Death Devil (9781101559666) by Jon Sharpe Page A

excuses for them all you want,” Fargo said, “but a son of a bitch is a son of a bitch.”
    â€œYou are a hard one,” Belinda said.
    Fargo thought of what he would like to do with her after supper. “You haven’t seen hard yet,” he said with a straight face. He stood there while she wheeled her buggy toward the settlement. Once she was out of sight he climbed on the Ovaro. Instead of reining after her, he rode in the opposite direction.
    â€œI’ve never been fond of folks trying to kill me,” he said to the stallion. “An eye for an eye, I always say.”
    The sun was high in the sky when he reached the clearing in the woods. A legion of flies swarmed the dead animals. The cabin door was partway open. He saw no movement within.
    Fargo alighted and palmed the Colt. Holding the reins in his left hand, he stalked into the woods near the point where the bowman had let the arrows fly. The ground was covered with leaves and pine needles that didn’t bear tracks well. He found a few scuff marks, enough to tell him that the archer wore boots and not moccasins.
    The scuff marks led deeper in.
    Climbing on the Ovaro, Fargo tracked his quarry. Or tried to. After only fifty feet the marks ended. He rode in circles seeking to find sign again, and couldn’t. Drawing rein, he said quietly, “It’s one of those days.”
    The Ovaro pricked its ears.
    From out of the undergrowth came a maniacal shriek, part laugh, part scream. It was so close that Fargo gave a start and jerked the Colt up. He glimpsed a figure and went to shoot but the figure melted away. A jab of his spurs and he rode toward it.
    Another shriek, from the left, warned him the figure had changed position.
    Fargo shifted in the saddle.
    There was the distinct twang of a bowstring and an arrow streaked out of the foliage toward his chest.

8
    Luck favored Fargo. The arrow clipped a tree limb and was deflected instead of burying itself in his flesh.
    Fargo fired at the vegetation where the arrow had come from and jabbed his spurs. He skirted several trees. Up ahead, a dark figure was bounding like an antelope. He fired again and the figure cackled and disappeared.
    â€œNot this time,” Fargo said. He reached the spot and scoured the woodland. Whoever the man was—and Fargo had his suspicions—he was a damn ghost.
    A thicket crackled. Fargo caught sight of a flying form. He sought to overtake it but there were so many trees and boulders, he couldn’t gain.
    A pair of spruce reared in front of him. Fargo plunged between them, their branches so thick, it was a wonder he didn’t lose an eye. He burst into the clear—and hauled on the reins.
    A steep bluff fell before him, a drop of sixty or seventy feet. In a slew of dirt he slid the Ovaro to a stop and gazed down at jagged boulders.
    Fargo’s skin crawled at how close he had come. He was sure the man had deliberately lured him there to send him over the edge. Another maniacal laugh caused him to rein around and resume the chase. The figure bounded and leaped with the agility of a jackrabbit. He saw flying white hair and what might be a brown coat.
    â€œHold on there!” Fargo hollered, but he was wasting his breath.
    Once again the figure vanished.
    Fargo had the feeling he was being played for a fool. The man he was after knew the woods well. He must be careful not to be tricked a second time.
    Another screech keened, the demented cry of an earthbound banshee.
    Fargo reined toward the sound and rose in the stirrups, hoping for another glimpse of his quarry. The undergrowth thwarted him; it was too heavy.
    Acting on inspiration, Fargo drew rein. If he couldn’t catch the bastard, maybe he could lure him out. Cocking the Colt, he held it close to his hip, ready to shoot. A somber quiet fell.
    Fargo felt unseen eyes on him. Tensed to dive from the saddle if another arrow was let fly, he waited. The seconds dragged into minutes but