by Jon Sharpe
Fargo walked out of the church without looking back. Wendy called his name but he kept on walking. He needed a bottle of whiskey. He planned to get drunk and stay drunk for a week or so.
That should be more than enough.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman s eries from Signet:
TRAILSMAN #357 STAGECOACH SIDEWINDERS
Colorado, 1860—Caught between a rock and a hard place, Fargo’s going to carve out a new trail—with lead.
A shot cracked sharp and clear from around the next bend in the winding mountain road.
Skye Fargo drew rein and placed his hand on the Colt at his hip. A big man, broad of shoulder and chest, he wore buckskins and a white hat turned brown by the dust of his travels. He heard shouts and the sounds of the stage that was ahead of him coming to a stop. Slicking his six-shooter, he gigged the Ovaro to the bend. He could see without being seen.
Four masked men were pointing six-shooters at the stage. A fifth had dismounted. The driver’s arms were in the air and the pale faces of passengers peered out the windows.
The fifth bandit swaggered over and opened the stage door.
“Get your asses out here,” he barked, “and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
The first to emerge was a terrified man in a suit and bowler. He cowed against the coach and fearfully glanced at the outlaws and their guns.
The next was a woman who had to be in her eighties if not older. She held her head defiantly high and when the outlaw took hold of her arm, she shrugged free and said, “Don’t touch me, you filth.”
The outlaw hit her. He backhanded her across the face and when she fell against the coach, he laughed.
“Leave her be, damn you!”
Out of the stage flew a young tigress with blazing red hair. She shoved the outlaw so hard that he tottered back and then she put her arm around the older woman to comfort her.
The outlaw swore and raised his pistol to strike her.
“No,” said a man who wore a flat-crowned black hat and a black duster. “Not her or the old one.”
The man on the ground glanced up, swore some more, and lowered his revolver. “Hand over your valuables,” he commanded, “and be quick about it.”
Fargo had witnessed enough. He didn’t like the odds but he couldn’t sit there and do nothing. Staying in shadow at the edge of the road, he rode toward them at a walk. His intent was to get as close as he could before he let lead fly but he was still twenty yards out when one of the robbers pointed and hollered.
“Someone’s comin’!”
Fargo fired. His shot caught the shouter high on the shoulder and twisted the man in his saddle. Two others started to rein around to get out of there but the man in the black duster and the outlaw on the ground had more grit; they shot back. A leaden bee buzzed Fargo’s ear. The man in the duster fired again and Fargo felt a sharp pain in his right leg at the same instant that he put a slug into the outlaw standing by the stage. The man staggered, then recovered and ran to his horse and swung up. Fargo fired yet again but by now all the outlaws were racing up the road. He didn’t go after them. He was bleeding.
The driver jerked up a shotgun but the gang was out of range.
Fargo came to a stop next to the stage.
“Don’t let them get away!” the terrified man bawled.
Dismounting, Fargo kept his weight on his left leg and hiked at his right pant leg.
“They wing you, mister?” the driver asked.
Fargo grunted and eased down. He pulled his pant leg to his knee. The slug had torn through the flesh of his calf and gone out the other side. “Son of a bitch.” Thankfully, though, his bone had been spared. The blood was already slowing.
“Why are you sitting there?” the terrified man demanded. “You should go after them.”
“Shut the hell up, Horace,” the driver said. “Can’t you see he’s been shot?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me in that tone, Rafer Barnes,” Horace said. “I won’t have it, you hear?”
Fargo pried at the knot in his bandanna.
A dress rustled and perfume wreathed him. The redhead smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, sir, for coming to our rescue.”
“Let me see that leg, young man,” the older woman said, sinking to her knees. “I’ve tended my share of bullet wounds in my time.”
“I’ve been hurt worse,” Fargo said, and went to tie his bandanna over the holes. To his surprise and amusement, she slapped his hand.
“Let me see it, I said.” She bent and probed and announced, “It’s not serious but you’ll be limping for a good long while. I advise you to see a sawbones, though, to clean it up.”
“Listen to my grandma,” the redhead said. “She always knows what she’s talking about.”
Fargo wrapped his bandanna and tied it. Without being asked, the young woman slipped an arm under his to help him stand.
“There you go.” Her green eyes were luminous in the light of the full moon and her lips were as red as ripe strawberries.
Fargo breathed in the scent of her hair. “I’m obliged, ma’am.”
“My name is Melissa. Melissa Hart. This is my grandmother, Edna.”
The older woman had risen and was brushing off her dress. “How do you do?”
Rafer Barnes leaned down from the seat. “I’m obliged, too, mister, for the help. I’m not supposed to let you, but how about if you ride up here with me the rest of the way and spare your leg?” He paused. “You’re bound for Oro City, I take it?”
