Space your shots out! Fargo felt himself bumping roughly along the ground as he fought to swim up from the murky depths of unconsciousness. Guns were barking close to his ears, and shots filled the air. Christ, here they come! Make every bullet score, Nate! Fargo’s eyes snapped open, and he smelled singed hair. Somebody was dragging him across the grassy plain. “Shit-oh-dear!” he heard Dub shout. “They’re rushing us, brother. I’m down to two shots!” “I’m out!” Fargo, still too weak to fight loose, slapped leather and fired at the shadows chasing them—six accurately placed shots that broke the jayhawkers’ bravado and sent them back into the tree cover. “Way to hold and squeeze, Mr. Fargo!” Dub exclaimed. “We thought you was dead.” Even as he was dragged along, Fargo, battle-hardened by experience, began thumbing reloads into the wheel of his Colt in case of another charge. “I think I can stand up now, fellows. Reload your short guns.” They pulled Fargo, still woozy and disoriented, to his feet.
