Fargo could tell by the cylinder notches and the trigger guard. A .44-caliber, it packed a considerable wallop. “It wasn’t me,” Fargo said. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have finished you off instead of riding up to see if you were all right.” Esther swayed and steadied herself and shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose you would at that. God, it hurts.” She blinked furiously, and only then did Fargo realize she couldn’t see for all the blood in her eyes. “Esther, you need to let me help you.” “I’d just gotten up,” she said. “The shot came out of nowhere.” She slowly lowered the Colt and eased down the hammer. “Hell,” she said and collapsed. In a bound Fargo caught her. As small and frail-seeming as she was, she weighed no more than a feather. Scooping her into his arms, he held on to the Ovaro’s reins and retraced her steps up the mountain.
