Thunderhead Trail

by Jon Sharpe

  “Why expect anything?”

  “Someone half famous like you, folks love to gossip. I’ve heard their stories. About how you are lightning with a pistol, and hard as nails.”

  “I like my lightning in a bottle.”

  “They say that about you, too. You drink, you whore, you play a lot of cards.”

  “I listen to idiots talk about me.”

  Crown laughed again, and groaned again. “Damn it. Stop doing that.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  The bounty hunter nodded. “The stories don’t tell all of it.”

  “When do they ever?”

  “See? That’s what I mean. They say you’re snake-mean and booze-blind half the time, but you’re not. There’s more to you.”

  “I keep it hid in my pants.”

  This time when Crown stopped laughing he didn’t wheeze as much. “I take back what I said. You are snake-mean. I asked you to stop doing that.”

  “I will if you stop jabbering.”

  “All I’m trying to say,” Rafer Crown said, “is that you’d do to ride the river with.”

  “Do we hug now?”

  Crown exploded in mirth and more cussing. “Can’t you ever be serious?”

  “Are you up to more running?”

  “For her I am.”

  Fargo didn’t push quite as hard. It wouldn’t do to have the bounty hunter collapse because he was too worried about Aramone to stop and rest.

  The tracks were easy enough to follow. Between all their horses and Thunderhead and his little family, a ten-year-old couldn’t lose them.

  Thinking of the horses made Fargo think of the Ovaro, and how Kyler Hollister said he’d taken a shine to the stallion and might keep it for his own.

  Over Fargo’s dead body.

  By the sun it wasn’t much past one when Fargo came to where the Hollisters had stopped for a while to let the calf rest. A pile of bull droppings was so fresh, they squished when he poked them with a stick. “We’re not far behind.”

  “I hope not. I can’t run much farther without my legs giving out.”

  It wasn’t half an hour later, as they were descending a ridge, that Fargo spied a line of riders lower down, and the enormous longhorn.

  Crown spotted them, too. “Do you see her anywhere?”

  “Third in line,” Fargo said.

  “They haven’t harmed her yet, then. Thank God.”

  Fargo was relieved, himself.

  “How do you want to do this? Jump them now or wait until they stop for the night.”

  “If we wait,” Fargo said, “will I have to listen to you gripe all damn day about how worried you are over her?”

  “You will.”

  “Then as someone said to me earlier, let’s get to killing those Hollisters.”

  51

  The calf was the problem. It could only go a short way before it had to stop. And often when it stopped, it nursed.

  The Hollisters were heartless bastards but they knew that if they made it easy for the calf, they’d reach the ranch sooner. So they made it as easy as they could by sticking to open ground wherever possible.

  Along about the middle of the afternoon they halted on a grass tableland and the calf nursed.

  Fargo could hear Kyler complaining as he crawled toward them.

  “—tried of that stinkin’ critter slowin’ us. For two bits I’d plug it.”

  “You do and I’ll plug you,” Rance said.

  “That’s a fine thing to say to your own brother.”

  “We kill the calf, it’ll upset the cow,” Rance said. “We upset the cow, it’ll upset the bull. We upset the bull, he might take it into his head to gore us or go wandering off. And since there’s no way to stop him short of killin’ him, we’d be out the five thousand dollars.”

  “This sure is gettin’ complicated,” Grizz said.

  “We leave the calf be and it will be easy.”

  Kyler gestured at the bovines. “You call this easy? It’s work, is what it is, herdin’ these three. And I hate work more than I hate just about anything.”

  “Think of your share of the bounty,” Rance said. “That should smooth your feathers.”

  “I ain’t stupid,” Kyler said. “I wouldn’t really shoot the damned nuisance.”

  “Then quit your gripin’.”

  By then Fargo was behind a boulder not twenty feet from them. He was relieved to see the Ovaro over with the other horses. And he imagined that Rafer Crown was relieved to see Aramone, her wrists bound, gazing forlornly up the mountain.

  Rance Hollister took notice of her, too. “Which one of them is it, woman?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aramone replied.

