The Trailsman 317 by Jon Sharpe

Skagg’s men. He did not need the Untillas to complicate matters.
    The afternoon waned and evening fell. Mabel, who had been unable to sit still for more than two minutes, turned to him and whispered, “Do you have the feeling we are being watched? I did not want to say anything because I thought it might be a case of nerves, but I have felt eyes on me for quite a while now.”
    â€œSo have I.” Fargo spread out his blankets and propped his saddle for a pillow. He leaned back, the Henry at his side. From under his hat brim he scoured the vegetation. He saw nothing, and was about convinced he was wasting his time when a thicket parted, framing a face and a partially scalped head. “You can come out,” Fargo said. “I won’t shoot you.”
    Binder cautiously emerged. As he crossed the clearing, he repeatedly glanced over his shoulder.
    â€œWorried about something?” Mabel asked.
    â€œIf Skagg finds out I came, my life won’t be worth a gob of spit,” Binder replied. “I reckon you have guessed why I am here so let’s get down to business. You made mention of a hundred dollars. I want half in advance and the other half when we reach the cabin.”
    â€œNot so fast,” Mabel said. “What cabin are you talking about?”
    â€œThe one your brother built. The one he was living in,” Binder said. “I have been there several times and can lead you right to it.” He held out a dirty palm. “Fifty dollars, if you please.”
    â€œI don’t please,” Mabel said. “I am not a fool. I offered a hundred and I will pay a hundred, but only when we get there. Not before.”
    â€œI am taking my life in my hands and you are quibbling,” Binder objected.
    â€œPut yourself in my shoes,” Mabel said. “You could be lying. If I pay you the fifty, I might never see you again.”
    â€œAll right,” Binder said sourly. “I will be here first thing in the morning to guide you. It will take the better part of three days to get there.”
    â€œThat long?”
    â€œYour brother wanted to be shed of human company, remember?” Binder said. “He was a strange one, but I liked him. He always treated me decent.”
    â€œYou talk about him in the past tense,” Mabel said. “Why is that? What has happened?”
    â€œI am sorry.” Shaking his head, Binder backed toward the trees. “I will take you there but that is all I will do. The rest you must figure out on your own.” He stopped. “If you are smart, though, you won’t be here come morning. You will pack up and head back before it is too late.” He pointed at Fargo. “Skagg hates your guts, mister. He has special plans for you. Plans that call for you to suffer. I wouldn’t want to be you for all the money in creation.” So saying, he spun on a heel and vanished into the greenery.
    â€œWell,” Mabel said.
    Fargo began to pour himself a cup of coffee.
    â€œHave you nothing to say? An apology, perhaps? My little idea worked, didn’t it?” When Fargo did not reply, she changed the subject. “Earlier Skagg mentioned that you broke his nose. Is that why he hates you so much? Why did you do it, anyway?”
    Memories flooded through Fargo. He had stopped at the Landing for the night, and was at a corner table, eating, minding his own business. Tamar had waited on him and they had talked a while. She was friendly and lonely and eager for company. He did not know Skagg considered her his woman. His first inkling of trouble came when he saw Skagg glaring at him. Skagg had been drinking heavily. Without warning, he came around the counter, walked up behind her, and cuffed her over the head. Tamar fell to her knees. Nearly hysterical with fear, she asked Skagg what she had done. Instead of answering, Skagg commenced striking her about her shoulders and back. Again and again and again, and all the while