by Jon Sharpe
SNOW BUSINESS
A figure sprang sideways out of the shed—the man who’d been arguing in the lodge with Larsen over the cost of the dead deer. He threw himself sideways, bearded lips stretched, blue eyes flashing rage. The revolver extending straight out from his waist exploded, blossoming smoke and flames—but not until a half second after Fargo’s own revolver had done the same, punching a hole through the man’s chest, between the flaps of his rat-hair coat, and throwing his shot wide.
He flew sideways and back with a grunt, hit the snow on his back, and let the revolver sag beside him. Blood bubbled up from the hole in his chest. He tipped his blond head to look at it, kicking his legs. He grunted, and let his head fall back into the snow.
by
Jon Sharpe
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, December 2007
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The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Texas Timber War, the three hundred thirteenth volume in this series.
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ISBN: 978-1-4406-2092-8
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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.
Dakota Territory, 1860—a Russian beauty with a price on her head and a storm-ravaged Christmas trimmed with lead.
Table of Contents
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The Trailsman #315: Missouri Manhunt
1
Skye Fargo looked up toward the stable’s sashed, frosted window for just an instant, but it was long enough to see the silhouette of a bearded face crowned with a heavy fur hat staring in at him.
He glanced away, and by the time he glanced back, the figure was gone. An instant later, the Trailsman, as Fargo was known throughout the frontier, had reached inside his buckskin mackinaw and filled his hand with his Colt .44.
The Ovaro stallion, for whom he’d just finished forking a thick bed of fresh straw against the brittle north country cold, nickered and swished his tail at the Trailsman’s sudden movement…and possibly at the sound and smell of a man outside the barn’s chinked log walls.
“Easy, boy,” Fargo grumbled, patting the horse’s neck.
He wheeled, pushed through the stable door, turned down the wick of the barn’s single lit lamp, and felt his way through the heavy shadows toward the small side door near the window. His breath puffed visibly in the cold darkness. He drew the door open quickly, waited a count, then, aiming the Colt straight out in front of him, stepped outside. He looked around, swinging the revolver back and forth before him, finger taut against the trigger.
He was alone.
There was nothing but horse apples lying in frozen clumps amid the corral’s deep, hoof-pocked snow, furred flakes dancing on the wind under a slate gray sky…and fresh footprints in the snow beneath the window to the right of the open door.
The prints arced around from the rear of the barn to the window, then retreated the same way—two separate trails made by one set of soft-soled boots or moccasins. Squinting against the knifelike slice of the wind blowing snow against his face, Fargo followed the tracks along the side of the barn. At the barn’s rear corner, he ducked through the corral slats, stopped, and frowned.
The retreating set of tracks moved out from the rear of the barn to an unused springhouse sheathed in snow and brush about thirty yards away. The trail, slowly filling in with drifting snow, disappeared around the shake-roofed shed’s right side.
The snow sifted. The wind moaned around the buildings of the village behind Fargo, catching the springhouse’s half-open door with rustling thumps. In the snow-muffled distance, a dog barked.
Fargo adjusted his grip on the .44’s walnut handle, his hand turning cold inside his elk-skin gloves. His pulse quickened. The tracks could very well lead him into a trap, but he had little choice except to follow and hope his hearing and reactions were keener than those of his stalker. Retiring to the lodge knowing a predator was hunting him would make for a lousy night’s rest and merely postpone the trouble.
Tipping his broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat against the wind and shrugg
ing low in his mackinaw—the temperature was falling quickly as the sun dropped, the steely sky turning darker—he moved forward, placing his boots inside the prints of his stalker. The man’s feet were two sizes larger than Fargo’s.
The Trailsman crossed the space between the springhouse and the barn quickly and, keeping an eye on his flank, followed the tracks along the side of the small building, the tall, dead brush grabbing at his buckskins, and stopped at the back corner. He edged a look around to the back. The tracks continued to the other side.
Fargo cursed, blinked furry snowflakes from his eyelashes, glanced behind him once more, and stole forward, following the large tracks wide of a dead lilac snugging against the springhouse’s rear wall. He stopped suddenly. The tracks traced a semicircle around the rear wall, disappearing behind the far side.
Ring-around-the-rosy, was it?
