preposterous. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œSkagg have daughter. Me want her back.”
    Fargo tried to imagine why Skagg would take an Indian girl when Skagg did not like Indians all that much, and only traded with the Untillas because of the money he made on the furs they brought him. “Where does he have her?”
    â€œAt Landing. She his captive.”
    â€œWhy did he take her?” Fargo asked. For Skagg to provoke the tribe made no sense.
    â€œSo we tell secret. But we not say.”
    â€œWhat secret?”
    â€œSkagg take daughter,” the old warrior grimly repeated, and bobbed his head at Mabel. “We take her.”
    Mabel gasped. “What? Why? What did I ever do to you?”
    The old warrior acted as if he did not hear her. He stared only at Fargo. “We trade.”
    â€œYou want me to find your daughter and free her in exchange for Mabel’s life?”
    â€œDaughter in wooden lodge. You get her. We give your woman.”
    The Untillas had seen Mabel and him making love, Fargo guessed, and jumped