Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page A

him want to double over.
    â€œYou takin’ a nap?” Sol asked.
    â€œScouts sure are puny,” Seth said.
    â€œSure are,” Jared echoed.
    â€œYou’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Fargo said dryly.
    â€œWho’s bein’ funny?” Sol said.
    Fargo got to his feet. He picked up the Colt and shoved it into his holster and picked up the toothpick, hiked his pant leg, and replaced it in its ankle sheath.
    â€œFirst those redskins and now this,” Sol said. “You need to watch out for yourself better.”
    â€œWe don’t want anything to happen to you,” Seth said.
    â€œFind the bull and quit playin’ around,” little Jared said.
    Fargo glared at him.
    â€œWhat?”
    Sol had turned and was staring at the bodies of the men with their throats slit. “Look at that,” he said.
    His brothers turned.
    â€œThey bled out nice,” Seth said.
    â€œBet they didn’t hurt much,” Jared said.
    â€œThey’re still dead,” Seth said. He claimed his rifle from his brother and peered off into the forest. “We’d best light a shuck. Those three might take it into their heads to circle back.”
    â€œAlways play it safe,” Seth said.
    â€œAlways,” Jared said.
    They started to walk off and Sol said over his shoulder to Fargo, “Be seein’ you.”
    â€œWait,” Fargo said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy are you following me?”
    â€œWe already told you,” Sol said.
    â€œFind the damn bull,” Seth said.
    â€œIf you don’t, you are worthless,” little Jared said.
    â€œDamn it,” Fargo said, but they paid him no heed and melted into the undergrowth and were gone. He was tempted to go after them but they might be right about the Hollisters circling back.
    Fargo stared at the throat-slit bodies and then off in the direction the Hollisters had gone and then in the direction the three boys had vanished and scratched his chin in bewilderment. “What the hell?”

28
    If the Johnson boys were shadowing him, they were good at it.
    Fargo tried to catch them. Several times he reined behind a pine or a boulder and waited for them to appear but they never did. Once he dismounted atop a ridge and lay on his belly for half an hour studying his back trail, but nothing.
    They were ghosts, those boys.
    He saw neither hide nor hair of anyone else, either. Apparently the war party had lost his trail, and he could devote himself to finding Thunderhead’s.
    Toward sundown the terrain underwent a change. Canyons and bluffs replaced the steep slopes, and there were far fewer trees.
    He stopped for the night in a gully deep enough to hide him and the Ovaro. After the day he’d had, he decided to treat himself, and his belly, to coffee. It took a while to gather enough wood and dry brush. He kept the fire small and, as the coffeepot heated, reviewed the day’s events.
    Something nagged at him, a vague sense that an important fact was right in front of his face but he was missing it.
    The coffee grew hot enough and he filled his tin cup and sat with the cup in both hands, admiring the stars. A coyote yipped and was answered by another. Somewhere far off a grizzly roared. Closer, an owl hooted.
    He turned in about midnight. His gut was so sore that it hurt to lie with his back propped on his saddle so he lay flat, his hat at his side, his arms across his chest.
    The stomp of a hoof brought him around as day was breaking. It was only the Ovaro, and after he kindled the embers of his fire to life, he threw on his saddle blanket and saddle and tied on his bedroll.
    Two cups drained the pot. He was sipping the last of it and about ready to head out when a sound he’d never heard before pricked the Ovaro’s ear and brought him to his feet.
    It seemed to come from everywhere at once. How close, it was hard to judge. It wasn’t a roar or a shriek or a howl. It was a tremendous