  “Like hell you don’t. You’ve been moonin’ over one or the other all damn day.”

  “I bet it’s that Fargo fella,” Grizz said. “He has a beard like me.”

  “What the hell does hair have to do with it?” Kyler said. “No, she’s partial to the bounty hunter. I saw the look she gave him as we were ridin’ off. About made me puke.”

  “By now the Blackfeet will have done them in,” Rance remarked.

  “You don’t know that,” Aramone said resentfully.

  Rance’s brow knit. “You know, she’s right. We don’t. One of us should ride back and have a look-see.”

  “What the hell for?” Kyler said. “Even if she is, they’re still tied to those trees.”

  “They might have got free,” Rance said.

  “So? We’re too far ahead for them to ever catch us.”

  “As slow as we’re movin’,” Rance said, “I’m not so sure.”

  “I’ll go have that look if you want,” Grizz offered.

  Fargo got his hopes up that one or the other would ride off, but Rance shook his head.

  “No. I’ve changed my mind. The three of us are more than a match for them or anyone else.”

  “You have that right, big brother,” Kyler said. “We’re hellions born and bred.”

  “I never knew jackasses brayed so much,” Aramone said.

  All three turned and Kyler stepped over and jabbed a finger in her face.

  “Keep it up. You’ve mouthed off at us all day and I’ve had my fill. We might need to keep that calf alive but the same doesn’t go for you.”

  “I have an idea,” Grizz said.

  Rance and Kyler looked at him as if they couldn’t believe their ears. Rance even said, “You?”

  “We take turns pokin’ her and then I strangle her and we don’t have to listen to her anymore.”

  “For you that’s a brainstorm,” Kyler said.

  Grizz smiled and nodded. “I have one now and then.”

  “Every ten years,” Kyler said.

  “We save her for tonight,” Rance said. “I’m partial to havin’ my pokes right before I turn in.”

  “Well, hell,” Kyler said. “A poke is a poke.”

  “I sleep better after I have one.”

  Now it was Kyler and Grizz who stared at their brother as if he were peculiar.

  “Not me,” Grizz said. “Whores usually snore and keep me awake.”

  “Is that why you damned near smothered that one in Denver?” Kyler asked.

  “No. She was pickin’ her nose and wipin’ her finger on the sheets. I can’t stand snot so I made her stop.”

  “You are a wonderment,” Rance said.

  “I have an idea,” Aramone broke in. “How about if I ride back to see if they’re still tied to those trees?”

  “Funny gal,” Rance said.

  “Do we look stupid to you?” Kyler barked.

  “Do I really need to answer that?”

  Coloring red with anger, Kyler went to say something but froze, his ga
ze drifting past her toward the horses.

  Rance looked, too.

  So did Fargo, and was dumbfounded. He’d told Crown not to make a move until he did, but the bounty hunter had thrown caution to the winds and was making a try for the saddlebags with their weapons in them.

  Crown had crawled as close as he could without being seen and risen into a crouch to run the last ten feet or so.

  Snapping his Sharps to his shoulder, Rance Hollister said, “Try and you die.”

  52

  Fargo hoped the bounty hunter would have the sense to throw his hands up and not move. But then Crown glanced at Aramone, and common sense went out the window with the dishwater.

  Breaking into motion, Crown dashed to the horse. The Sharps boomed but Rance only knocked off Crown’s hat. Kyler started toward him, brandishing his long knife, while Grizz clawed for the six-shooter wedged under his belt.

  Fargo was nearest to Grizz. He heaved up and hurtled at him with his shoulder low.

  Grizz must have caught sight of him because he tried to turn and point his pistol.

  Fargo slammed into the slab of dumb low in the back. It was like slamming into a wall. He recovered and delivered an uppercut that, by rights, should have felled Grizz where he stood. Instead, Grizz dropped the revolver and wrapped his huge hands around Fargo’s throat.

  Fargo was vaguely aware of Aramone yelling and of Rance hollering to Grizz about getting out of the way so he had a clear shot. He glimpsed Crown and Kyler grappling and Kyler trying to bury his knife, and then his vision blurred and he couldn’t breathe.

