Six-Gun Gallows Read Free Page B

of his campfire to bake. Several hours after sunset yesterday he had ridden into Sublette with the survivors of the massacre. After resting and graining the Ovaro, he had headed west twenty miles or so to the Cimarron River and made camp.
    He had been followed all the way by several men who kept their distance but made no effort to hide. Exactly why, Fargo wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with that mysterious pouch, although he wasn’t sure how anyone could know he had it. At any rate, Fargo’s ride north to the Nebraska Panhandle would have to wait—after what he witnessed yesterday, there was a blood reckoning coming.
    At the moment, however, he had “visitors” closer to hand. Clumsy ones, at that. Once again he heard rustling noises from wild plum bushes near the river.
    â€œTell me, boys,” Fargo called out. “You gonna hide in them bushes all day, or do you plan to shoot me? The suspense is killing me.”
    â€œMister, we got you covered!” shouted the voice of an obviously young man. “We’re coming out! If you go for that pistol, we’ll make a sieve outta you!”
    Fargo, chewing a hot corn dodger, fought back a grin. “That’s mighty gaudy patter. By the way, this Colt is a revolver, not a pistol. Are’n’cha s’posed to shout out, ‘Toss down your gun!’?”
    After an awkward pause: “Toss down your gun!”
    â€œAtta boy. But if you don’t mind, I’ll lay it down gently. These walnut grips damage easy.”
    Fargo lay his Colt in the grass and continued eating. The bushes rustled some more as two boys, barely on the cusp of manhood, emerged and moved cautiously toward him. Both lads were tall, gangly towheads with fair skin burned raw by the late summer sun. Clearly they were brothers, the eldest stronger in the chest and sporting some blond fuzz on his cheeks and upper lip.
    The oldest one wagged a big Smith & Wesson Volcanic pistol at Fargo. “This here is a holdup, mister. Hand over your money.”
    Fargo fished a horseshoe nail from his shirt pocket and used it as a toothpick, still watching the boys. Both were severely underfed and wore flour-sack clothing, their floppy hats stained and burned from doubling as pot holders.
    â€œYou deef, mister?” the young man demanded. “Break out your money or it’s curtains!”
    â€œCurtains?” Fargo laughed. “So you two owlhoots are about half rough, is that it?”
    He snatched his Colt out of the grass and blew the Volcanic out of the older brother’s hand. Before it could hit the ground, Fargo shot it again, sending it off in another arc.
    â€œKaty Christ!” the kid exclaimed. “That’s fancy shootin’, mister! Are you a gunfighter?”
    â€œNo, I generally earn my wages the honest way.” Fargo twirled the Colt back into its holster. “Name’s Skye Fargo. Who are you boys?”
    â€œI’m Dub McCallister,” the oldest said. “This here’s my brother Nate.”
    â€œBoth of you look like you just crawled out of three-cornered britches. Does your mother know you’re out?”
    Dub scowled. “I’m nineteen and Nate’s seventeen. We’re old enough to fend for ourselves.”
    â€œYeah, I see that,” Fargo said sarcastically. “Let me give you two ‘road agents’ a tip. Even with the hammer back, a pistol that’s loaded should look dark as the inside of a boot when you look down the barrel. Yours has light streaming through it. You two best find another line of work—you’re poor shakes as holdup men.”
    â€œDub, you shitheel!” Nate lashed out. “I told you to cram some grass down the barrel!”
    â€œShut your piehole, clodpole, before I—”
    â€œBoth of you knock it off,” Fargo snapped. “By right of territorial law, I can shoot the pair of you for cause.”
    Both towheads