Fargo admitted that he was and accepted the offer. His wound was less likely to take to bleeding again than if he rode the Ovaro. He tied the stallion to the back of the coach, limped to the front, and climbed on. The women and Horace were already inside.
Rafer offered his hand. “Those owlhoots would have done us harm if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
Fargo didn’t mention that he had been behind the stage most of the way from Denver. “They’d have robbed you and gone their way.” That was how most stage robberies went.
“No sir,” Rafer said with an emphatic shake of his stubble. “They’d’ve shot Horace and me and beat on the ladies as a warnin’ .”
“What makes you so sure?”
Rafer lashed the team. Under them the stage creaked and rattled. When the horses were in motion he said, “I reckon you haven’t heard about the war.”
“The what?”
“The Oro Gazette is callin’ it the Stagecoach War. The company I work for and another are out to be top dog in Oro City and the squabble has become downright vicious.”
Fargo had noticed the name of the line when he climbed up. “I’ve heard of the Colorado Stage Company. What’s the name of the other?”
“The Cobb and Whitten Express. It’s named after the two gents who own it. Cobb I don’t know much about but I’ve met Whitten and he can be a pushy gent. I reckon he doesn’t like competition.”
“There’s not enough business for two stage lines?” Fargo recollected hearing that a gold strike gave birth to Oro City about a year ago.
“More than enough. The Denver run brings in a heap of money and there are other runs to other towns and mining camps and settlements.”
Fargo sat back. His leg was bothering him and he’d like to spend the rest of the ride quiet but Rafer was a talker.
“Yes, sir. Oro City is growin’ by leaps. Give it a couple of years and it’ll be almost as big as Denver.”
Fargo had his doubts. He’d heard that most of the gold was placer with a lot of sand mixed in.
“We’ve already got nearly as many saloons,” Rafer related. “For lendin’ a hand back there, I’ll treat you to a drink when we get to town.”
“Make it a bottle.”
Rafer laughed. “I reckon that’s fair.” He glanced at Fargo. “I should warn you, though. You hit two of them. They’re liable
to want to get even.”
“Do me a favor and keep quiet about it.”
“Fine by me but you’re forgettin’ the folks in the stage. They’ll gab. The Gazette will hear of it and by tomorrow night everyone in Oro City will know who you are and what you did.”
“Hell.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be one of those—” Rafer stopped. “What do they call ’em? Good Samaritans?”
The stage lurched up a switchback and Rafer devoted his attention to handling the ribbons. “Easy there,” he said to the horses as the wheels rolled dangerously near the edge.
Fargo glanced down. He wasn’t bothered by heights but the five-hundred-foot drop to jagged boulders was enough to make anyone’s skin crawl.
“Don’t worry. We won’t go over,” Rafer said, and chuckled. “I’ve been handlin’ a stage for more years than you’ve been alive.”
“Is that a fact,” Fargo said, still staring over the side.
“It sure enough is. I got my start as a cub on a Boston line years ago and then came west. Been out here ever since.” Rafer guided the team around a sharp turn with the skill born of the long experience he claimed. “How about you? What do you do for a livin’?”
“This and that.”
“You don’t care for me to pry? Fair enough. But if I was to guess I’d say you make your livin’ as a scout.”
“My buckskins give me away?”
Rafer grinned. “Lots of people wear deer hides. Hunters, trappers, you name it.” He shook his head. “No, I’d peg you for a scout because you have that look scouts have.”
“I have a look?”
“Take a gander in a mirror sometime,” Rafer said. “It’s those hawk’s eyes of yours. Like you’re lookin’ far off when the rest of us can only see up close.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if you’re a pigeon and not a hawk,” Rafer said, and cackled.
Fargo folded his arms and made himself as comfortable as he could. The wind was chill at that altitude at night even in the summer. Overhead, stars sparkled. To the south a coyote serenaded them.
Rafer breathed in deep and exclaimed, “God Almighty, I love this country.”
Fargo shared the sentiment. The mountains and the prairie were as much a part of him as his arms and his legs. He could no more do without the wild places than he could do without women.
“Did you see that?” Rafer asked.
Fargo looked up. They were climbing toward the crest of a ridge. As near as he could tell, the stretch of road to the top was clear. “See what?”
“Up yonder,” Rafer said, and pointed at the top. “I saw somethin’ move.”
“A deer, maybe,” Fargo said. Or it could be an elk or a bear or another animal.
“No. I thought I saw the shine of metal. Maybe . . .” Rafer got no further.
The night was shattered by the thunder of rifles. Lead struck the coach with loud thwacks and one of the horses whinnied.
Fargo’s Henry was in his saddle scabbard. He clawed at his Colt even though the range was too great. “Do you have a rifle?”
Instead of answering, Rafer dropped the ribbons and cried, “I’m hit!”
FB2 document info
Document ID: b5fa1df7-4a55-4fb4-bcd9-b78b7be728a4
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 16.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.50, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jon Sharpe
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