finds out that you and Larson are playin’ him like this?”
Queeg put a finger like a gun barrel to his head. His thumb was the trigger. “Then my wife won’t have to worry about some gunny coming to town and killing me. I’ll do it myself before Noah does it for me.”
“Well, I hate to tell you this, Queeg, but I’m not sure yet where I’m going past this Cap’n Billy’s place and even if I knew, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”
“You wanna see a photograph of my sweet little kids, Fargo? That might change your mind.”
“Seen enough pictures for one day.”
“I could tell you about the farm I’m hopin’ to buy.”
“No, thanks. I already gave you your two things for the day. That’s my part of the bargain. Now I want you to keep your end of it.”
“I didn’t know I had a part of this bargain.”
“You sure do,” Fargo said, his face showing sudden anger, his body suddenly taut. “You quit followin’ me here and now or I push your face in for you. You understand me, Queeg?”
The anger was not for show. Fargo was sick of being tailed everywhere.
“Yeah, sure, Fargo,” Queeg said, licking his lips, nervous now. The easy-going, amiable Fargo had been replaced by the Trailsman of legend. And the Trailsman, to be sure, was nobody to get riled up. “I won’t be followin’ you anymore, I promise.”
The main street was so packed with day-before revelers that Fargo decided to get to the newspaper by walking the alleys.
He was halfway down the first alley, a friendly brown mutt bouncing along next to him, when the rifle shot came.
Fargo pitched himself away from the trajectory of the bullet, rolling quickly behind a line of small metal containers that held garbage. On this hot day, the stench was many times worse than it would normally be. Fargo didn’t have any choice, though. There was somebody on the roof two doors down. The building sat between smaller buildings with lower roofs. Somebody who’d been keeping a close watch on Fargo. This was one hell of a town for people tailing you. He must have been near Fargo, seen that Fargo was going to turn into the alley, and quickly made his way to the store roof he was using.
Two more shots.
Fargo returned fire but realized that shooting back was useless. A man with a rifle on a roof had the clear advantage.
Fargo decided that the best thing he could do was work his way back to the head of the alley, get on the boardwalk, run through the building the shooter was using, and confront him on the roof. Find out who the hell he was and what the hell he wanted.
But Fargo would have to move fast. Once the shooter saw that Fargo meant to come at him, he was likely to take off.
Fargo had to duck half a dozen more bullets, a couple of which came whistlingly close to hitting him, before he reached the head of the alley.
The shots had attracted a crowd and when he jumped to his feet, several men in Fourth of July duds said, “You all right, mister?”
But there was no time for reassurances.
Fargo worked his way to the haberdashery whose roof was being used. It wasn’t easy going in the packed walls of humanity lining boardwalk and street alike. A dozen different perfumes and a dozen different tobaccos tinted the air with their scents.
Purty, purty clothes for purty, purty men, Fargo thought as he moved between the aisles of shirts, cravats, hats, and suits. Not his type of attire at all.
He was looking for the owner or a clerk to show him the door to the stairs. Even with all the noise outside, the store was unnaturally quiet.
He soon found the reason why.
A man in a very expensive shirt, cravat, and trousers lay face down near a door in the back room. Fargo’s first impression was that the man was dead.
Fargo dropped to a knee, felt the man’s throat and wrist for a pulse. A strong one. Then he saw the bloody gash in the back of the man’s head where the shooter must have hit him. No wonder the man was still unconscious. He probably
Queeg put a finger like a gun barrel to his head. His thumb was the trigger. “Then my wife won’t have to worry about some gunny coming to town and killing me. I’ll do it myself before Noah does it for me.”
“Well, I hate to tell you this, Queeg, but I’m not sure yet where I’m going past this Cap’n Billy’s place and even if I knew, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”
“You wanna see a photograph of my sweet little kids, Fargo? That might change your mind.”
“Seen enough pictures for one day.”
“I could tell you about the farm I’m hopin’ to buy.”
“No, thanks. I already gave you your two things for the day. That’s my part of the bargain. Now I want you to keep your end of it.”
“I didn’t know I had a part of this bargain.”
“You sure do,” Fargo said, his face showing sudden anger, his body suddenly taut. “You quit followin’ me here and now or I push your face in for you. You understand me, Queeg?”
The anger was not for show. Fargo was sick of being tailed everywhere.
“Yeah, sure, Fargo,” Queeg said, licking his lips, nervous now. The easy-going, amiable Fargo had been replaced by the Trailsman of legend. And the Trailsman, to be sure, was nobody to get riled up. “I won’t be followin’ you anymore, I promise.”
The main street was so packed with day-before revelers that Fargo decided to get to the newspaper by walking the alleys.
He was halfway down the first alley, a friendly brown mutt bouncing along next to him, when the rifle shot came.
Fargo pitched himself away from the trajectory of the bullet, rolling quickly behind a line of small metal containers that held garbage. On this hot day, the stench was many times worse than it would normally be. Fargo didn’t have any choice, though. There was somebody on the roof two doors down. The building sat between smaller buildings with lower roofs. Somebody who’d been keeping a close watch on Fargo. This was one hell of a town for people tailing you. He must have been near Fargo, seen that Fargo was going to turn into the alley, and quickly made his way to the store roof he was using.
Two more shots.
Fargo returned fire but realized that shooting back was useless. A man with a rifle on a roof had the clear advantage.
Fargo decided that the best thing he could do was work his way back to the head of the alley, get on the boardwalk, run through the building the shooter was using, and confront him on the roof. Find out who the hell he was and what the hell he wanted.
But Fargo would have to move fast. Once the shooter saw that Fargo meant to come at him, he was likely to take off.
Fargo had to duck half a dozen more bullets, a couple of which came whistlingly close to hitting him, before he reached the head of the alley.
The shots had attracted a crowd and when he jumped to his feet, several men in Fourth of July duds said, “You all right, mister?”
But there was no time for reassurances.
Fargo worked his way to the haberdashery whose roof was being used. It wasn’t easy going in the packed walls of humanity lining boardwalk and street alike. A dozen different perfumes and a dozen different tobaccos tinted the air with their scents.
Purty, purty clothes for purty, purty men, Fargo thought as he moved between the aisles of shirts, cravats, hats, and suits. Not his type of attire at all.
He was looking for the owner or a clerk to show him the door to the stairs. Even with all the noise outside, the store was unnaturally quiet.
He soon found the reason why.
A man in a very expensive shirt, cravat, and trousers lay face down near a door in the back room. Fargo’s first impression was that the man was dead.
Fargo dropped to a knee, felt the man’s throat and wrist for a pulse. A strong one. Then he saw the bloody gash in the back of the man’s head where the shooter must have hit him. No wonder the man was still unconscious. He probably
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