He had only seconds to wait when the two horses burst from the trees, racing over the open ground to reach the thick tree cover from which they’d appeared. Fargo had time for only one shot, chose the rider at the right, and fired. The man fell forward, hit the saddle horn, and the motion of the galloping horse did the rest, tossing him into the air to hit the ground with a resounding thud and lie still. The last rider raced on, vanishing into the trees. Fargo listened to the sound of his horse as it fled. Holstering the Colt, Fargo ran forward to the young man and knelt down beside the red-stained figure. He was still breathing. Grimacing, Fargo took in the extent of the wounds that soaked the youth’s clothes, at least four bullets, he saw. The youth managed to lift his head a few inches from the ground. “Easy, take it easy,” Fargo murmured.
“Tillman ... Darlene Tillman ... waiting for you,” the young man managed to gasp. “Important . . . go see her.” The effort took the last of his strength, words ending with a final gasp and Fargo leaned back as he softly cursed. He rose after a moment and walked to where the other figures littered the ground. He examined each one and found nothing to help him. But someone had sent them to find the young man and stop him before he could deliver his message. They had almost succeeded, Fargo grunted angrily. Almost. His eyes went to the young, slender figure. The youth had given his life in his assignment. Somebody better have a good explanation, Fargo thought as he went to the youth’s horse, drew a blanket from the saddlebag, and wrapped it around the silent, stained figure.
He lifted the youth, laid him across his saddle, and walked to the Ovaro. Holding the reins of the brown gelding in one hand, Fargo slowly started to ride on south. He’d no way of knowing if south was the way to go and hoped he’d find somebody who might help. As he rode, he tried to piece together the few bits and pieces of information he had. The young man had visited Abbey looking for him. That meant he had to have first visited Ed Stanford up near Ninepipe. Ed was the only one who knew he was going to visit Abbey, Fargo recalled. They’d spent a few days talking after he’d broken the trail from Idaho Territory for Ed. But Ed wasn’t the only one who knew about his coming to Montana. Ed had told enough others that he’d hired Skye Fargo to break a trail for him.
So finding he had visited Abbey was explainable. Then the youth had followed south, picked up the trail, and met his death because of it. A Darlene Tillman had hired him, he’d muttered with his last breath. Not much to go on but it would be enough. Fargo had found trails with slimmer leads. He felt a bitterness inside him, first at what he’d witnessed, and then at being plunged into something he knew absolutely nothing about. The young man had been a total stranger and yet now he was suddenly no stranger at all. He was suddenly someone with whom Fargo had become involved. That imposition angered him, Fargo realized. He certainly had no responsibility for the youth’s death, yet a kind of oblique responsibility had been thrust upon him.
Damn, Fargo swore as he found himself thinking about coming events that cast their shadows before them. If he had not stayed the glorious week with Abbey, he would have been long gone from this north Montana country. If he hadn’t told Ed Stanford he was going to visit Abbey, the man wouldn’t have been able to tell the youth. There’d have been no one to trail him, to pursue him with still undelivered messages. Coming events did cast their shadows, but you could only understand them after they’d been cast.
What shadows was he riding into now, Fargo wondered as he moved past a lake half filled with logs, a big splash dam holding back hundreds of other logs. Perhaps he’d be wise to let the brown gelding behind him find its own way, he pondered. But he wouldn‘t, he knew. The young man wrapped in the blanket behind him deserved to have his message delivered. Everybody deserved some kind of obituary.