Flathead Fury by Jon Sharpe

loosened. Heaving upright, he was almost erect when a shoulder caught him in the midriff and he was violently bowled over.
    The next moment, Fargo was on his back with Hoyt on his chest. He swung the Colt at Hoyt’s temple but Hoyt grabbed his wrist and sought to tear the Colt from his grasp.
    â€œSam! I have him! Help me!”
    Fargo heaved upward and Hoyt fell off his chest but clung to his arm. In desperation Fargo clubbed him with his other fist but Hoyt still would not let go. The crackle of underbrush warned Fargo that the other one was rushing to help. His back prickled in expectation of taking a slug.
    Fargo rammed his left knee into Hoyt’s gut, and at the same instant dropped his left hand to his ankle and the sheath that held his Arkansas toothpick. The hilt molded to his palm. The double-edged blade flashed once, twice, three times, and Hoyt deflated like a punctured waterskin.
    A shot cracked.
    But Fargo was already moving. He sidestepped, extended his arm, and planted his last shot smack in the center of the rider’s forehead. It snapped the man’s head back, and down he went.
    In the quiet that descended, Fargo heard ringing in his ears. He began reloading. The shots would carry a long way; there was no telling who might show up.
    Fargo wiped the toothpick clean on Hoyt’s shirt and replaced the slender blade in the ankle sheath. He smoothed his pant leg, then went from body to body, turning out pockets. Between them he found over three hundred dollars, far more than he expected. Each of the three had at least a hundred, which caused him to speculate it was money they had been paid—to kill him.
    â€œMike Durn is going to be mighty upset,” Fargo said out loud, and wished he could see the look on Durn’s face when word reached him.
    Hoyt grunted. He was still alive, if barely. Coughing up blood, he rasped, “I hope to God he makes you suffer before you die.”
    â€œYou won’t be here to see it if he does,” Fargo said, and shot him in the head. Gathering up the reins of the riderless horses, Fargo turned to climb on the Ovaro. He left the bodies where they lay. Coyotes and vultures had to eat, too.
    Ready to head out, Fargo patted his Colt. Now let Durn try to ride roughshod over him. All he needed was his Henry and he would be whole again.
    Suddenly the Ovaro whinnied.
    Instantly alert, Fargo glanced in the direction the stallion was looking. A figure was hunkered in the shadows. Thinking it was another of Durn’s wolf pack, Fargo cleared leather in a blur. But as quick as he was, he was not quick enough.
    An arrow cleaved the air, seeking his throat.

10
    Reflex took over. Fargo flung himself to one side and the arrow missed, but he swore he felt the fleeting brush of a feather. He raised the Colt to fire, only to have another figure rush out of nowhere and stand between him and the archer while frantically waving both arms.
    â€œDo not shoot! It is us!”
    To say Fargo was surprised was an understatement. “Birds Landing?” Anger coursed through him; she was supposed to be long gone. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    The pretty young maiden came up and took his hand in hers. “You are not happy to see me?”
    â€œNo,” Fargo bluntly responded. “It isn’t safe for you anywhere in Mission Valley. Why did you come back?”
    â€œI never left.”
    â€œBut you told me you would,” Fargo testily reminded her. “What if Durn gets his hands on you again?”
    â€œI could not go,” Birds Landing said quietly. “Not after you and I were—what is the word? Oh, yes. Intimate.”
    â€œOh, hell,” Fargo said.
    â€œPlease do not be mad. I started to go as I promised. But my heart would not let me.” She smiled sweetly. “My brother and I have been watching Polson. We saw you leave, and saw the three men follow you. We followed them.”
    The mention of her brother