High Country Horror by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online Page B

the mountains somewhere and only comes to town every three months to steal women? What about the rest of the time? He’d need food and other supplies, and Haven is the only place to get them for hundreds of miles around.”
    “It has to be one of your good citizens,” Fargo agreed.
    Tibbit frowned. “You won’t ever stop needling me about that, will you? Very well. Yes, it has to be one of our good citizens.”
    Fargo climbed back on the Ovaro and once again reined to the east. This time he went twice as far and when he didn’t find any sign of the abductor he wheeled the Ovaro and went to the west twice as far. Once again, nothing. Drawing rein, he leaned on the saddle horn and vented his frustration with a heartfelt, “Damn it to hell.”
    “I know bad news when I hear it.”
    “We’ve lost him,” Fargo confirmed. He couldn’t remember the last time something like this had happened.
    “You tried your best.”
    “Don’t,” Fargo said angrily. He reined around and debated whether to try again or make a wide sweep. He chose the latter and gigged the Ovaro into the forest.
    Marshal Tibbit brought his mount up next to the stallion. “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. I have other duties I must attend to. Do you mind searching by yourself for a while?”
    “Do what you have to,” Fargo said. He’d never had a problem with being alone. Some people did. Some considered it downright unsocial not to crave human company. They liked to live in towns and cities where they were surrounded by others just like them. Not him. He could go weeks or months and not see another living soul and be perfectly content. It seemed to him that just as some depended on liquor to get through the day and others frequented opium dens because they couldn’t do without, there were those who couldn’t do without people.
    Tibbit was trotting off. He smiled and waved and hollered, “Come to my office when you’re done.”
    Fargo squinted skyward. He had hours yet of daylight left, plenty of time to find out how he had been tricked. He rode in a half circle that brought him back to the rim about the same distance to the west of the talus. Nothing. He tried again, a wider loop, searching bent low to better see the ground. Once again, nothing.
    Fargo drew rein and put his hands on the saddle horn. “This doesn’t make any kind of sense,” he said to the Ovaro. There was nothing for it but to try a third time and range wider than ever. He reined into the trees and was soon fifty yards in. Then a hundred. He thought he saw a track and practically swung onto the side of the stallion to be sure—just as a rifle boomed and a pine next to the stallion thudded to the impact of a slug.
    The shot came from the direction of the canyon.
    Instantly, Fargo reined away and used his spurs. He stayed low over the saddle horn in case the bushwhacker tried again. When he had gone far enough to deem it to be safe, he reined up, vaulted down, and shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard. Levering a round into the chamber, he stalked toward where he expected the shooter to be—near the rim. But either he was mistaken or the assassin had changed position because he came to the brink without seeing anyone.
    Fargo hunkered behind a pine. He figured that whoever was out there would try again if he showed himself. Taking a breath, he stepped into the open. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him not to. He was alert for movement, for the slightest sound.
    The woods stayed still.
    Fargo stalked to the canyon’s edge, stopping often to probe the vegetation. He gazed down at the talus, and lower. No one, nor a mount, was anywhere to be seen. He kicked at the ground and a few pebbles slid over the side. Careful not to silhouette himself, he prowled the rim in both directions.
    Half an hour later he was as baffled as he had ever been.
    Fargo sat on a boulder to think. Shots didn’t come out of nowhere, so where had the shooter been? He was mulling the