Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page B

Fargo. “What do you say we should do?”
    Fargo agreed with her brother but for a different reason. “Whoever killed him might still be around. And there’s the Blackfeet to think of.”
    â€œSo you’re saying we leave him there to rot?”
    â€œHe’ll rot underground, too.”
    â€œYes, but . . .” Aramone looked at her brother and at Fargo. “All right. I’m against it but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”
    Fargo wondered if it was an act on her part. What did she care about a complete stranger?
    They climbed on their horses while he went for the Ovaro. Together, they scaled the cap rock to the next timber.
    Fargo made it a point to let them go first. He’d rather have them in front of him than at his back. He couldn’t think of a reason for them to kill the farmer, but he’d be damned if he’d trust them.
    â€œWe should make camp and talk this over,” Aramone proposed.
    â€œAnd waste hours of daylight?” Glyn said, shaking his head. “What purpose would it serve? I say we keep searching for the bull.”
    Once again Fargo agreed.
    Aramone slowed so her sorrel could pace the Ovaro. “I’m sorry about my brother,” she said. “He’s not exactly a fount of human kindness.”
    â€œWho is?” Fargo said.
    â€œHe’s always been more practical than me,” Aramone remarked. “I suppose I should be grateful.”
    â€œNeither of you should be here.”
    â€œThat’s a fine thing to say. Especially since I think it’s wonderful, us joining up.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œWhen we make camp, we’ll have the whole night ahead of us.” Aramone grinned. “Whatever will we do with ourselves?”
    â€œYou have something in mind?”
    Her gaze drifted to a spot several inches below his belt buckle. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

17
    Supper consisted of stew and biscuits.
    Glyn cooked, not Aramone. They had enough grub on their packhorse to last a month of Sundays. None of it beans, Fargo’s staple. They’d brought flour and sugar and a sack of potatoes and carrots, of all things. Fargo hardly ever saw anyone pack carrots.
    The meat in the stew was rabbit.
    Glyn shot it, not Fargo. It had broken from cover ahead of them and stopped, as rabbits often did, to look back and see if they were giving chase. And just like that, Glyn’s hand whipped under his jacket and reappeared holding a Colt pocket pistol and he put a slug in the rabbit’s head.
    It was some shooting, Fargo had to admit. It raised his estimation of Richmond and also provoked a few questions.
    Now, seated across from them as they dipped their spoons in their bowls and hungrily ate, Fargo voiced one of them.
    â€œWhere’d you learn to shoot like that?”
    Glyn paused with his spoon half raised. “I’ve hunted a lot.”
    â€œMost hunters back east use a rifle.”
    â€œDepends on what you hunt,” Glyn said, and Aramone laughed.
    They seemed to be expecting him to ask, so Fargo did. “What did you hunt?”
    â€œMen, and a few females besides.”
    â€œYou’re a bounty hunter?” Fargo asked in surprise.
    â€œWe both are.”
    Aramone piped up with, “They offer bounties east of the Mississippi River the same as they do west of it. Outlaws, debt shirks, escaped slaves, you name it.”
    â€œAnd you help him?”
    â€œShe does more than help,” Glyn said. “We’re in this as equals.”
    â€œYou’re a long way from the States,” Fargo said.
    â€œA bounty brought us here,” Aramone said. “A man wanted in Missouri for a killing. We took up his trail and he crossed the Mississippi to get away from us.”
    â€œWe caught up with him near Fort Laramie,” Glyn took up the account. “That’s where we saw a circular about the bull.”
    â€œAnd five