Fargo 12 by John Benteen

Author:John Benteen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: soldier of fortune, western ebook, piccadilly publishing, john benteen, benjamin haas, neal fargo, the wild bunch, best western ebook, fargo by john benteen, mens adventures early 1900s
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Seven

A railroad ran in a long loop from Las Vegas to San Bernardino in California, and Fargo could have taken the train, maybe got there before the Frosts. But with two dead men behind him at the road-ranch, he dared not wait, risk entanglement with the law, and maybe wind up in jail. He wanted to get across the California line, and fast. Obviously, the Frosts felt the same necessity; and with a kidnapped girl to handle, they would not be riding any train, either. They would not stay very close to the railroad; that was too long a route, nor would they follow the little-used track that passed for a road across the desert. They would stick to back country.

That suited Fargo fine. He would make a zigzag pattern himself, cut their trail sooner or later, and once he had it, stay on it. That was better, anyhow, than getting to San Berdoo ahead of them, then have them change their minds, head somewhere else while he waited for them like a fool.

On the way across the mountains, he refilled the water bag at a sheep ranch. By nightfall, he was in California. Remorselessly he kept on riding, pushing his dun and the mule through rough country. They had a long start on him, but they must have come this way; they had to use the same network of passes through the mountains.

Near dawn, he finally made camp, letting the tired animals graze on the sparse bunch grass. He slept for two hours; then, as sunrise streaked the horizon with flaming colors, he wolfed cold beans, saddled and rode.

He was coming down out of the hills, now, into more open country. Carefully he zigzagged back and forth, watching the ground for their tracks, not failing to scan the terrain ahead—a hell of rocky ridges, drifted sand, and cactus—in case they’d turned or halted to check their back-trail for pursuit. He found no trace of their passing; if they had come this way, they’d covered their sign well. By mid-morning, he was beginning to be worried. Maybe he’d better swing farther south, head for San Berdoo that way. Then, if they’d changed destinations and were bound for Mexico, he’d cross their track.

As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. Just at high noon, Fargo pulled the dun up hard, stood up in his stirrups, pushed back his hat, cocked his head.

The sound came again, from the north, whipped by the furnace wind that blew across the jumbled badlands. Fargo frowned. That was no wolf, nor any coyote—not in broad daylight. Besides, it lacked the proper timbre. What he was hearing was the howling of a dog.

He turned north. It came more clearly as the wind freshened, and now he caught another sound in the background, the frightened blatting of sheep. For some reason the short hair on the back of his neck lifted, and he drew his gun, held it ready as he worked between boulder-strewn ridges, threading a devil’s network of draws and dry-washes, always holding to cover, careful never to let himself be skylined.

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