Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Teaser chapter

  THE FINAL CUT

  “Campbell, no!” someone cried. Others were running from all directions and filling the tent. Campbell was past listening to reason. In his fury he craved one thing and one thing only: Fargo’s death. He slashed low but Fargo skipped aside. He stabbed high but Fargo backpedaled. Fargo had his Arkansas Toothpick in his boot, but he dared not stoop to retrieve it or the other man would gut him like a fish.

  “Stand still, damn you!” Campbell fumed.

  The knife swept toward Fargo’s jugular. He skipped to the right, and realized, too late, that a bench was beside him. He tried to avoid it but his legs became entangled, and the next instant he was flat on his back. A shadow fell across him, and Campbell filled his vision.

  “Now I’ve got you!”

  The knife plunged at Fargo’s chest. . . .

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, December 2004

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Hell’s Belles, the two hundred seventy-seventh volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004

  eISBN : 978-1-101-16654-3

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  The Trailsman

  Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

  The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

  1861, the remote and rugged Gros Ventre Range—where danger came in many forms and death was only a heartbeat away

  1

  The sharp crack of a rifle brought the buckskin-clad rider to a stop. Out of habit he lowered his right hand to his Colt. Eyes the color of a deep mountain lake narrowed as he tilted his sun-bronzed face into the wind. Three more shots sounded, evenly spaced, then all was quiet again save for the rustling of the trees in the brisk breeze and the squawk of an agitated jay.

  Skye Fargo was deep in the rugged vastness of the Rocky Mountains. Hunting and raiding parties from several tribes frequently crisscrossed the region. The Shoshones were friendly enough but the Blackfeet and their allies were not. Since Fargo did not care to run into a hostile war party, he was about to rein to the west to avoid whoever had fired the shots when he spied smoke from a campfire off in the distance to the north.

  Fargo knew that no self-respecting warrior would make a fire that big. Only a white man would be so foolish. Which might mean whoever fired the shots was white, and possibly in trouble.

  “Damn,” Fargo said aloud, and reined his Ovaro north. If he had any sense, he told himself, he would leave the whites to fend for themselves and go on about his own business. But he couldn’t help being curious.

  Before him unfolded a winding valley lush with thick timber broken by random clearings carpeted by high grass, a paradise untouched by plow or axe. For days Fargo had been amid virgin wilderness rife with wildlife and natural splendor, his element, as he liked to think of it, where he was as much at home as a city dweller would be on the streets of any given city.

  Fargo had gone a quarter of a mile when he heard voices and gruff laughter. Common sense dictated he not let his presence be detected until he was sure it was safe, so when he spied those responsible, he drew rein.

  In the center of a large clearing lay a buck in a spreading pool of scarlet. On their knees in the fresh blood, two grimy men in dirty homespun clothes had begun the butchering. One had a scraggly beard which he tugged with blood-streaked fingers and loudly declared, “It’s a fine one, Mr. Whirtle, sir. There should be enough here to feed half the camp.”

  Four horses stood in the shade of a towering pine. Three were saddled, the last was a pack animal. Beside them stood a pencil-thin man dressed in a hunting outfit that cost more than most ordinary folks earned in a year. He wore a rakish brown cap and his boots were polished to a sheen. Of particular interest to Fargo was the expensive English-made rifle held in the crook of the man’s elbow.

  “How long will this take, Link?” the man asked, removing the cap to reveal neatly combed and oiled black hair. “I want to be the first one back.”

  “Oh, no more than half an hour, Mr. Whirtle,” Link said. “We have to peel the hide, quarter the meat, and tie it on the packhorse.”

  Whirtle scowled and said, “There’s a twenty dollar gold piece for each of you if you are ready to head back in fifteen minutes.”

  Greed brought grins to Link and his c
ompanion. “For that much we’ll be ready to go in ten.”

  “I thought you would see things my way,” Whirtle said smugly, and fished a pipe from a pocket. “Today is the day I beat Teague. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Fargo kneed the Ovaro into the open. It amused him that they did not hear the dull thud of the Ovaro’s hooves until he was almost on top of them. Link and the other skinner sprang erect while Whirtle nearly dropped his pipe as he brought his rifle to bear. “Relax,” Fargo said. “I’m friendly.”

