The Trailsman 317 by Jon Sharpe Page B

fight worth a lick.”
    â€œMore of your passion for violence,” Mabel commented. “One of these days your evil deeds will catch up with you.”
    â€œSo I am evil now, am I? Have you been listening to him?” Skagg jerked a thumb at Fargo.
    â€œHe won’t tell me the cause of the trouble between you two.”
    â€œI might if you ask me real nice,” Skagg said with a leer. “A little sweet talk goes a long way.”
    â€œNeed I remind you I am a lady?”
    â€œIt riles me when a female puts on airs,” Skagg told her. “I have a way of curing you of that flaw.”
    â€œDo you indeed?” Mabel pushed to her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “I have about had my fill of your arrogance. You will leave, and you will leave this instant.”
    Malachi Skagg laughed. “You have spunk. I like that.”
    Fargo was about to stand when he saw one of Skagg’s men stiffen, and the man’s eyes go wide with surprise. The man was gazing past them. Glancing over his shoulder, Fargo saw only the night-shrouded woods.
    Then a bowstring twanged, and out of the forest sped a feathered shaft—straight at Mabel Landry’s back.

7
    Fargo’s reflexes were second to none. He leaped even as he saw the arrow, and tackled Mabel. As quick as he was, she had only started to buckle when the arrow streaked past her head, missing her ear by the width of a fingernail.
    The shaft embedded itself in Malachi Skagg.
    â€œUntillas!” the man whose eyes had widened shouted, and he and his three companions unleashed a leaden firestorm on the forest.
    Mabel had no idea why Fargo had brought her down. She had not seen the arrow strike Skagg. Twisting, she pushed against him, demanding, “What on earth?”
    â€œStay down.” Fargo could not see the warrior who’d let the shaft fly, and he doubted Skagg’s men did, either. They were firing blind, out of panic.
    Amazingly, the one person who was calm and composed was Malachi Skagg, and he had the feathered end of an arrow sticking out of his side and the barbed tip jutting from his back. Skagg had to be in extreme pain but he did not show it. Gripping the arrow, he moved it slightly, as if to gauge whether he should pull it out. “Stop shooting!” he bellowed.
    The frightened foursome complied.
    The man whose eyes had widened ran to Skagg, saying, “How bad is it? What can we do?” He was lean but muscular, with a thick mustache although hardly any beard.
    â€œKeep an eye on the woods, Keller.” Skagg drew one of his knives and cut his buckskin shirt where the arrow had gone through. Grunting, he remarked, “I think it glanced off a rib. I would be a goner if it hadn’t.”
    â€œThe damn Untillas!” Keller snapped. “This makes the third time they have let loose an arrow on us.”
    â€œIt is me they are after—” Skagg began. Catching himself, he glanced sharply at Fargo and Mabel.
    The other three riflemen had fanned out and moved to the edge of the clearing. One of them asked, “Should we go after the red bastard?”
    â€œWhat good would it do, Hemp?” Skagg responded. “He is long gone by now, and you can’t track him in the dark.”
    Fargo rose and helped Mabel up. She brushed at her clothes, then turned to Malachi Skagg.
    â€œI can get that out for you if you want. I have doctored a few hurt people over the years.”
    Skagg was as surprised as Fargo. “That is all right. I know what to do, lady.” Reaching behind him, he gripped the barbed end of the shaft and broke the tip off as easily as Fargo might break a dry twig, then held the bloody barb near to the fire to inspect it. “It is a good thing the Untillas don’t poison their arrows like some tribes do.”
    â€œWhy are they out to get you?” Mabel asked.
    â€œThey don’t like whites, is all.” Skagg cast the tip to the ground.