Beartooth Incident by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online Page B

them.
    “Stay in that bed, mister, you hear?” He started to turn.
    Fargo’s stomach growled, prompting him to say, “I can use something to eat.”
    “Eh?”
    “I’m half starved. I’d be obliged if you’d let Mrs. Harper finish feeding me.”
    “Would you, now?” Tull chuckled. “Why waste good food on a dead man?” He shut the door and his spurs jangled.
    Fargo hadn’t counted on this. He figured that with some food in him, he’d be able to crawl under the bed, get the toothpick, and have a nasty surprise for Tull the next time he came in.
    “Now what?” Fargo wondered out loud. The longer he lay there without a bite to eat, the weaker he would get. He remembered Tull saying it would be three days before Cud Sten showed up. By then he would be so weak, he wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to save himself. There was only one thing to do. But could he, in his condition?
    Fargo doubted Tull would come back in anytime soon. He should have all the time he needed. Placing his hand over the side of the bed, he slid toward the edge. It took all he had. His wounds weren’t to blame so much as all the blood he had lost. If he hadn’t lost it . . . He gave his head an angry toss. A long time ago life had taught him that ifs were so much thin air. Ifs were make-believe. What mattered was what was .
    With an effort, Fargo eased his shoulder over the edge. He was careful to go slow—not that he could go much faster if he wanted to—and when gravity took over, he got his arm under him to cushion the short drop. He surprised himself. He made it without adding to his agony. After resting a minute, he crawled under the bed and extended his hand as far as he could reach. It wasn’t quite far enough. He crawled a little farther and his fingers closed on the toothpick’s hilt.
    Getting out of bed had proven easy enough but getting back in wasn’t. Twice Fargo tried to rise, and twice he sank back, betrayed by his own body. He considered staying on the floor. That might make Tull suspicious and he needed Tull close to use the knife.
    Putting both forearms on the bed, Fargo gritted his teeth and marshaled his muscles. He couldn’t get all of himself up, but he did succeed in sliding his shoulders and the top of his chest onto the sheets. After another break, he managed the rest of him. It left him exhausted and caked in sweat.
    Fargo curled on his side with his back to the door, the toothpick low against his leg. “Puny, am I?” he muttered. “I’ll show you, you son of a bitch.” He closed his eyes, thinking to rest a bit, and was startled when he opened them again to find the room plunged in darkness. The candle had gone out, or someone had blown it out.
    Fargo rolled over. The cabin was quiet. He glanced at the bottom of the bedroom door. No light showed. He reckoned night had fallen, and the others must have turned in. Tull, too, evidently.
    The sleep had done Fargo some good. He felt a little better, except for a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He was so hungry his mouth watered at the thought of food.
    Ever so slowly, Fargo slid his legs over and placed both feet flat on the floor. The boards were cool on his naked soles. All he had on were his pants, courtesy of Mary before she hid him under the bed. He admired that lady, admired her a lot. She had a sharp head on her shapely shoulders. And she had uncommon courage. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for her, stranded deep in the Beartooth Mountains, living on the razor’s edge of existence, the lives of her children hanging on her every decision.
    Fargo tried to stand. He willed his legs to raise him and they got him halfway up. Then they gave out and he plopped back down. This wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. He concentrated all his will and this time his legs did as he wanted but when he was all the way up a bout of light-headedness nearly brought him down again. He swayed but steadied himself.
    The door, a vague outline in the dark,