A soft thump sounded on his left flank. Fargo spun, crouching and cocking the Colt’s hammer, extending the pistol straight out from his shoulder. A lilac branch bounced under the weight of snow fallen from the edge of the roof above, some still sifting on the wind, glistening dully in the wan, fading light.
Fargo turned again and continued following the large-footed tracks along the side of the springhouse, moving slowly, turning complete circles to keep a sharp eye skinned on his backtrail. Stopping at the building’s front corner, he wasn’t surprised to find the tracks continuing around the front to the other side.
He cursed under his breath, glanced behind him, then took one step around the springhouse’s front corner.
A shadow moved in the tail of his right eye.
He froze, heart hammering.
He began to wheel around, bringing up the .44, but he hadn’t turned more than six inches before huge arms snaked around him, pinning his own arms to his sides.
A deep, drumming guffaw sounded, hammering the Trailsman’s eardrums, as the big arms wrenched the air from his lungs and, pinning his revolver barrel down against his side, lifted him a good two feet off the ground.
“The ole griz done sprung his trap on ya, Fargo!” The big man behind him guffawed again, squeezing the Trailsman against him so hard that Fargo couldn’t suck a breath. “Whaddaya think about that?”
“Grizzly, you son of a bitch!” Fargo rasped, trying to peel one of the big man’s hands loose with the free one of his own. “If you don’t put me down, I’m gonna drill a bullet through one of your clodhoppers!”
The arm opened.
Fargo dropped straight down and, slipping in the snow, nearly fell as he turned to stare up into the face of the appropriately named Grizzly Olaffson. Actually, if Fargo remembered right, the man’s first name was Oscar. He had been born in Norway, and his name had changed to Grizzly once he’d crossed the Mississippi nearly forty years ago.
He and Fargo had once competed for scouting work amongst the wagon train captains hauling their emigrant charges from St. Louis to points west and, occasionally, south into Mexico. Fargo and Grizzly had not only fought together in the waterfront saloons of St. Louis and St. Joseph, but, occasionally—when a woman or a dispute over a card game was involved—they had fought each other.
Both had the fist and knife scars to prove it.
“Ha-ha!” Grizzly bellowed, the flaps of his wolf-pelt hat dancing untied about his gray-bearded cheeks. His head was the size of a pumpkin, his shoulders wide as the axle of a freight wagon, and he had a good four inches on the Trailsman, all six feet eight of his rugged bulk bedecked in an ankle-length bear coat and high-topped moccasins sewn from a wolverine hide. “You oughta be more careful, lettin’ a man sneak up on ya like that. I coulda been a Sioux lookin’ fer a nice cinnamon scalp like yourn for sweepin’ out my lodge!”
“You crazy bastard.” Fargo holstered the Colt.
“Merry Christmas to you, too!”
“What the hell are you doin’ here, anyway? I thought you’d shacked up in the Rockies with a Ute woman.”
“Ah, shit, that was two squaws and a dance hall girl ago! Hell, I live up here now. Drive the stage between Brule City and Devil’s Lake year-round. Beats scoutin’, trappin’, and buffalo huntin’, and the pay’s enough to keep me in whores and cee-gars.”
“You drive the stage for Craw Bascomb?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m your new shotgun rider.”
“I know. Craw told me. He’s been grinnin’ like a jackass eatin’ cactus ever since you sent word back to the fort you’d take the job. He can’t believe his luck, gettin’ the great Trailsman his ownself to work the line for him.”
“It’s just for the winter,” Fargo said, hunkering down in his coat and glancing at the sky. “I was planning on heading south but got trapped by that first big storm. Figure I might as well work as lay around the fort or the Brule City saloons.” He glanced at Grizzly, who was staring down at him, looking for all the world like some fabled man-beast of the northern wild, his furs, heavy brows, and beard limned with the thickening snow. “It’s a pretty easy run, isn’t it?”
“Pshaw!” said Grizzly. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, if you can put up with a few chilblains. And bein’ on the trail over Christmas, of course. You just get here?”
When Fargo said he had, Grizzly Olaffson laid a big mitten on his shoulder. “Come on over to the lodge. I’ll buy you a Christmas toddy and introduce you to ole Craw himself and the passengers headin’ out with us tomorrow. We got us a full load, but with those new skis I put on the coach, we’ll slide along slickern’ snot on a schoolmarm’s bell in mid-July!”
“Hold on.” Fargo stopped and turned to the big man, slitting an eye. “You got any more practical jokes up your sleeve, keep ’em there. Cold weather makes me jumpy.”
