Arkansas Assault Read Online Free PDF Page B

pitched himself back up on his stallion, loaded up his Sharps, and started riding hard directly toward the pines that hid the shooter. But he rode in an aggravating zigzag fashion. Aggravating to the shooter because it made Fargo harder to hit.
    Fargo pumped bullet after bullet into the shooter’s hiding place, making it difficult for the shooter to get off any clean shots of his own, unless he wanted to take the chance of standing up and taking a couple pieces of lead in his brain for his trouble.
    The superb stallion responded magnificently. The zigzagging skill was something the stallion had taken to right away. He seemed to know instinctively how much this pleased his master.
    A cry told the Trailsman that he’d hit his mark; a second cry told him that he’d not only wounded the shooter but maybe killed him, too.
    Fargo ground-hitched his horse, jammed his Sharps back into its scabbard, pulled out his Colt, and set off in a crouch toward the pines.
    The chatter of forest animals disturbed the silence while the sweet tang of pine scent filled the air. The jovial, masked faces of raccoons watched him from tree limbs. It would be nice to stop and appreciate all these wondrous natural gifts but for now the Trailsman couldn’t afford to.
    A groan, human. The shooter. Not dead. Not yet. But he sounded very weak. Could be a ruse to draw Fargo closer but somehow Fargo didn’t think so. That moan revealed not only pain but fear of imminent death.
    Fargo continued to sweep around the deep stand of pines so that he could come up behind the shooter.
    The moan again. But it was more resolute this time. The shooter sounded near death.
    Fargo took no chances.
    He finished the rest of his attack with a few stealthy steps that brought him to two slanted pines beyond which he could see the colors of a man’s shirt. Red; checkered. The Mexican who’d been in his hotel room.
    He came up behind the man but saw instantly that there was nothing to worry about now. The man was dead. Fargo had hit him twice in the chest.
    Fargo made sure. He hunched down next to the man, raising a limp arm to check for a pulse. Nothing. No distant throb of a pulse in the neck, either. Fargo folded the man’s arms over his stomach, the way the undertaker would when it came time to bury him.
    He stood up and that was when he saw the dog. Lonesome old boy, some kind of mixture of hound breeds. Nose to something he was sniffing with great interest.
    When Fargo went over to take a look he saw the Mexican’s horse and a short shovel handle jammed into one of the saddlebags. What the hell would a man pack a shovel for?
    The hound glanced up at Fargo with the old, sad eyes so common to its lineage. It moved aside as Fargo walked closer to check things out.
    Not too hard to figure out what had happened here. The girl named Daisy most likely lay in the shallow grave of red clay that stretched before him. He went back to the Mexican’s horse, grabbed the shovel and went to work. The earth, being freshly dug, and the grave being only quite shallow, Fargo didn’t have any trouble.
    Pennies on the eyes. Her clothes intact. At least she didn’t appear to have been raped. One bullet in the forehead. Hadn’t been dead long. The bluish tinting of her pale skin just starting.
    He got the bed roll from his stallion, laid the blanket out, and then went and got the girl. Hard to believe she’d been a passionate, intelligent woman just a short time ago. She’d so desperately wanted to find her brother Clem. She’d died not knowing what had become of him.
    The questions he’d had in the hotel room came back. Who was the Mexican exactly? And Whitey? And what did they have to do with the disappearance of Daisy’s brother? And now, what made it necessary to kill her?
    He rolled her up in the blanket, roped the blanket tight, and set it across the back of the horse. The top of her head and her ankles and feet stuck out of either end of the blanket roll. He held the reins