The Trailsman 317 Read Online Free PDF Page A

blankets, she smothered a yawn and languidly stretched, her breasts straining for release from her riding blouse.
    â€œYou slept in your clothes?”
    â€œNot because of you,” Mabel said, and scanned the ground around her. “I am scared to death of snakes. If one should crawl over me in my sleep, I would die of a burst heart.”
    Fargo did not entirely blame her. Rattlesnakes were fond of warmth, as many travelers discovered when they woke up in the morning to find an unwanted blanket mate. “I knew a man down in the desert country who stuck his foot into his boot one morning without checking the boot first, and was bit by a sidewinder that had crawled into it during the night.”
    â€œOh my. Did he die?”
    â€œNo. He was bit in the big toe, and he chopped it off right away so the venom wouldn’t spread. From then on he made it a point to kill every sidewinder he came across.”
    Mabel sat up and vigorously shook her head while running her hands through her lustrous hair. “If you will excuse me, I will go into the woods and tidy myself up.”
    â€œIt is better if you do it here,” Fargo said.
    â€œAnd have you watch me? No, thank you. Some things a woman must do alone.”
    â€œGive a holler if you need me.”
    Mabel smirked. “I am old enough to make myself presentable without help.” She cast her blankets off and stiffly stood. Taking her bag and a hairbrush, she walked off whistling.
    Fargo admired the sway of her hips and the suggestion of willowy legs. She had a natural grace about her, and he could not help but imagine how she would look naked.
    Smiling to himself, Fargo rolled up his bedroll. He saddled the Ovaro, and as a favor to Mabel, did the same with her mare. The whole time, the image of her stuck in his head.
    He wiped dust off the Henry, checked that his Colt was loaded, then hiked his pant leg and verified his Arkansas toothpick was secure in its ankle sheath. He was straightening when a scream pierced the brisk morning air.
    â€œSkye! Skye! Come here, quick!”
    Without a moment’s delay Fargo raced to Mabel’s aid. He half expected to find she had seen a snake or spotted another bear. Ten yards into the forest he came on her bag, lying untended in the grass, but not a sign of her anywhere. “Mabel?” he hollered. “Where are you?”
    There was no answer.
    Fargo glanced every which way. He called her name several more times and was mocked by silence. Not so much as a bird warbled. That in itself was ominous. Bending, he cast about for tracks. The ground was hard but in a patch of bare earth he found a footprint that sent a tingle of worry down his spine.
    Whoever made the print wore moccasins.
    An Untilla, Fargo guessed. Where there was one there might be more, and there was no telling what they would do to her. He broke into a run, guided by bent blades of grass and disturbed brush.
    â€œMabel! Answer me, damn it!”
    More of that unnerving silence.
    Fargo ran faster. It could be the Untilla had slain her and were carting her body off. Ahead, a figure appeared. Someone in buckskins, running flat out. He poured on the speed, his legs flying. Intervening trees and undergrowth prevented him from seeing the figure clearly. He gained rapidly, though, and when he was only a few yards behind his quarry, he launched himself into the air and wrapped his arms around the other’s legs. Locked together they sprawled to the ground, and tumbled.
    Fargo pushed to his feet but the other was faster. He glimpsed long black hair and an oval face, and twin mounds molded by buckskin. It was an Untilla, all right, but a woman, not a warrior. Surprise rooted him in place, which proved to be a mistake.
    For woman or no, she was armed with a bone-handled knife, and as she rose, she drove the point at his throat.

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    In sheer reflex Fargo caught her wrist and stopped the knife a whisker’s width from his jugular. He twisted