Death Devil (9781101559666) by Jon Sharpe Page B

nothing happened.
    A bush thirty feet away moved.
    Fargo pretended not to notice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the stems part. There was the suggestion of a face.
    The tip of an arrow slowly aligned with his body.
    Fargo swiveled and fired twice, fanning the hammer. At the second blast the man bleated and rose and fled. Fargo saw white hair but not the man’s face. Eagerly, he came to a gallop.
    The fleeing form darted around a pine. Seconds later Fargo did the same. Too late, Fargo saw an oak tree—and a low limb.
    He tried to rein aside but the limb caught him across the chest and slammed him out of the saddle. The pain was excruciating. He was dimly aware of flying and hitting so hard, the world spun. His world blinked to black for a few seconds; then his senses returned in a rush. He sat up. The blow hadn’t done his ribs any favors. His side hurt worse than ever. He realized he had dropped the Colt and groped for it, and then a shadow fell across him.
    An old man stood a few yards away. In his left hand was a bow, at his hip an empty quiver. His white hair and age-ravaged face were bespattered with dry scarlet drops from the animals he had killed. His bloodshot eyes glittered like quartz. The man laughed his crazy laugh, exposing yellow teeth.
    â€œSawyer?” Fargo said.
    The man dropped the bow.
    â€œI’m a friend of Doc Jackson’s,” Fargo said. “Why the hell are you trying to kill me?”
    Sawyer—if that was who it was—tittered and danced a little jig.
    â€œAnswer me, you damned lunatic.”
    Suddenly the man went into violent convulsions, his arms and legs jerking spasmodically. Simultaneously, a white froth oozed from his mouth.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Fargo blurted.
    The foam continued to spill out, dribbling down the man’s chin and over the front of his shirt.
    â€œWhat in hell’s the matter with you?”
    The convulsions stopped. The man stood still. He stared blankly at the sky and at the trees and at Fargo. He gurgled, and reached under his coat.
    â€œHell,” Fargo said.
    The old man drew a knife.
    Fargo spotted his Colt. He pushed up and lunged but the man sprang in front of him. Cold steel sought his jugular. He rolled and came up in a crouch and the old man laughed and came at him again. There was a sharp prick on his shoulder.
    Falling back, Fargo kicked him in the leg.
    The white-haired loon howled and stumbled but he recovered in a twinkling.
    Fargo dived for the Colt. His fingers touched the grips but he had to roll away to avoid another thrust of the man’s knife blade.
    The old man cackled and hopped up and down.
    Pushing to a knee, Fargo slid his fingers into his boot. “Let’s see how you like it,” he growled in fury, and drew the Arkansas toothpick. As it came clear the old man did the last thing Fargo expected—he whirled and ran.
    Fargo scooped up his Colt, took several bounds, and stopped in disbelief.
    The man was gone.
    Fargo searched everywhere; behind trees, behind boulders, behind a log.
    Nothing.
    Fargo’s fury climbed. He’d been made a fool of—again. Climbing on the Ovaro, he expanded his search. For half an hour he scoured the forest and finally had to admit defeat. It was as if the old man had vanished into thin air.
    Fargo headed for the cabin. He didn’t know what to make of his clash. He’d heard tell that people foamed at the mouth when they had rabies, and he wondered if the old man had been bit by a rabid animal and come down with the disease. He’d have to ask Belinda Jackson about the symptoms.
    Flies were still crawling all over the carcasses. Half a dozen buzzards had also arrived and were tearing at the mule, save for one of the big birds that was partial to pig meat. Flapping noisily when he came out of the woods, they rose into the sky and circled.
    Fargo reined up and slid down. Yanking the Henry from the scabbard, he worked the lever to feed a