Grizzly laughed and clamped his hand once more on Fargo’s shoulder, leading him back toward the barn. “I’ll mind my p’s and q’s just for you, Skye!”
“Yeah,” Fargo grumbled, kicking the snow clumps. “Like hell you will.”
He retrieved his Henry rifle and saddlebags from the barn, then followed Grizzly across Brule City’s main street to a two-story, stone-and-mortar, shake-roofed house sitting under a couple of stark, sprawling cottonwoods. The place was flanked by the Red River of the North, sheathed in brush, diamond willows, and more towering cottonwoods, with the river little more than a giant gray snake twisting between its shallow banks.
Crows cawed in the snowy silence around the river.
Nearer Fargo and Grizzly Olaffson, a couple of horseback riders passed on the street, bundled, and hunched against the cold. Otherwise, the wood or sod huts and the half dozen false-fronted business establishments of Brule City were quiet, hunkering down for another long, cold night, the night before Christmas Eve. It was well below zero, no doubt, judging by the last several nights, though the snow might keep the mercury from dropping as obscenely as it had been. The frigid air was rife with the smell of burning wood and roasting meat.
Fargo thought of the Arizona sunshine he would have been enjoying with some dusky-skinned, halfdressed senorita had he not let himself get socked into the North Country in late December, and frustration was a coyote’s lonely wail inside him.
Grizzly pushed through the lodge’s front door, stomping snow from his boots, and Fargo followed him into the large room, which had a long bar on the left, and tables and deep leather chairs and couches to the right, near a snapping fire in the big stone hearth. A buffalo trophy was mounted on the broad chimney over the hearth, the brown eyes reflecting the fire’s glow. A spindly Christmas tree—a small piñon pine—stood to one side of the fire, trimmed with about six candles and a couple of popcorn strings.
A plump half-breed girl, dressed in fur-trimmed buckskins, was serving food and drinks to the half dozen people gathered in the sunken dining area near the fire—stage passengers, probably. The room was too dark, lit only by the fire and a couple of candles, for Fargo to make out much more than silhouetted shapes of four men and two women besides the half-breed serving girl.
Opening his bear coat, Grizzly descended the four wooden steps to the sunken room, then climbed three more to the bar. “Craw Bascomb, look who I found skulkin’ around outside in the cold—Skye Fargo his ownself! Skye, meet Craw Bascomb. He runs the line when he ain’t ice fishin’ for bullheads out on the river or diddlin’ the Injun whores over at Mrs. Sondrial’s place in Cottonwood Creek!”
Grizzly threw his head back, his guffaws attracting all eyes in the room.
Sheathed Henry repeater in one hand, saddlebags draped over the opposite shoulder, Fargo mounted the steps to the broad bar. Behind the scarred oak planks stood a hard-faced, long-haired gent in a bloodstained apron. A couple of dressed sage hens lay on the bar before the owner of the Red River Stage Company, who tossed down the cleaver and swiped his right hand on his apron before extending it over the bar toward Fargo. A quick, churlish glance toward Grizzly Olaffson spoke volumes about the man’s disdain for his giant, overbearing driver.
“Fargo, I’m honored to have ya on the roll.”
Fargo removed his glove with his teeth, shook the man’s hand, then dropped the glove on the bar. “I’m happy for the work, since I’m trapped up here, anyway. Like I told you in my note, though, I’ll be movin’ on in May. I have a contract to lead another wagon train west from St. Louis.”
Craw Bascomb grunted. He had a big, hard-jawed face, pitted from a previous bout with smallpox. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes were set wide, his coarse dark brown hair hanging straight down his back. “Too bad. I could use a permanent man since the previous shotgunner—Walleye Tweed—done got hisself shot.”
“A holdup?”
“Nah, we haven’t had a holdup in over a year, and that was just some restless French boys from up Canada-way. No, old Walleye’s wife found out he was diddling Henrietta there.” Bascomb canted his head toward the pudgy half-breed girl pouring out a couple of whiskey shots down the bar to his left. “Walleye’s wife, Ella, waited till Walleye was having his morning constitutional, then took his own shotgun, walked out to the privy, and shot him while he was sittin’ there over the hole, through the privy’s back wall. Both barrels. Ella’s still walkin’ around town with her arm in a sling.”
