Beartooth Incident by Jon Sharpe

seemed impossibly far away. He shuffled toward it, sliding first one foot a few inches and then the other. His stomach growled and kept on growling. The ache grew worse. His bite wounds oddly didn’t hurt that much. He attributed it to some kind of ointment Mary had applied when she stitched and bandaged him.
    Fargo reached the door. He put an ear to it but he didn’t hear so much as a snore. The latch scraped slightly. He listened at the crack but again heard nothing. Puzzled, he opened the door farther. The room beyond was dark. Not a single candle glowed. He thought he made out the fireplace in the far wall but the fire was out.
    Given the cold and the snow, Fargo thought that strange. He opened the door even more and took a step, seeking some sign of where Tull and the Harpers were sleeping. The next instant his leg struck something, throwing him off balance. He grabbed at the wall to keep from falling but it was too late. Down he crashed, onto his hands and knees, and the knife went skittering.
    A harsh laugh came out of the dark. A match flared and was held to the wick of a large candle. A glow spread across the floor, revealing Fargo. Revealing, too, a rope that had been stretched across the bottom of the door about six inches from the floor.
    “Pretty slick if I say so myself,” Tull declared, and came out of the shadows, his pearl-handled Colt in his hand.
    Fargo spied Mary and the children, tied wrist and ankle and gagged, over in a corner.
    “I didn’t want them taking an ax to me in the middle of the night,” Tull said. “Or warning you.” He chortled at his cleverness.
    “You expected me to try something?”
    “Let’s just say I wasn’t convinced you couldn’t get out of that bed if you put your mind to it. So I took precautions.”
    Without being obvious, Fargo was searching for the toothpick. He thought it had slid to his right. The gleam of metal under a chair told him where it was. So far, Tull hadn’t seen it. “I came out for a drink of water.”
    “You could have just hollered.”
    “And wake everyone up? I figured I could do it myself.”
    “Ain’t you considerate,” Tull scoffed. He moved to the table, swung a chair around, and straddled it. “Am I supposed to believe that?”
    “Why wouldn’t you?”
    “Because that corn-haired filly yonder put a full pitcher and a glass on the dresser in the bedroom. I saw her with my own eyes.”
    “I didn’t. I was out.”
    Tull scratched his chin with his Colt. “Now that I think of it, you were. You just might be telling the truth, seeing as how you don’t have a weapon.” He indicated a bucket on the counter. “Help yourself.”
    Fargo had to try twice to stand. Once again he swayed.
    “Look at you. A puff of wind and you’re liable to keel over.”
    “Can I untie the Harpers?”
    “I’ll do it in the morning when I wake up. Get your water and get back to bed.”
    Fargo took a few halting steps and deliberately swayed even worse. “I need to sit down or someone will have to carry me.”
    “Don’t look at me.” Tull pointed his Colt at the very chair the Arkansas toothpick was under. “Sit there. But as soon as you’ve caught your breath, get your damn water and get back into the damn bed.”
    Fargo put on a show of gratefully slumping down. He bent over with his elbows on his legs and bowed his head. “I’m about done in.”
    “I couldn’t care less.”
    Fargo contrived to peer under the chair. The toothpick was just out of reach. He shifted slightly and slowly eased his hand down along the chair leg. He didn’t think Tull noticed. He was wrong.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Just scratching an itch.” Fargo straightened. He closed his eyes but not all the way.
    Tull was staring suspiciously at the floor under the chair. Suddenly rising, he leveled his Colt. “Get up and take three steps back.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me. And do it pronto or lose a knee.” Reluctantly, his hands out from his sides, Fargo