Hannibal Rising Read Online Free Page B

the horses.
    Across the road the undergrowth spouted flame and sound and lead smacked the victoria. Fargo answered in kind, banging off three swift shots. Spinning, he crab-stepped toward the driver’s seat. “We have to get out of here,” he whispered. “When I climb up, you jump in.”
    “Not on your life,” Pickleman said with a vigorous shake of his head. “We’ll be killed before we go ten feet. They can see us but we can’t see them.”
    Fargo remedied that. He shot the lamp. It burst in a shower of flame and whale oil, plunging them in darkness. It also spooked the team. With a strident whinny the near horse bolted and the other horse ran with it. Fargo lunged to try and grab hold of the victoria and swing up but he couldn’t get a firm grip and pitched onto his side. The carriage was a score of yards away—and taking the Ovaro with it—before he could get to his knees. “Damn.”
    “Oh my,” Pickleman said.
    In the woods a gun thundered.
    Fargo saw the muzzle flash. He slammed off two shots while backpedaling. “Hunt cover!” he snapped, and Pickleman scrambled after him.
    Across the road both the rifle and the revolver opened up, peppering the undergrowth.
    The wide trunk of a maple offered haven. Fargo darted behind it and worked the lever. His elbow bumped the lawyer, who was practically clinging to his back. “When I said to hunt cover I didn’t mean me .”
    “Oh, sorry.” Pickleman moved a bit back. “It’s just that I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.”
    Fargo had, more times than he cared to count. “The first rule is don’t get shot.”
    “Am I mistaken or is there more than one shooter?” the lawyer asked.
    “The second rule is whisper.”
    “Oh. Sorry.” Pickleman closed his eyes, apparently wrestling with his emotions, and when he opened them he was calmer. He whispered, “There are two of them, am I right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then it’s not Injun Joe. He works alone. But for the life of me, I can’t think who else it would be.”
    “Hush.” Fargo was listening. The pair might be stalking them.
    The brush remained still, the night quiet, save for the far-off hoot of an owl.
    Pickleman didn’t stay quiet long. “The Clyborns do have enemies, though. Well, some of the Clyborns do. The youngest, Charlotte, doesn’t have any. She’s so nice and sweet that everyone in Hannibal adores her.”
    Fargo looked at him. “There’s a third rule to follow.”
    “There is? What would it be?”
    “When I tell you to shut the hell up,” Fargo said, “you shut the hell up.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    Minute after tense minute followed one after the other until fully a quarter of an hour went by. The moon rose above the hills to the east, splashing the woodland with pale light.
    “I think they’re gone,” Pickleman said.
    Fargo was beginning to think so, too. Maybe they were afraid the shots would attract others. No sooner did the thought enter his head than hooves thudded out on the road, coming from the south. It was a single horse, coming fast. It stopped a pebble’s toss off. “I’ll be damned,” Fargo said, and grinned.
    “What?”
    “The best friend I have has four legs.”
    The Ovaro had either pulled loose of the victoria or the reins had come untied. It stomped a hoof and nickered.
    Fargo warily emerged from hiding. Pickleman tried to walk past him and he pushed him back. “The fourth rule is never take anything for granted.”
    “How many rules are there?”
    “The fifth rule is don’t ask stupid questions when the man who is trying to save your hide is busy saving it.” Fargo patted the Ovaro while probing the undergrowth. Nothing moved. No shots ripped the night. Quickly, he shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard and forked leather, then reached down. “Come on. We’re lighting a shuck.”
    The lawyer grasped his arm and Fargo swung him up.
    “Goodness. I’ve never ridden double before. Do I hold on to you or the saddle or