  “Why didn’t you speak up sooner?” Whirtle testily demanded. “I might have shot you from your saddle.”

  “You would have tried,” Fargo said.

  “Who are you, mister?” Link asked. “What are you doin’ in these parts?”

  Ignoring him, Fargo studied Whirtle’s thin, sallow features. “Those shots of yours could bring every hostile for miles around down on your head.”

  “I dare say we can handle them,” Whirtle declared, patting his rifle.

  “Just the three of you?”

  Whirtle wedged the pipe stem into a corner of his mouth. “Our party numbers thirty-one, counting the cook and Teague’s manservant. Thirty-five if you count the women.” Whirtle advanced and offered a pale hand that had never seen a callus. “Garrick Whirtle, of the New York Whirtles. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? My family’s business interests span the continent.”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Fargo admitted, wondering what so large a party was doing in the middle of nowhere. “This isn’t New York. And it’s no place for women.”

  “We have it on reliable authority that we are in no danger whatsoever from the savages who inhabit these wilds,” Whirtle said stiffly. “Every member of our party has a rifle and a brace of pistols and we have enough ammunition to stand off an army of primitives.”

  Fargo said nothing. Arguing would be pointless. Many whites shared Whirtle’s outlook, and only learned the truth at the point of an arrow or a lance.

  Link came toward the stallion, his blood-drenched knife in hand. “You never answered my question, stranger. Who in hell are you and what are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

  “I’m passing through,” was all Fargo would say.

  “That’s not good enough,” Link said. “It could be you’re up to no good. Could be you’re fixin’ to rob Mr. Whirtle and his friends.” He planted himself next to a stirrup and glared. “So you better start talkin’ before I pull you off this critter and pound you into the ground.”

  Fargo kicked him. He moved his boot only a few inches but it was enough to knock the arrogant jackass back a few steps.

  Shocked disbelief registered, and Link put a hand to his cheek. “Did you see that, Charley? This bastard up and used his boot on me!”

  “I saw,” said his friend, rising with his own knife low at his waist. “And if you want to haul him down and carve on him some, I’ll back you.”

  The man called Whirtle, Fargo noticed, made no attempt to stop them, but stood watching with an amused smirk on his face. Link took a menacing stride, raising his knife to stab, and just-like-that Fargo had the Colt in his hand and thumbed back the hammer. “I’d think twice were I you.”

  The color drained from Link like water from a punctured bucket and he stood with his thick lips moving but no words coming out. Beads of sweat sprouted on his brow and he slowly lowered his arm.

  Charley also froze but fingered the hilt of his knife as if he contemplated throwing it.

  “Drop your blades,” Fargo commanded, and when they obeyed, he lowered the Colt’s hammer and twirled the revolver into his holster, then shifted toward Whirtle. “Nice of you to lend a hand.”

  Whirtle laughed and gestured. “Haven’t you heard? This is a free country. Everyone has the right to be as stupid as they want to be.”

  Fargo wondered if that referred to Link or to him. “I’d like to know why you and all these others are here.”

  “Would you indeed?” Whirtle’s smirk widened. “Why should I answer your question when you wouldn’t answer Mr. Link’s? He could be right. Perhaps you are a scoundrel up to no good.”

  “Suit yourself,” Fargo said, lifting his reins. “But if your hair ends up hanging from a Blood or Piegan lance, don’t say you weren’t warned.” He started to wheel the Ovaro but turned to stone when Whirtle suddenly trained the hunting rifle on him.

  “Not so fast. I deem it best for our guide and Teague to have a talk with you So I must insist you do us the courtesy of accompanying us to camp.” Whirtle’s finger was curled around the trigger, the hammer pulled back. All it would take was a twitch and the heavy-caliber rifle would blow a hole in Fargo the size of an apple. “That is, if you don’t mind,” Whirtle sarcastically added, and snickered at his joke.

  Fargo was fit to slug him, but under the circumstances he smiled thinly and said, “I don’t mind at all.”

  “Mr. Link,” Whirtle said. “Relieve our visitor of his firearms.”

  Grinning eagerly, Link scooped up his knife and made to comply.

  “No,” Fargo said.

  Link stopped and glanced at Whirtle, whose thin eyebrows arched in bemusement. “Oh really? And why should I let you keep them?”

