Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “I’m not leaving you,” Jerrold said.

  Fargo had divined what the older Synnet was up to, and played along. “Your brother’s notion is a good one. You can reach the valley long before Horner does, and there are plenty of men there to lend you a hand.”

  “It’s important Horner be denied fresh horses,” Teague stressed.

  But Jerrold stubbornly refused. “If it’s that important, you should be the one to go, not me.”

  “Your brother is a better shot than you are,” Fargo said. “You’ve told me so yourself. In a gunfight that makes all the difference.”

  Jerrold still balked. “It’s a trick, I tell you. Teague just wants me out of the way so I won’t be hurt. He’s always protecting me, always treating me like I’m only ten years old.”

  “If you won’t do it for him, do it for your sister and the other women.” Fargo played his trump card.

  “Or do you want Leslie to suffer a fate worse than death?” Teague added extra incentive. “Do you love her that little?”

  Jerrold bristled like an angry porcupine. “I love her just as much as you do, I’ll have you know!” He clenched his teeth and snarled, “Very well. I’ll do it. But you be sure to tell her I didn’t go willingly.” Whipping his reins, he headed for the base of the range.

  “Thank you,” Teague Synnet said once the younger man was out of earshot. “I couldn’t have convinced him without your help.”

  “He’s too young to die,” Fargo said, wishing Teague had gone along.

  In silence they rode on.

  A glint of sunlight off metal gave the outlaws away. A line of riders was negotiating a boulder-strewn slope. Fargo counted three men and four women. Leslie was a captive now, too. Even as he looked on, Horner broke from cover and joined them.

  “We got rid of my brother in the proverbial nick of time,” Teague said. “A lot of blood is about to be shed.”

  Fargo had to try. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into letting me handle this alone?”

  “Not for every cent I own,” Teague said. “I’ve looked after my sister and brother since we were kids. Anyone who tries to harm them answers to me. Horner and Thackery and the others are dead men. They just don’t know it yet.” He stopped and stared at Fargo. “Any objections?”

  “None at all.”

  18

  Horner might as well have painted a giant sign that read, THIS IS A TRAP.

  The meadow was a hundred yards long and thirty yards wide. A breeze stirred the tall grass that surrounded the four bound women at the meadow’s center. Leslie, Shelly, Melantha and Susan were on their knees, their hands bound behind their backs, their ankles and thighs looped with more rope. As an added testament to Horner’s cruelty, ropes had been tied from their ankles to their necks so they couldn’t stand without strangling themselves. And they were unable to speak thanks to the gags stuffed in their mouths.

  “No one does that to my sister and lives,” Teague Synnet said from their vantage point at the east end of the meadow.

  Fargo studied the tall grass and the trees bordering it. Horner and the others had to be there somewhere.

  Teague verified he had a cartridge in his hunting rifle, then said, “You can crouch here all day if you want but I’m not waiting any longer. I can’t stand to see Leslie humiliated like that.”

  “We should stick together,” Fargo said. He could watch Synnet’s back and Synnet could watch his.

  “I don’t need any help,” Teague said. “I’m a hunter, remember? I’ve brought down the most dangerous game on three continents. Compared to a tiger or a water buffalo, Horner and his friends are nothing.”

  “All it takes is one lucky shot,” Fargo remarked, but Synnet wasn’t listening. Teague was stealthily gliding to the left to circle the meadow, a two-legged predator at the peak of his prowess.

  “Fine,” Fargo said to himself, and moved to the right. Synnet could hunt the vermin alone if he wanted. He would concentrate on freeing the women.

  At the west end of the meadow something moved. Fargo’s eyes narrowed, but it was only a horse’s tail. All the mounts and pack animals were there but not the men who rode them.

  Fargo squinted at the sun, marking its position. He had to be careful not to expose the Henry to sunlight. The brass receiver was highly reflective and if a shaft of sunlight were to strike it, the gleam would give him away. He held the rifle close to his body, his arm partially covering the brass.

  The forest was as still as a cemetery. The wild things had gone silent. All the birds, the squirrels, all the insects seemed to be waiting with baited breath.

