by Sharpe, Jon
THREE ON ONE
“Had enough?”
Fargo glanced up. “Not while I’m breathing.”
“Suit yourself. But I’m not holding back anymore.”
“Makes two of us,” Fargo said, and was on his feet with his blood boiling.
They joined again, slugging with no quarter asked, fists landing with brutal force.
Fargo lost sight of everyone and everything except Emmett Badger. He was conscious only of throwing punches and being punched. Then Badger’s arm lowered, just a fraction, but it was enough.
Now it was Badger who was on the floor wearing a dazed look. “Damn,” he said. “Are there three of you or is it me?”
“There are three of me,” Fargo said, “and we’ll stomp the hell out of you if you get back up.”
SIGNET
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The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Utah Terror, the three hundred seventy-third volume in this series.
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Contents
Three On One
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Excerpt form TEXAS SWAMP FEVER
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, in the heart of hostile country—someone is killing scouts, and they have the Trailsman in their gun sights.
1
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 love 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 bastard 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 w
arbling, 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 boot heels 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 envy. 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 shrugged. 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.
2
When most people back in the East thought of a fort, they imagined high wooden palisades. They also imagined wide gates and ramparts and cramped living space for the officers and enlisted men.
That wasn’t always the case west of the Mississippi.
Fort Carlson, for instance. It had no palisades, no walls of any kind. The buildings were spread out in a horseshoe smack in the middle of the Salt River Valley. Starting at one end, there was the blacksmith’s, the sutler’s, the guardhouse, company headquarters, a few homes for the senior officers, long barracks for everyone else, plus a stable and an attached corral.
“God Almighty, will you look at that,” Bear River Tom marveled.
Fargo was looking. All the buildings and sheds and outhouses had been painted white. Even the corral posts and rails. “I’m surprised they didn’t paint the parade ground white, too.”
Bear River Tom laughed. “I heard the commander had it done to give the place
a civilized look.”
“No wonder Indians think whites are touched in the head.”
“We are,” Bear River Tom said. “Heads in a whirl is how the Shoshones would put it.”
“You lived with them a while, didn’t you?”
“For half a year or so. I took up with a Shoshone gal. Her people are right friendly. They adopted me into the tribe. I wasn’t the first white they did that with. There’s a mountain man they adopted years ago. I met him and his spooky son once.”
“Spooky?”
“The son is a man-killer.”
“Who isn’t these days?”
They gigged their horses and wound along the Salt River, the surface gleaming bright in the sunlight. Butterflies flitted about the wildflowers that grew along the banks.
“I reckon killing is a way of life out here, sure enough,” Bear River Tom continued their conversation. “What with red killing white and white killing red and white killing white and red killing red, there’s plenty of killing going around. It’s sort of like catching a cold. Once you catch the killing bug, you pass it on to everybody else.”
“You say the strangest damn things.”
Bear River Tom chortled. “So I’ve been told. It probably comes from spending so much time inside my own noggin.”
“There you go again.”
Men in uniform and others were moving about the post. Infantry drilled on the parade ground, and a dozen cavalry were putting their mounts through their paces.
“Look at ’em,” Bear River Tom said. “It’s a regular beehive.”
Sentries were posted fifty yards out, and a soldier with the V’s of a corporal on his sleeves moved to intercept them. “Hold up,” the trooper said, shifting his rifle and raising a hand. “Halt and be recognized.”
Bear River Tom snorted and drew rein. “You can’t tell we’re white?”
“As dark as you two are,” the corporal said, “either of you could about pass for redskins. You’re scouts, by the look of you.”
“And you halt us anyway?”
“Orders are orders,” the corporal said, and looked them up and down. “Now we have more of your kind than we can shake a stick at.”