by Sharpe, Jon
Working the lever, Fargo advanced. He checked each room, each recess. He came to the alcove where they had found the O’Briens earlier, and there his quarry was, hands up his sleeves, and not as inscrutable as usual.
“Well,” Han said.
“Hiding like the dog you are.”
“A superior man does not do his killing. He has it done for him.”
“Superior, my ass.” Fargo pointed the Henry.
“I am rich.”
“Good for you.”
“I have money.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“I have jewels, emeralds and diamonds and rubies. They are yours if you spare me.”
“Spare this,” Fargo said, and squeezed. The walls amplified the blast. His ears ringing, he turned and walked out into the bright light of the new day.
The street was empty. No one tried to stop him. No one came out to thank him.
Once in the saddle, Fargo paused. To the west were the O’Briens and Mai Wing. He reined to the east.
The sun was warm on his back, and it was good to be alive.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
TRAILSMAN #374
FORT DEATH
1861, in the heart of hostile country—someone is
killing scouts, and they have the Trailsman in
their gun sights.
The shot came out of nowhere.
One moment Skye Fargo was riding along a winding track in the Salt River Range, and the next a lead hornet buzzed his ear even as the boom of a rifle shattered the morning air.
Fargo reacted instinctively. With a jab of his spurs, he reined the Ovaro behind a slab of rock and dismounted. Yanking his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, he moved to where he could see the slope he thought the shot came from.
A big man, broad of shoulder and narrow at the hips, Fargo wore clothes typical of his profession: buckskins, boots, and a high-crowned hat. A Colt that had seen a lot of use was strapped around his waist, and a red bandanna in need of washing was around his neck.
Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed. He scanned the pines and spruce and firs without spotting the bushwhacker.
He’d heard reports the Bannocks were acting up of late, so it could be a hostile.
Or it could be an outlaw. He was far from any settlement, farther from any town or city, deep in the haunts of those who preyed on the unwary.
Either he waited the bastard out, or he went after him.
Fargo hunkered, the Henry across his legs. He had plenty of patience, and he wasn’t due at Fort Carlson for another three days.
The post was named after the commanding officer.
It had been built specifically to keep the Bannocks and a few other tribes in check. Instead, it had stirred them up.
Time crawled.
Fargo refused to show himself until he was sure it was safe. And he wasn’t thinking of just his hide. Anyone who knew prime horseflesh would have loved to get their hands on his stallion.
He took pride in the Ovaro. It was as fine a mount as any. If the shooter had brought it down, he wouldn’t rest until the culprit was worm food.
Half an hour went by. Fargo was about convinced the culprit was gone when a shadow moved among the pines. Instantly, he snapped the Henry to his shoulder, fixed a bead, and fired.
There was no outcry. It could be he’d fired at a deer or some other animal but he doubted it.
Sinking onto his belly, Fargo crawled around the boulder and over to a log. Removing his hat, he raised his head high enough to see. Almost instantly a rifle cracked and slivers stung his cheek and brow.
Fargo ducked low. He touched his cheek and a drop of blood formed on his fingertip. He’d been lucky a second time; that shot damn near took out his eye.
Jamming his hat back on, Fargo crawled around the log and into high brush. When he had snaked about ten yards he eased up into a crouch.
The woods were silent. The birds had stopped chirping and warbling, the squirrels had ceased their chatter.
Again Fargo wondered if it might be Bannocks. The latest word was that a band of young hotheads was killing every white they came across.
Above him, something moved. Someone was slinking down the slope in his direction, using every bit of cover to be had.
“Got you,” Fargo said under his breath, and grimly smiled. Whoever ambushed him was about to learn that he wasn’t the forgive-and-forget type. He was more an eye-for-an-eye hombre, and the devil be damned.
Fargo centered the Henry’s sights on a two-legged shape but it promptly disappeared. Whoever it was, they were skilled at woodcraft.
Fargo did more waiting. All he wanted was a clear shot.
The sun climbed and no one appeared.
Fargo didn’t like it. The shooter should be near enough by now for him to see or hear. He was about to rise and commence a hunt when he heard a sound that spiked him with rare fear: the Ovaro nickered.
Throwing caution to the wind, Fargo heaved erect and raced back. The shooter had circled and gone for his horse. Should the Bannocks get their hands on it, he’d likely never see it again.
He was so concerned for the Ovaro, he barreled around the rock slab with no thought to his own hide—and dug in his bootheels as a rifle muzzle blossomed practically in front of his face.
He had no time to level the Henry or draw his Colt.
He was as good as dead.
The rifle was a Sharps, and the man holding it had more whiskers than Moses. The man grinned and said, “Bang. You’re dead.”