  Shadows lent a preternatural twilight that Horner and Thackery and the other two killers would exploit. Spotting them would take some doing.

  Teague Synnet was not the only skilled hunter. Fargo had been hunting since he was old enough to hold a rifle, and he wasn’t unique. Nine out of ten Americans lived on the farm or a ranch or in the backwoods. Those who didn’t hunt, didn’t eat. Some became exceptional at it.

  The best became scouts, their skills indispensable to an army made up mostly of raw young recruits. They were the cream of the frontier crop, looked up to by everyone.

  Not that Fargo ever let it go to his head. He did not see himself as extraordinary. He was who he was and was able to do what he did by virtue of the life he had lived. That was all. To him, hunting was second nature, something he did nearly every day. Stalking a man was no different. It called for the same skills, the same honed instincts and razor reflexes.

  Now, pausing among small pines, Fargo crouched low to the ground. He had a feeling that something was not quite right. The trees, the underbrush, all seemed to be as it should. Then he noticed a peculiar shadow at the bottom of an evergreen, a shadow that seemed to be part of the tree’s shadow but did not match the shape of the tree.

  Raising the Henry, Fargo took aim. Odds were the bushwhacker had not spotted him or the man would have fired by now.

  He needed to be sure before he squeezed the trigger. It wouldn’t do to hit the man in the leg or wing him in the arm. The shot must be to the head or the heart.

  This was the essence of hunting. Tracking and stalking were important but they alone were not enough. A good hunter always waited for the best shot. One shot was all it should take, whether shooting at game or an enemy.

  Suddenly the woods rocked to the blast of a heavy-caliber rifle. It came from the direction Teague Synnet had taken.

  Fargo didn’t move. But the shadow at the base of the tree did. A head rose, and a grizzled face sought the source of the shot. Fargo waited until the face turned toward him, waited for the shock of recognition. Then, and only then, did he stroke the trigger. The face dissolved into red splotches as the back of the man’s head exploded like burst fruit and his hat tumbled end over end. Fargo instantly dived flat and crawled to the left. But no other shots shattered the woodland. Neither Horner nor any of the other kidnappers fired.

  Snaking to a log, Fargo cautiously raised his head high enough to see over it. Out in the meadow, Leslie and Shelly were fiercely struggling to free themselves. But whoever tied them had rigged the rope around their necks so that the harder they struggled, the more the rope constricted. Leslie was gagging and coughing but still would not give up.

  Fargo crawled over the log, rose, and crept past a thicket. Movement registered, and he pivoted on the balls of his feet. But it was only Teague Synnet, sidling along a knoll that bordered the meadow. Synnet was riveted to his sister and did not see a figure rise up on top of the knoll and sight down a rifle barrel at his back. Fargo jerked the Henry up but before he could fire, Teague whirled and fired from the hip, the heavy-caliber hunting rifle thundering like a cannon.

  The would-be back-shooter was punched rearward by the impact. Amazement momentarily paralyzed him. Teague’s next shot smashed into the man’s mouth, and in a spray of shattered teeth and shredded flesh, the man fell.

  Then Teague did as Fargo had done. Flattening,
he wormed his way to a tree and rose on one knee.

  Their eyes met, and Teague smiled. Damned if Synnet wasn’t enjoying himself, Fargo thought. He pointed at the women and Teague nodded and moved toward them.

  Fargo hung back, his cheek on the Henry. Synnet did not realize it, but he was the bait that would lure Horner from hiding.

  Leslie had seen her brother. She was twisting her head from side to side and frantically trying to loosen her gag. She kept glancing at trees on the north side of the meadow, her eyes wide with fright.

  Fargo peered at the same trees but the boughs were so close together and so thick with needles, he saw nothing to account for her anxiety. Then a patch of brown caught his interest. It wasn’t part of the limb on which it rested. He took a few cautious steps and saw the brown patch move and recognized it for what it was: a boot.

  Since two of the gang had been accounted for, the man in the tree had to be Horner.

  Teague Synnet was still moving toward the women, unaware that he was moving right into the sights of Horner’s gun.

