Blood Wedding

“I thank you for that. And for what we just did.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Fargo said. “Maybe not all of it, but plenty.”

“I’m glad Murray wasn’t here, and we could use the bed. Otherwise I might’ve had to get you back to Lem’s and drag you down in that hayloft. Hay can be mighty itchy.”

Fargo said that was the truth, and then they heard the first gunshots.

9

“Goddammit,” Molly said as she tumbled off the bed. “Get dressed Fargo.”

Fargo was already pulling on his shirt. He said, “How far away do you think those shots were?”

“Sound carries a long way out here, but I’d say at Rip’s. They’re after him instead of after Tom’s stuff. We should’ve guessed.”

“Why?” Fargo asked, pulling on his boots.

“Because everybody there at Rip’s will be half drunk by now. All the men drink too much when they’re sitting up with somebody, maybe because they’re celebrating that it isn’t them on the table. Murray knows all about that. I knew he wouldn’t let us kill two of his men and do nothing about it. We have to get over there before it’s too late.”

They got their horses out of the barn and started off for Johnson’s farm at a gallop. When they got there, Fargo didn’t see any sign of Murray.

It was quiet for a few seconds, and Molly said, “What’s going on? Is it over?”

“Just a lull,” Fargo told her, and almost as soon as he said it, more shots were fired.

Fargo saw flashes from Johnson’s cornfield as the Murray gang fired on the house. Now and then there would be an answering shot from the house, but it didn’t seem to Fargo that there was a lot of resistance being put up.

The lamps were still on inside, and Fargo said, “They should have doused those lights. Every time somebody gets close to one, he’s going to get shot.”

“At least Murray hasn’t burned the place down yet.”

That surprised Fargo a little, considering that there’d been plenty of time, and Johnson wasn’t doing much fighting back.

“What are we going to do, Fargo?” Molly asked.

That question seemed to be asked a lot lately. Fargo said, “We can get behind Murray, but we’ll have to be careful not to hit anybody in the house when the shooting starts.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Molly said, pulling a shotgun from a leather case tied to her saddle. “This thing won’t shoot that far, but it’ll tear apart anybody who gets close enough.”

“You don’t want to get too close to that Murray bunch.”

“I’m not worried about them. Once they see this gun, they’ll keep their distance.”

“We’ll leave the horses here,” Fargo said, sliding off the Ovaro.

He went quietly along the edge of the cornfield, with Molly right behind him. When he judged that they were far enough behind Murray and his men, he entered the tall green stalks and started down a row, trying not to make any noise. The breeze was already rustling the corn, and Fargo didn’t think there was too much danger that he’d be heard. He was accustomed to moving silently in cover, but he didn’t know about Molly.

He looked back to see her only a few steps behind him. She had been so quiet that he hadn’t heard her himself, which was quite a compliment to her stalking skill. He turned back and followed the row until he figured they were right behind Murray’s gang. He motioned Molly to him and whispered in her ear.

“When I give the signal, you cut loose with that shotgun. Let’s hope they run the other way.”

Fargo drew his Colt. He couldn’t see anyone, but he heard movement ten or twelve rows in front of him. And then someone started shooting toward the house again.

Fargo nodded to Molly and started firing his Colt. He didn’t like firing blind, but he was shooting low to avoid the house. It didn’t matter whether he hit any of Murray’s men or not, as long as they got to moving.

And they did. When the gang realized that they were caught in a crossfire, the men all started running for their horses, bolting through and over the corn, crushing some of the stalks to the ground and trampling them. Molly pulled her pistol and shot at the retreating figures, but Fargo headed for the house. It was pretty much a waste of bullets to shoot at someone running away from you, especially when something, even something flimsy like stalks of corn, was in the way.

Arriving at the house, Fargo saw a body on the porch. It wasn’t Johnson. It was a woman. Johnson’s wife, probably. Fargo didn’t remember having met her at the dance or the funeral, but he couldn’t think of anyone else it was likely to be.

“This is Skye Fargo,” he called out. “And Molly Doyle is with me. I’m coming inside.”

Molly walked up beside him and said, “I’m coming in, too. We’ve chased those damn Murrays for you, Rip.”

It was only then that she saw the body on the porch.

“Damn. It’s Sarah Johnson. And look there.” Molly pointed to the rifle that Sarah had dropped when she fell. “She always did have more guts than Rip, by a long sight. But you’d think the son of a bitch would have kept her in the house.”