Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe Page A

escape and I’ll shoot you in the leg. Try to run the horses off and I’ll shoot you in both legs. Try to hurt Jessie and you join Lector and Hector and George Wilbur in whatever hereafter there is.”
    â€œGod, I hate you.”
    Fargo slugged her a second time.
    Margaret thrashed so violently, it was a wonder she didn’t tear the saddle loose.
    Jessie giggled and said, “That isn’t very nice.”
    To redo the cinch, Fargo first had to untie both of Margaret’s legs and dump her on the ground. When he finished and reached for her, she shook his hand off and stood on her own. Moving stiffly, she climbed on.
    As Fargo turned to the Ovaro, white flakes began to fall.
    â€œOh look!” Jessie cried in delight. “Snow!”

9
    By the time they had gone a mile there were two inches on the ground. By later afternoon, five inches.
    â€œIsn’t it pretty?” Jessie said.
    Fargo supposed it was the continual parade of large fluffy flakes falling so gently to earth. He was too concerned with where they’d make camp and how deep the snow would get to admire it.
    Visibility was a few dozen yards, if that. Without the sun to guide him, he had to rely on his sense of direction. Fortunately, it seldom failed him. He stuck to a northwesterly course, as near as he could.
    A belt of woods offered haven.
    Fargo found a small clearing where the trees sheltered them from the worst of the snow and the wind. He set about stripping their animals and getting a fire going. He left Margaret trussed on her side and took Jessie with him when he gathered firewood. She cheerfully helped. He’d forgotten that children bounced back from tragedy a lot quicker than adults. Or maybe they were just better at hiding their feelings.
    With a fire crackling and coffee on, his spirits improved. He’d brought food from the trading post, including flour, and cooked biscuits for the girl to go with the pemmican stew he made. It wasn’t exactly a feast but it tasted right fine.
    â€œWhat about me?” Margaret asked. He had removed her gag when he dumped her on the ground. Not because he wanted to. Jessie asked him to do it.
    Fargo dipped his biscuit into the gravy, took a bite, and smacked his lips. “What about you?”
    â€œDon’t I get to eat?”
    â€œNo.”
    Jessie looked up from her tin plate. “That wouldn’t be right.”
    â€œAn empty belly will do her wonders,” Fargo said.
    â€œMy grandma said we always have to be nice to people, even when they’re not nice to us.”
    â€œYour grandma is dead,” Fargo said, and regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. “If you want, give her a little of your food.” He’d be damned if he would.
    Jessie hunkered and spooned the stew slowly so as not to spill it.
    â€œThank you, little one,” Margaret said after her first swallow. “You know, it wasn’t my doing. Your grandparents, I mean. It was Fletcher’s idea, him and the others.”
    Fargo was around the fire in two long strides. Sinking to a knee, he grabbed Margaret by the throat, and squeezed. She struggled, but there was nothing she could do. When her face was near purple and she was gasping for breath, he said, “Try that again and you won’t like what happens.” He let go.
    Margaret doubled over, coughing and wheezing.
    Jessie was agog. “What did she do?”
    â€œShe’s trying to cozy up to you, pretending she’s your friend.”
    â€œOh. Don’t worry. I know she’s not. I’d never trust her.”
    Fargo grunted. He went back around and sat cross-legged. The snow had tapered but not stopped entirely. It was full dark and soon the temperature would take a drastic drop.
    Margaret’s face was a mask of murderous hate. She coughed and shook and finally lay still.
    â€œI know it was you killed my grandma,” Jessie said to her. “How could you do