Wyoming Winterkill by Jon Sharpe Page B

that?”
    Margaret didn’t reply.
    â€œI don’t think I’ll feed you any more,” Jessie said. “Mr. Fargo is right. You don’t deserve any food.”
    â€œGo to hell.”
    Fargo figured the girl was so worn out she’d turn in early but she came and sank down next to him and talked his ears off about the pet dog she’d had once, about her pet cat, about her friends, about how she liked to help her ma in the kitchen, and how her pa had a beard just like his. He didn’t have to say much; he’d nod and she took that as a sign he was interested.
    Fargo felt sorry for her. Without parents and grandparents, she’d be put up for adoption. And there weren’t a lot of people beating down the door to adopt these days, or so he’d heard. Something to do with most folks thought adopted kids were more bother than they were worth. Sounded cruel to him, but there it was.
    It took a while, but Jessie talked herself out.
    He spread blankets and saw to it she was bundled close enough to the fire to keep warm and started to turn away.
    â€œWait. Don’t you want to hear me say my prayers? Ma and Grandma always did.”
    â€œSay them to yourself,” Fargo said, marveling that she could.
    â€œAll right.” Jessie clasped her hands and her mouth moved silently.
    Fargo saw Margaret smirk and he almost hit her. When Jessie was done he pulled the blanket higher and sat across from her where he could keep an eye on them both, the Henry in his lap.
    He wasn’t worried about hostiles. Few would be abroad in the bad weather, and fewer still this close to the fort. Wild beasts were another matter. And Fletcher was out there, somewhere.
    He stayed awake as long as he could. Along about two his eyelids grew so heavy that he curled on his side and let himself drift off. Margaret was snoring so he reckoned it was safe.
    The fire, the quiet, he slept like one dead until shortly before the break of day.
    Awaking with a start, he sat bolt upright. The air had a smoky scent.
    Jessie and Margaret were still asleep.
    Relieved, Fargo kindled the fire. He made oatmeal for Jessie. For him it was coffee as usual.
    The snow had stopped, leaving a good eight inches. He could see his breath and that of the horses.
    Margaret hadn’t stirred. She lay with her arms behind her and her legs bent as he came around and sank to a knee to rouse her.
    Without warning she was in motion. Her left hand shot to his Colt even as her right clawed at his eyes. Instinctively, he jerked back. He saved his eyes but her nails raked his cheek, drawing blood and hurting like hell. He grabbed her left wrist as she yanked his Colt clear and tried to grab her right wrist but missed.
    Hissing like a rattler, Margaret drove her foot at his middle. He twisted but it wasn’t enough. She caught him good; it felt as if his stomach tried to burst out his spine.
    Fargo’s vision swam. His grip on her wrist slackened. She wrenched but he held on. Suddenly he could see again, see her other hand streak to the Colt and level it at him. He struck her arm as the revolver went off, heard Jessie cry out.
    Rage gripped him. Fargo punched Margaret’s jaw once, twice, each blow rocking her head but she still tried to steady the Colt to shoot him. He punched her a third time, not holding back. There was a sharp
crack
and Margaret sagged.
    Fargo tore the Colt from her fingers and raised it to strike her over the head, but didn’t. She was out cold. He turned, fearing what he’d see, and almost laughed in relief.
    Jessie hadn’t been hit by the slug. She had her hand to her throat and was wide-eyed with shock. “You hurt her!”
    â€œShe was trying to hurt me.”
    â€œIs she dead?”
    â€œI wish.”
    â€œYou don’t mean that.” Jessie knelt and touched Margaret’s jaw where a bruise was darkening. “You hit her really hard.”
    â€œIt’s too bad I didn’t