Texas Trackdown by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

8

Fargo pointed out the other riders to Jessie and Whit. With a worried expression on her face, Jessie asked, “Who do you think they are?”

“Hard to say. Could be another bunch of Comanches. Might be Lieutenant Kemp and those troopers, although I don’t see how they could have gotten over there that fast.” Fargo shook his head. “I can’t think of anybody else it could be. I reckon we’d better steer clear of whoever it is, though. I don’t see how they could be friendly to us.”

“They’re fixin’ to get between us and the Indians,” Whit pointed out.

Fargo nodded. “We’ll find a place to wait. Maybe they’ll go on past.”

“That’ll put us that much farther behind Emily.” Whit sighed. “I reckon you’re right, though. Best not to take a chance.”

They were already taking enough chances just by being out here in the middle of this hostile landscape, Fargo thought.

A few minutes later, they came to a knob topped by a cluster of scrubby mesquite trees. Fargo motioned for his companions to stop and dismount. After he had swung down from the saddle, he handed the reins of the extra horse and the pack animal to Whit and then pulled his Henry from its sheath.

“I’m going up to the top of this little hill to keep an eye on those strangers.” Fargo took the field glasses from his saddlebags as well. “Wait here.”

“I’ll come with you,” Jessie said.

“Suit yourself.”

Whit didn’t look too happy about that, but he didn’t say anything.

Fargo and Jessie climbed to the top of the knob and stretched out on their bellies under the mesquites. Fargo propped himself on his elbows and brought the field glasses to his eyes. The powerful lenses seemed to bring the riders a lot closer when he peered through them.

He stiffened in surprise when he saw that the strangers were white men, but not the cavalry patrol. Instead of blue uniforms, they wore a variety of rough clothing and broad-brimmed hats. Most of them were bearded. They were well armed, too, with rifles, shotguns, and revolvers. Several of the men carried Sharps Big Fifties across their saddles. Fargo was even more surprised when he turned the glasses toward the rear of the party and saw a wagon trundling along behind the riders, being drawn by a team of big, rawboned mules.

“Son of a gun,” Fargo breathed.

“What is it, Skye? Who are they?”

Fargo lowered the field glasses. “Looks like a group of hide hunters.”

“Hide hunters?”

“Yeah. They go out after buffalo, kill them and skin them, and then sell the hides. Nobody ever thought of doing that until a few years ago. Nobody but the Indians, that is, and they just use the hides themselves instead of selling them. I’ve heard there’s a trader who comes to Fort Griffin every now and then to buy buffalo hides.”

“I don’t know why anybody would want one.”

Fargo chuckled. “You won’t find anything warmer than a buffalo robe. I’ve spent many a cold night wrapped up in one.”

“With a squaw for company, no doubt.

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