For one of the few times in his life, Fargo was flabbergasted.
“What’s the matter, pup?” the bearded man taunted. “Cat got your tongue?” At that he lowered the Sharps and let out a hearty laugh that more resembled the rumble of a bear.
“You son of a bitch,” Fargo said, and hit him.
The punch rocked the other man onto his heels. Where most would have been mad and resorted to their hardware, the bearded bushwhacker only laughed harder. “You should have seen the look on your puss,” he whooped, and roared anew with giant mirth.
A flood of emotions washed through Fargo: anger, resentment, relief, and finally amusement. Despite himself, he indulged in a good laugh of his own. “You’re the craziest bastard I ever met, Tom. That stunt could have got you killed.”
Bear River Tom, as he was known, was twice Fargo’s age, with a craggy face and ruddy cheeks and a nose a moose would have envied. He wore buckskins, except the whangs on his were a foot and a half long and swished with every movement of his bulky body. “I got you, pup!” he crowed with glee. “I had you spooked. Admit it.”
“You could have blown my head off, you jackass.”
“If that was my intent, your brains would be leaking out of your noggin right this minute,” Bear River Tom boasted. “You know how good a shot I am.”
Yes, Fargo did, but that didn’t excuse the practical joke. He reminded himself that Tom had always been the rowdiest scout on the frontier. “What if I’d shot you before I knew who it was?”
“That would have been plumb embarrassing.”
Fargo shook his head, and sighed. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods, anyhow?”
“I got me an invite,” Bear River Tom said. “From a pard of ours.”
“You too?” Fargo said, thinking of the short letter he’d received from California Jim, a fellow member of the scouting fraternity. He slipped his fingers into a pocket and touched it. “I got mine pretty near a month ago.”
“Same here,” Bear River Tom said. “Wonder why he wants to see us.”
Fargo shr
ugged. He reckoned that California Jim had a good reason. They’d been friends a long spell.
“It’ll be great to see him again,” Bear River Tom said. Placing the stock of his Sharps on the ground, he leaned on the barrel. “So tell me, pup. Ever been to the Salt River Range before?”
“Been through it several times.”
“Know it like the back of your hand, then?”
“Not that well,” Fargo admitted. He’d always been on his way somewhere else. “What difference does it make?”
Bear River Tom shrugged. “Just asking. I don’t know this country well, either.” He gazed out over the array of peaks and verdant forest. “Fort Carlson wasn’t built that long ago. The only scout I heard of working out of it is Badger.”
“Emmett Badger?”
“Ain’t he enough?” Bear River Tom said, and chuckled. “That coon has more bark on him than all these trees put together.”
Fargo grunted in agreement. Emmett Badger had a reputation for being one of the toughest scouts alive. That took some doing, given that scouts were generally a hardy bunch who could hold their own with the Sioux and the Apaches.
“How about we fetch my cayuse and we’ll ride on to the fort together?” Bear River Tom proposed.
Fargo grunted again. “Why not?” He wouldn’t mind the company. Shoving the Henry into the saddle scabbard, he forked leather.
Bear River Tom was eyeing the Ovaro as if the stallion were a saloon filly. “That’s a damn fine animal you’ve got there. You ever get in a mind to part with it, let me know.”
“Part with?” Fargo said, and patted the Ovaro’s neck. “Not while I’m breathing.”
“Didn’t think so. Word is that if it was a mare, you’d marry it.”
“Go to hell.”
Laughing, Bear River Tom cradled his Sharps and led the way up the mountain. As they passed through ranks of blue spruce he breathed deep and remarked, “God Almighty, I love the wilds. The mountains, the prairies, the deserts.”
“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.
“The only thing I love more than the wilds,” Bear River Tom said, “are tits.”
“Don’t start,” Fargo said.
“Yes, sir,” Bear River Tom said. “I love a handful of tit more than just about anything.”
“Here we go again,” Fargo said.
“Fact is, when you think about it, tits should turn as many folks to religion as the Bible does.”
“Were you in the outhouse when they were passing out brains?”
“Hear me out. Who else but the Almighty could have made it so tits are so much a part of our life from the cradle to the grave.”
“I’ve lost your trail,” Fargo told him.
“Think about it. We suck on tits for the milk when we’re infants, we suck on tits when we’re older to poke the females who have the infants who suck on the same tits for the milk, and we dream about tits in our old age to help pass the time. If that doesn’t show planning, I don’t know what does. God must like tits as much as we do.” Bear River Tom grinned at his own brilliance. “You can see I’m right, can’t you?”
“I need a drink,” Fargo said.
