She started to cry softly, and Fargo said, “Jed would understand. It’s nothing for you to worry yourself about.”
“I hope you’re right. But even if he wouldn’t, I needed it. I just didn’t know how much. Thank you, Fargo.”
“I’m the one who should be doing the thanking.”
Abby got out of the bed and slipped her nightgown back over her head.
“You don’t owe me any thanks.” She was back in control of herself now. She seemed almost like a different person, more remote than any time since Fargo had met her. “I won’t be back for another visit. I hope you understand.”
“I think I do,” Fargo said. “But if you change your mind, don’t forget where I am.”
He thought he saw her smile, but in the darkness he couldn’t quite be sure.
“I won’t forget,” she said.
Fargo was asleep and dreaming, swallowed up in the softness of the mattress.
He was a child again, almost a young man, and he was surrounded by death. He was the only one left, the only one who could avenge them, and he swore that he’d do it if it took him the rest of his life. It seemed so real, the screaming, the crashing of glass as—
The crashing of glass was real, and Fargo jerked awake to see the burning torch that lay on the floor by the bed. It had come in through the broken window, and the screaming in his dream became the whooping and hollering of the Murray gang.
He heard gunfire, but by that time he was snuffing out the torch with a quilt that hung on a frame near the wash-stand. When the fire was out, he pulled on his pants and buckled on his own pistol.
Someone was beating on his door. He opened it to see Abby standing there. She was holding a lamp and still wore her nightgown.
“It’s the Murrays,” she said.
Fargo had figured that out. He asked about Lem.
“He and the others are stumbling around in the kitchen. They won’t be much help.”
“Any damage?”
“Somebody threw a torch in the kitchen window. It didn’t do any damage.”
“They might be going for the barn. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”
“Be careful,” Abby said.
Fargo left her there and went out on the porch. Sure enough, the Murray gang had moved on to the barn. Fargo could see them moving around in the torchlight. Several of them were off their horses, piling something that looked like it might be hay around the building. Fargo figured they’d set the hay afire if they got the chance.
The barn was too far away for Fargo to hit anybody with a pistol shot unless he got lucky, but he thought he could distract them, maybe even chase them away. Not that he had much hope of that, but he fired the Colt three times.
Nobody fell, but three men turned and looked back toward the house. One of them dropped the torch he was holding and pulled a rifle from a saddle holster. The moon had gone down, and Fargo could have been nothing more than a dark blot to the man, but the Trailsman nevertheless thought it was time for him to find some cover.
There was nowhere to hide, however. When Fargo turned, he saw someone standing by the porch of the house. It wasn’t anyone from inside. There was a muzzle flash, a crash of sound, and something kicked Fargo like the biggest mule in the world.
Then everything went black.
5
Fargo came to, sputtering. Someone was pouring water on his face, nearly drowning him. The Trailsman sat up coughing. When he’d cleared the water out of his mouth, he said, “That’s enough dammit.”
He wiped water from his eyes and looked up at Lem, who was holding a crockery jar.
“I thought at first you were dead,” Lem said. “But then I could see you were breathing. You’re just grazed.”
Now that consciousness was returning, Fargo’s head felt like it had been split open with an ax. He put his fingers to the left side of it, and they came away sticky with blood.
“Some son of a bitch shot you,” Lem said. “Probably thought you were dead same as I did, or else he’d have finished the job. You’re lucky he didn’t.”
Fargo didn’t feel lucky. He managed to stand up, but he had to put out a hand and grab Lem’s shoulder to steady himself.
“Where’s Abby?” he asked.
“Gone,” Lem said. “Those goddamned Murrays took her.”
Fargo’s head throbbed. He looked at the barn. It wasn’t burning, and he realized that he’d been tricked. The gang had fired shots at the house and thrown in a couple of torches to get his attention. When he’d come out of the house, he’d been fooled by the men at the barn into thinking they were the ones who’d be trouble. But the trouble had been behind him. The Murrays didn’t want to burn Lem’s barn. Peter Murray hadn’t lost a barn; he’d lost a son. So he’d taken Lem’s daughter in return.
“Is she alive?” Fargo said.
“She’s alive, for now. She might wish she wasn’t. If I hadn’t been half drunk, maybe I could have stopped them. Abby’s not the only one missing.”
“Ellis and Tabor?”
“Hell, those two are all right. Still trying to wake up. They weren’t any more help to Abby than I was. No more help to Jed, either. That’s who else is missing, Fargo. They came in and took Jed’s body. What are we going to do about it?”
Fargo wasn’t sure how he’d become the man with the answers, and his head hurt too much for him to think. He touched his wound again.
“You come on in the house, and we’ll put something on that,” Lem said, taking Fargo’s elbow. “Then we’ll figure out what to do.”
Fargo let himself be led inside, but he was afraid they were wasting valuable time. If Abby was alive, there was no telling what Murray might do to her. There was no need to worry about Jed. They couldn’t do anything to him that would matter to anyone now, least of all Jed.
Lem took the Trailsman into the kitchen. Jed’s body was gone from the table. In the flickering lantern light, Fargo saw that an empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor not far away. Ellis and Tabor sat in their chairs and looked up woozily. Tabor rubbed his bald head and groaned as if his head might be throbbing as much as Fargo’s.
“Don’t mind those two,” Lem said, rummanging around in the wood box. He raised up with another bottle of whiskey, about half full. He held it to the lantern light and shook it slightly, as if to appraise its contents. “Sure hate to waste good whiskey, but you need this more than we do. Come on over here.”
Fargo walked over, and Lem uncorked the bottle with his teeth. With his free hand, he tilted Fargo’s head at an angle and then poured whiskey on the wound. It stung like hell, and Fargo bit his lip. It was all he could do to stand still. Whiskey ran into his eyes, but he hardly felt it because of the other pain.
“Just hang on there for a minute,” Lem said, and went out of the room.
On his way he handed the whiskey bottle to Tabor, who took a quick drink. He shook his head like an angry dog and passed the bottle on to Ellis, who just held it and looked at it.
When Lem came back, he wrapped a piece of clean cloth around Fargo’s head and tied it in back.
“That ought to take care of you,” he said. “You’re might damn lucky. And your head must be hard as an oak root.”
“So I’ve been told before,” Fargo said.
His head was pounding a little less now, and he became more aware of things. The first thing he realized was that he didn’t have his Colt any longer.
“It’s lying out there where you fell,” Lem said when he saw Fargo reach to the empty holster. “I should have brought it in.”
“I’ll get it,” Fargo said. “What about my horse?”
Fargo’s big Ovaro stallion was in a little corral out behind the barn, along with Lem’s mules, Jed’s horse, and a couple of cows.