Grizzly Fury

Fargo had witnessed enough. He didn’t like the odds but he couldn’t sit there and do nothing. Staying in shadow at the edge of the road, he rode toward them at a walk. His intent was to get as close as he could before he let lead fly but he was still twenty yards out when one of the robbers pointed and hollered.

“Someone’s comin’!”

Fargo fired. His shot caught the shouter high on the shoulder and twisted the man in his saddle. Two others started to rein around to get out of there but the man in the black duster and the outlaw on the ground had more grit; they shot back. A leaden bee buzzed Fargo’s ear. The man in the duster fired again and Fargo felt a sharp pain in his right leg at the same instant that he put a slug into the outlaw standing by the stage. The man staggered, then recovered and ran to his horse and swung up. Fargo fired yet again but by now all the outlaws were racing up the road. He didn’t go after them. He was bleeding.

The driver jerked up a shotgun but the gang was out of range.

Fargo came to a stop next to the stage.

“Don’t let them get away!” the terrified man bawled.

Dismounting, Fargo kept his weight on his left leg and hiked at his right pant leg.

“They wing you, mister?” the driver asked.

Fargo grunted and eased down. He pulled his pant leg to his knee. The slug had torn through the flesh of his calf and gone out the other side. “Son of a bitch.” Thankfully, though, his bone had been spared. The blood was already slowing.

“Why are you sitting there?” the terrified man demanded. “You should go after them.”

“Shut the hell up, Horace,” the driver said. “Can’t you see he’s been shot?”

“Don’t you dare talk to me in that tone, Rafer Barnes,” Horace said. “I won’t have it, you hear?”

Fargo pried at the knot in his bandanna.

A dress rustled and perfume wreathed him. The redhead smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, sir, for coming to our rescue.”

“Let me see that leg, young man,” the older woman said, sinking to her knees. “I’ve tended my share of bullet wounds in my time.”

“I’ve been hurt worse,” Fargo said, and went to tie his bandanna over the holes. To his surprise and amusement, she slapped his hand.

“Let me see it, I said.” She bent and probed and announced, “It’s not serious but you’ll be limping for a good long while. I advise you to see a sawbones, though, to clean it up.”

“Listen to my grandma,” the redhead said. “She always knows what she’s talking about.”

Fargo wrapped his bandanna and tied it. Without being asked, the young woman slipped an arm under his to help him stand.

“There you go.” Her green eyes were luminous in the light of the full moon and her lips were as red as ripe strawberries.

Fargo breathed in the scent of her hair. “I’m obliged, ma’am.”

“My name is Melissa. Melissa Hart. This is my grandmother, Edna.”

The older woman had risen and was brushing off her dress. “How do you do?”

Rafer Barnes leaned down from the seat. “I’m obliged, too, mister, for the help. I’m not supposed to let you, but how about if you ride up here with me the rest of the way and spare your leg?” He paused. “You’re bound for Oro City, I take it?”

Fargo admitted that he was and accepted the offer. His wound was less likely to take to bleeding again than if he rode the Ovaro. He tied the stallion to the back of the coach, limped to the front, and climbed on. The women and Horace were already inside.

Rafer offered his hand. “Those owlhoots would have done us harm if you hadn’t come along when you did.”

Fargo didn’t mention that he had been behind the stage most of the way from Denver. “They’d have robbed you and gone their way.” That was how most stage robberies went.

“No sir,” Rafer said with an emphatic shake of his stubble. “They’d’ve shot Horace and me and beat on the ladies as a warnin’ .”

“What makes you so sure?”

Rafer lashed the team. Under them the stage creaked and rattled. When the horses were in motion he said, “I reckon you haven’t heard about the war.”

“The what?”

“The Oro Gazette is callin’ it the Stagecoach War. The company I work for and another are out to be top dog in Oro City and the squabble has become downright vicious.”

Fargo had noticed the name of the line when he climbed up. “I’ve heard of the Colorado Stage Company. What’s the name of the other?”

“The Cobb and Whitten Express. It’s named after the two gents who own it. Cobb I don’t know much about but I’ve met Whitten and he can be a pushy gent. I reckon he doesn’t like competition.”

“There’s not enough business for two stage lines?” Fargo recollected hearing that a gold strike gave birth to Oro City about a year ago.

“More than enough. The Denver run brings in a heap of money and there are other runs to other towns and mining camps and settlements.”

Fargo sat back. His leg was bothering him and he’d like to spend the rest of the ride quiet but Rafer was a talker.

“Yes, sir. Oro City is growin’ by leaps. Give it a couple of years and it’ll be almost as big as Denver.”