Blood Wedding

She was going to say more, but by then some of the others on horseback were beginning to arrive, and Molly turned back to the rubble that had been her house. Maybe there were other reasons why the Murrays had it in for Molly. None of them had been there when Paul was buried. Someone could have been watching, but Fargo didn’t think that was the case. He would have known.

Fargo caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and took a glance over toward the barn. The door was open, but Fargo didn’t think the Murrays would have left anything alive inside.

“Get on your horse,” Fargo told Molly. “Don’t say anything. Just get out of here. Do it now.”

She looked at him as if she didn’t have any intention of leaving, but the urgency of his tone must have convinced her. She mounted up and did what he said as he went around telling the others who had arrived the same thing.

He wasn’t sure he’d get away with it, and he didn’t. Before he’d managed to get everyone started away, the first shot came from the barn.

Tom Talley was hit and fell off his horse. The gunshot helped people who had lingered figure out why Fargo was warning them, and they started riding away, yelling at those in the slower wagons and buggies to turn around.

By that time there were more shots coming from the barn, and seven or eight of the Murray gang came riding out from behind it, pistols firing.

Fargo had his Colt out, and he returned their fire. Farmers didn’t generally take weapons to funerals, which of course the Murrays had counted on, and Fargo figured he was pretty much on his own. The odds weren’t exactly fair.

The Murrays wouldn’t care about that in the least, unless it was to be glad of it. They’d ride Fargo down and go right on after the others, killing as many as they could.

Or that’s what they’d do unless Fargo could do something to stop them. Stopping them was a good idea, except he didn’t have any idea how to stop that many men.

Of course one of them was a woman. Angel Murray was one of the riders charging at Fargo. She was beside her father, a wild grin of exhilaration on her face, and she was firing a pistol just like the rest. A bullet buzzed by Fargo’s ear. Another one tugged at his shirt.

There was only one thing he could do. He wasn’t sure it would work. In fact, he was almost certain it wouldn’t. But he didn’t have a lot of choice, so he did it.

He shot Angel Murray.

She fell from her horse and hit the ground hard. Fargo was running straight toward her before the other gang members even knew she was shot. They must have thought he was crazy, charging them like someone who believed he had them outnumbered instead of waiting for them to ride right over him.

They were so surprised that they couldn’t shoot straight. Their bullets went far over his head, and he managed to shoot two more of them out of the saddle before he reached the spot where Angel was lying on the ground.

The others he’d shot were dead, but Angel was still alive, which was part of Fargo’s admittedly shaky plan. There was a dark stain on the shoulder of her shirt where the bullet had struck her. Her hat had come off, and her black hair was spread out around her head.

Fargo reached down for her, grabbed hold of her good arm, and jerked her roughly to her feet. She screamed in pain, but Fargo didn’t much care. In fact, he was glad she’d screamed. It let her father know that she was still alive.

As soon as she was upright, Fargo twisted her good arm behind her back. He stuck the barrel of his pistol right into the tender skin under her chin, pushing her head up so far that she was looking at the sky. The pistol barrel was hot. It burned her, and she yelled again, but not as loud as before.

The gang had given up on their pursuit of the farmers and turned back. The men in the barn came out, pistols at the ready.

Between the two groups, Fargo stood supporting Angel, with his pistol tight under her chin.

Peter Murray was getting close, so Fargo said, “That’s far enough, Murray. Tell your men to keep their distance, or I pull the trigger.”

Murray stopped, and although he gave no signal, so did all the others.

“You must be the one they call Fargo,” Murray said, leaning forward casually in the saddle as if they were just two friends who’d met on the trail and were having a little talk.

Murray had a black beard shot through with white, and his hair, almost as long as his daughter’s, hung below his hat. His eyes were as black as the ashes of Molly’s house, but shinier.

“Well?” Murray said when Fargo didn’t answer. “Is that your name or not?”

“It’s my name,” Fargo said. “Not that it matters. What matters is that if you want your daughter to stay alive, you need to get your men together and ride away from here. And not in the direction the farmers went.”

“That’s an interesting proposition. And what’ll you do if I don’t?”

“Your daughter’s nothing to me,” Fargo said. “I’ll pull the trigger, and you’ll get to see the top of her head come off.”