Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page A

off, he warned them that, “There’s something else. Someone has killed one of the bull hunters and tried to kill another.”
    â€œBy someone you don’t mean the redskins?” Sol asked.
    â€œI mean white.”
    They looked at one another again and Sol said, “You say only one has been kilt?”
    â€œThe farmer. His name was Humphries.”
    â€œMet him,” Sol said.
    â€œNot too bright,” Seth said.
    â€œNope,” Jared said.
    â€œThe old woman was shot but she’ll live,” Fargo let them know.
    â€œYou don’t say,” Sol said and looked at Jared.
    â€œI wish you would reconsider staying in the hunt.”
    â€œFive thousand is more than we could make any way except stealin’ it,” Sol said. “We can’t pass this up.”
    Both Seth and Jared shook their heads and Jared said, “Can’t.”
    â€œSuit yourselves.” Fargo stepped to the Ovaro, gripped the saddle horn, and swung up. As he settled himself, the three came over.
    â€œWe like you, mister,” Sol said. “We think you’ll likely be the one.”
    â€œYep,” Seth said.
    For once Jared didn’t contribute.
    â€œGood luck,” Sol said. “Watch out for the redskins and those Hollisters we heard about who are after you and anything else that might want to do you in.”
    â€œYou need to find the bull,” Seth said.
    â€œFind it,” Jared said.
    Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He glanced back after he had gone a short way but the boys weren’t there. They had disappeared into the cottonwoods. “That was damn strange,” he summed it up, and put them from his mind.
    He needed to stay sharp as a razor. The woods were crawling with enemies. Not literally, but there were enough that all it would take was for him to let down his guard for a moment and he’d wind up like Humphries.
    He thought he might come on more of the bull hunters since they were all headed in the same general direction, but the afternoon waxed and waned and he saw no one else.
    Toward sundown he came on a ribbon of a stream and made camp. He didn’t bother with a fire. It would serve as a beacon to those inclined to do him in. A cold camp sufficed. He drank mountain water and chewed pemmican from his saddlebag.
    It had been an eventful day. He lay reviewing all that had happened until sleep claimed him. His rest, once again, was fitful. He woke up at the slightest or farthest of sounds and then would lie there a while before he could get back to sleep.
    Toward dawn he awoke feeling as if he hadn’t slept a wink. Throwing his blanket off, he got up, decided to hell with it, and put coffee on. When it was hot, he downed three cups and almost felt like himself.
    He was tightening the cinch on his saddle, about to head out, when a shot crackled and echoed. This time it came from lower down. Not more than a quarter-mile, he reckoned, and as he scoured the slopes he had climbed the day before, he spied the red and orange of dancing flames.
    It was stupid to go back, he chided himself. He should press on after the bull. But he reined down the mountain, not up, and in half an hour came to a halt in a clearing.
    â€œHell,” Fargo said.
    Esther was flat on her back with her arms outflung and a look of surprise on her wrinkled face. The Dragoon was in its holster. She still wore the bandage. Only now, an inch below it was a new bullet hole. Someone had shot her in the center of her forehead as she was making coffee of her own.
    â€œYou should have listened, old woman,” Fargo said.
    He had a choice. Leave her for the buzzards and other scavengers or bury her. The smart thing was to leave her.
    Fargo climbed down. With a fallen tree limb that had a jagged tip, he dug a shallow grave. She had nothing on her, no purse, no poke, nothing. He didn’t say any words over the grave. What was the point?
    Her mule and packhorse hadn’t been taken. More