  “Because even if you put a slug in me, I guarantee I’ll put one in you before I go down,” Fargo vowed.

  Wagging his knife, Link declared, “He’s bluffin’, Mr. Whirtle. No one is that fast. I say you should just blow the buzzard to kingdom come.”

  “East of the Mississippi River they call that murder,” Whirtle said evenly, “and in case you haven’t heard, it’s against the law.”

  “But there are no laws here,” Link said, bobbing his double chin at the surrounding forest. “Folks kill other folks all the time and get away with it.” He winked and chuckled. “Who’s to know, eh?”

  “Am I to take it you have indulged on occasion?” Whirtle asked.

  “How’s that?” Link said, and blinked. “Oh. I get it. Well, let’s just say that if you let me gut him for kickin’ me, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve indulged, as you put it.”

  “Interesting,” Whirtle said, more to himself than to them. “But I’m afraid Teague wouldn’t approve, and the last thing I want is to make him mad. We’ll keep this stranger alive for the time being.”

  “Whatever you want,” Link said, unable to hide his disappointment. Muttering under his breath, he turned back to the buck.

  Whirtle came closer to the pinto, the muzzle of his rifle trained on Fargo’s chest. “You must forgive the simpletons,” he said so only Fargo would hear. “Like most of our hired staff, they don’t overflow with intellect. But someone has to perform the many menial chores required, and it certainly won’t be me.”

  “You don’t want to get your hands dirty, is that it?” Fargo asked, giving the man a taste of his own sarcasm.

  “Why should I, when there are always lowly mules like Link to do the labor for me?” Whirtle let out a long sigh. “I hear comments like yours all the time. But I can’t help it I was born into one of the wealthiest families in the state of New York.”

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  “That I am,” Whirtle said. “Teague is always taking us off on one grand adventure after another. Last year we spent a month in Africa. The year before that it was India. Next year, he’s talking about South America.”

  The rifle barrel had dipped toward the ground as Whirtle talked. Fargo could easily kick free of the stirrups and tackle him, or draw the Colt and pistol-whip him across the head, but Fargo was content to lean on his saddle horn and say, “I take it you do whatever this Teague wants?”

  Whirtle shrugged. “I suppose you could say that. We’ve been best friends since we were old enough to walk. When we were little he always decided what we did, which games we played, that sort of thing. Nothing much has changed. You’ll understand better when you meet him.”

  Link and Charley were carving on the buck with brutal zest. After peeling the hide, th
ey cut the meat into sections but left much of it unclaimed, enough to feed Fargo for a month if the meat were smoked and salted. “You’re wasting a lot of good venison,” he commented.

  “It’s only a deer,” Whirtle said. “I must shoot five or six a day.”

  “Your party eats that much?” To Fargo it seemed like an awful lot. But before the Easterner could answer, loud chattering arose from a tree at the clearing’s edge. A gray squirrel had stumbled on them and was venting its irritation.

  Whirtle glanced up, smiled, and snapped the rifle to his shoulder. He barely took aim. At the sharp crack, gun smoke spewed from the barrel and the squirrel tumbled head over tail from the limb to strike the hard earth with a flat thud. It twitched a few times, then was still.

  “Did you see that?” Whirtle said. “Dead center in the head at forty feet. Not bad, if I say so myself.”

  Fargo had seen better. Most frontiersmen could do the same at a hundred yards and would not think it exceptional. “You shot that squirrel for no reason?”

  “It annoyed me,” Whirtle said. “Besides, what difference does it make? One less squirrel in the world is no great loss.”

  “It is to the squirrel.” Fargo liked this man less by the minute. “Are you at least going to skin it and take the meat back?”

  “What for?” was Whirtle’s reply. “We have the venison, and all I’m after is my share.”

  “Your share?” Fargo said, but again they were interrupted, this time by loud crashing in the underbrush and the arrival of three men on horseback. Two were stamped from the same coarse mold as Link and Charley, and one of them led a packhorse over which a dead doe had been tied. The third rider wore an expensive outfit similar to Whirtle’s and had a large hunting rifle slung across his back. He was younger than Whirtle by a good ten years, his face as round and smooth as a baby’s.

  “Garrick! We were on our way back and heard your shot.”