California Crackdown by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online

middle of the street to see what was going on. He knew he had only a minute or two to find his man. The shooter would have a horse waiting for him. He’d be in the saddle as soon as he worked his way down off the flat roof of the general store.
    Fargo was almost across the street and ready to run to the alley that divided the general store from the druggist’s when somebody shouted, “Look out, mister!”
    Fargo heard the horse before he saw him. And when he saw him he realized that the gunman wasn’t his only problem. Something had spooked the big animal. No surprise after gunfire and all the calamity in the street. Horses weren’t any different from humans in that respect. When they got scared, their natural instinct was to flee. And that’s what this bucking, whinnying animal was trying to do.
    The girl riding the paint was now as spooked as the horse, trying to bring it under control. Fargo moved away from the hooves of the animal so that he was in no danger, but he couldn’t just let the young girl get thrown off and hurt.
    Fargo knew a trick a wise Virginian stable owner had once taught him. When you’re dealing with a spooked horse, the fastest and surest way to get it unspooked is to grab the reins and force it to point its head down. Most spooked horses have their heads raised to the sky. Lowering the head calms the animal and takes its attention away from whatever spooked him.
    Fargo ran to the girl. She was screaming for help. All her confidence in handling her horse was gone. All that was left was fear. Every time the animal bucked she screamed louder. Fargo’s first instinct had been to shout his instructions to the girl. But he could see she was too panicked to hear him.
    He reached up and grabbed the reins himself. He pulled on them firmly and said, “Calm down, boy; calm down.” The girl kept on screaming, which didn’t help a whole hell of a lot.
    But after keeping his hand on the reins and repeating, “Calm down, boy,” several times, the paint began to respond enough that Fargo could grab the girl and lower her to the ground while keeping control of the animal.
    Fargo patted the horse’s neck and continued speaking to him in a soothing voice. Head lowered, breathing starting to sound normal again, the paint became the trustworthy family horse it usually was.
    The onlookers were impressed. He felt many pats on his back and shoulders. The young girl was crying but thanking him over and over. Two or three men offered to buy him a drink.
    Fargo’s attention was fixed on the general store across from him. The gunman would be long gone. But he might have left some clues about his identity.
    Fargo walked into the general store. The various smells were intoxicating. New denim, leather, licorice, tobacco, flour—no wonder the old ones liked to sit in general stores and play checkers all day.
    The small Swede in the rimless glasses behind the counter said, “I seen it all, mister. Them shots somebody took at you, I mean. And I want you to know I didn’t have nothing to do with it. We was workin’ on the roof the last couple days and left a ladder in back. That’s what the sonofabitch used and I want you to know I’m sorry.”
    “Good enough.” The Swede had answered Fargo’s first question. No complicity. The gunman had used the roof because of its location directly across from the hotel. And he’d even had a little help, a ladder left innocently against the back of the store. “I guess I’ll check out the roof myself.”
    “I sure hope you catch him, friend. This town’s got enough troubles without people shootin’ at people right here on Main Street.”
    The roof wasn’t any help in figuring out who the shooter had been. He’d been smart enough to take his shells and whether on purpose or not his boot prints were lost in the boot prints of many other men. Fargo stood in the position the gunman had taken. He had to change his mind about the prowess of the man. Even given all the