  Fargo couldn’t see Horner’s head or his chest, so hitting a vital organ was out of the question. He had to settle for the only target he had: Horner’s foot. Specifically, Horner’s ankle. Steadying the Henry, he fired.

  A bellow of pain and rage preceded the breaking and rending of limbs as the man responsible for all the bloodshed came crashing to earth. Horner tried to rise but the fall had dazed him and he had lost hold of his rifle.

  Fargo reached him only a few steps ahead of Teague Synnet. He expected Teague to finish Horner off but Teague surprised him by holding his fire.

  “No. I want this slug to suffer. Bring him while I free the women.”

  Fargo almost told him to bring Horner himself. But Teague was already hurrying toward them, and Horner was already stirring. “No sudden moves,” he warned as Horner sat up.

  “I’m bleeding to death!” Horner exclaimed, clasping his hands to his boot. The ground around it was bright with blood.

  “You’re still alive,” Fargo pointed out. “Quit griping and start moving.”

  Furious, Horner placed his hands on the ground and slowly rose. “You want me to walk with my foot half blown off?”

  “Or crawl,” Fargo said. “I don’t give a damn.”

  Cursing bitterly, Horner took a step and nearly pitched onto his face. Steadying himself, he limped into the meadow, wincing every time he put even the slightest weight on his right leg. “I reckon all my pards are worm food?”

  “They got what was coming to them,” Fargo said.

  Teague had undone Leslie’s gag and was untying Shelly’s. “I trust that the next time I tell you ladies to stay at the base camp, you’ll listen.”

  “Cut me loose and give me a gun!” Leslie demanded, thrusting her bound wrists at him. “I’ll deal with Horner!”

  “He’s mine,” Teague said.

  “Like hell!” Leslie was livid. “He put his hands on me! He groped me after those other two brought me to him.”

  “What other two?” Fargo asked, thinking she meant the ones who had killed Anson and Garrick.

  “The two who came up from the valley,” Leslie said, and blinked. “Say, you did get them, didn’t you? I only heard four shots and there are six of them.”

  The voice that came from behind Fargo was laced with vicious glee. “They missed a couple of us, sweet-heart. But then, how were they to know we were here?”

  Teague Synnet grabbed for his hunting rifle but a shot blasted and he was knocked onto his back with a bullet hole in his right shoulder.

  Fargo started to spin but stopped when a gun barrel was jammed against his back. A hand came around and relieved him of the Henry.

  “Nice rifle you have here, mister. I reckon I’ll keep it for myself after we’re done with you.”

  Someone tripped him, and Fargo was sent stumbling toward the women. Half in a crouch, he turned.

  The two gunmen were enough alike to be related: short and stocky, with snake-mean expressions. “Bart and Sears, I take it?”

  “Give the gent a piece of jerky,” one responded. “That friend of yours, Beckman, blabbed to some of the others about us, and we had to light a shuck or be strung up. Took us a spell to find our pards.”

  The other one nodded at the horses in the shadows. “We were yonder but you never saw us. Could have put windows in your noggins without half trying, but we figure Horner might want to have some fun with you first.”

  “You can bet your ass I do!” Horner snatched Teague’s hunting rifle, reversed his grip, and went to club Teague.

  “No!” Leslie cried, throwing herself between them.

  Horner shifted to strike her instead but his foot gave way and he swayed and cursed. “Sears! Find something I can bandage this with! I feel faint.”

  Sears nodded and jogged toward the horses. Bart immediately took a few steps to one side so he could better cover Fargo and Teague. “Suppose you lose that hogleg,” he said, referring to Fargo’s Colt. “Unbuckle your gun belt and let it fall.”

  Horner was leaning on the hunting rifle. “I can’t wait to carve on that one before I do him in. He put this hole in me and I aim to repay the favor.”

  “Then we’ll have these ladies all to ourselves.” Bart smacked his lips and grinned. “I won’t be gettin’ any sleep tonight.”

  Fargo was reaching for his belt buckle when Teague Synnet heaved erect. Teague, too, had lost considerable blood, and his face was pale. For a brief second their eyes met, and Fargo knew, as surely as he was standing there, what Teague was about to do.

