To Fargo’s left were stairs. He took them three at a bound. At the top he paused to get his bearings. The window the child had been at was in a room on the right. “Little girl?” He barreled on in. It was a storeroom for sacks of seed piled almost to the ceiling. He had to thread through them to reach the window. The room had not been dusted in ages, and there in the dust under the window were small footprints. He hadn’t been seeing things.
“Girl, where are you? I won’t hurt you.” Fargo checked the storeroom and had just stepped into the hall when a crash downstairs brought him to the stairs in a rush. A shadow flitted across the front window. He raced down and on out into the glare of the sun. Blinking, he looked both ways, but the girl, if indeed she had been responsible, was gone.
Fargo gazed south. In half an hour he could reach the main trail. By the end of the day he could be halfway to the border. Instead, he went into the middle of the street and tried again. “Girl? Where are you?” He didn’t expect her to answer, and she didn’t disappoint him.
Suddenly Fargo heard a soft sound behind him. Thinking it must be her, he smiled and turned, saying, “I meant what I said about not hurting you. All I want—” His voice died in his throat.