  “The only way you will touch them is over my dead body,” Teague said, moving past his sister.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Bart growled.

  Teague took another step. “I can lick a weasel like you any day of the week. Put down that rifle and we’ll find out just how tough you are.”

  “Stop!” Leslie cried, tugging at her bounds. “Don’t goad him! Please, Teague! He’ll gun you down without a second thought.”

  “You’d best listen to your sister, fancy pants,” Bart taunted.

  Fargo glanced at Sears, who had slowed and was looking back.

  “Scum,” Teague said, taking another step toward Bart. Blood streamed from his wound and he was caked with sweat. “That’s all you are. I’ve known cannibals who were better men than you.”

  Bart had taken enough. “I say I plug this jackass!” he said to Horner. “Give the word, damn it.” But he was still pointing his rifle at Fargo.

  If Horner heard, he did not reply. His hand was over his eyes and he was swaying worse than before.

  Across the meadow, Sears had turned back and was racing toward them.

  Teague Synnet smiled lovingly at his sister, then spread his left arm wide and leaped at Bart, who pivoted and fired at a range of no more than five or six inches. Teague was knocked into the women and Bart shifted to bring his rifle to bear on Fargo again.

  But by then Fargo had drawn his Colt. He fired as Bart leveled the rifle, fired again as Bart staggered and clutched at a fine red mist spraying from his throat.

  A rifle banged, and lead buzzed Fargo’s ear. Turning, Fargo fired just once. Sixty feet out, Sears spun in his tracks and dropped.

  “Look out!” Leslie screamed.

  Horner had jammed the hunting rifle to his shoulder. Fargo fired first. He fired a second time as Horner clumsily sought to squeeze the trigger, and Horner fell to his knees. Taking two swift steps, Fargo pressed the Colt’s muzzle to Horner’s forehead and squeezed the trigger one last time.

  The sudden silence was filled by weeping. Leslie and Shelly were both bent over Teague Synnet. The other women were in shock.

  “No, no, no,” Leslie sobbed. “Why did he do it? Why did he throw his life away like that?”

  Fargo palmed his knife and bent to cut her free. Pausing, he stared at her brother’s face, strangely peaceful now that life had faded. Fargo had never liked him, but at the end, Teague S
ynnet had proven there was more to him than arrogance and conceit. When Fargo’s own time came, he could only hope he died half as well.

  An hour later they were on their way down the mountain, Fargo leading the extra horses, the four women with their heads bowed in sorrow. He looked forward to getting them to Fort Leavenworth.

  A week of whiskey, cards and maybe a dove or two was just what he needed.

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening section of the next novel in the exciting Trailsman series from Signet:

  THE TRAILSMAN #279 DEATH VALLEY VENGEANCE

  Death Valley, 1860—a landscape halfway to hell, where some are as wicked as the devil

  The big man in buckskins rode down the single street of the mining camp. His lake-blue eyes were alert for trouble. These boom camps were known for sudden outbreaks of violence, and Skye Fargo didn’t figure this one would be any exception.

  He reined the magnificent black-and-white Ovaro stallion to a halt in front of a sprawling tent saloon. It was early evening, with the red glow of the recently departed sun still in the sky above the Panamint Mountains to the west, but the saloon was already doing a bustling business.

  Fargo swung down out of the saddle and with an outstretched hand stopped one of the prospectors hurrying toward the saloon.

  “Pardon me, friend,” Fargo said. “Does this settlement have a name?”

  The man paused but licked his lips impatiently as he glanced toward the tent saloon. “Blackwater, they call it,” he replied. “After Blackwater Wash.”

  Fargo nodded and said, “Obliged.” He let the prospector hurry on into the saloon to get on with his drinking.

  Instead of going inside himself, Fargo led the stallion down the street toward a corral made of pine poles cut from the trees that grew higher up on the slopes of the mountains. A much smaller tent sat in front of the corral, and a man perched in front of the tent on a three-legged stool, sipping from a cup of coffee. He nodded pleasantly as Fargo walked up.