  “I’ve got you now, mister,” Grizz gloated.

  Not if Fargo could help it. He drove his right knee into Grizz’s crotch. Once, twice, and Grizz gurgled and his thick fingers loosened. Fargo rammed his other knee up and in, and Grizz squeaked like a mouse and tottered, cupping himself.

  Fargo punched Grizz in the throat. Looking panicked, Grizz thrust out a hand and backpedaled. Fargo went after him, blocking a left and hitting Grizz in the throat a second time. He didn’t hold back.

  Grizz’s eyes bulged and his mouth worked but only mews of pain and bewilderment came out. He swallowed, or tried to, and sucked in air through his nose.

  Fargo waded in again. Grizz brought up both fists but he was swaying and his eyelids were drooping. Fargo struck him in the throat yet again.

  Something crunched, and blood spurted from Grizz’s mouth. Tottering, he grasped his neck. His tree-trunk legs buckled and he oozed to the grass.

  Fargo whirled to help Crown. The bounty hunter and Kyler were on the ground, grappling and rolling.

  Rance had run over and was attempting to fix a bead with the Sharps.

  Aramone appeared transfixed with horror.

  That was when a rifle cracked. But it wasn’t the Sharps.

  Rance Hollister tilted back, a hole high on his forehead. He looked as surprised as Fargo.

  Kyler, who was on top of Crown, glanced up—and his left eye dissolved to another blast.

  “What in the world?” Aramone blurted.

  Fargo turned toward the woods as three figures emerged with their rifles leveled.

  Rafer Crown shoved Kyler off and saw them, too. “What in hell? What are they doing here?”

  The redheaded Johnson boys were grinning in delight. Solomon was in the middle, Seth to his right, Jared to his left.

  “What do you think we’re doin’, mister?” Seth said, and laughed.

  “Surprised to see us?” Solomon said to Fargo.

  “Not as surprised as that farmer and the old woman must have been,” Fargo said.

  “He’s figured it out, brothers,” Seth said.

  “I believe he has,” Solomon said.

  “Do we kill them now?” Jared asked.

  “Kill us?” Aramone said in confusion. “Why, you’re just children. You can’t kill people.”

  Solomon laughed. “We just killed that jasper with the Sharps and the other one with the knife, didn’t we?”

  “We’ve killed a heap of folks,” Seth bragged.

  “We like it,” little Jared said.

  Aramone looked at Fargo. “Am I losing my mind? Am I imagining this?”

  “They aim to claim the bounty no matter what they have to do,” Fargo said.

  Solomon nodded. “Five thousand is more than most folks earn in all their born days.”

  “We’ll go on a spree,” Seth said. “Me, I aim to eat so much hard candy, my gut will hurt.”

  “I want chocolate,” Jared said.

  “You can’t be serious, boys,” Aramone said. “This is insane.”

  Unnoticed by everyone save Fargo, the gunshots and commotion had angered Thunderhead. He stood in front of Mabel and the calf, his great head lowered, his front legs splayed, ready to slay anyone who came close.

  “Lady, every time you open your mouth,” Solomon was saying, “you say something dumb.”

  “How many of the bull hunters have you killed?” Rafer Crown asked.

  “What’s it to you?” Seth shot back.

  “Nine,” Solomon said, “besides that plow-pusher and the old bitch.”

  “Dear God,” Aramone said.

  “I am sick of all this gab,” Jared told his freckled siblings. “Can we kill them and get this over with?”

  Solomon looked at Fargo. “What do you think, mister? Should we? Or do you want to go on breathin’ for a minute or two yet?”

  “Kids, by God,” Rafer Crown said. “I refuse to have it be you three.”

  “You don’t have a choice, mister,” Solomon said.

  “Like hell I don’t.” Rafer spun and lunged at his horse but he’d barely moved his legs when Seth’s squirrel rifle blasted. Rafer stumbled and clutched the bay’s saddle to keep from falling.

  Aramone cried, “You shot him!”

  “We sure did,” Solomon said, taking aim at the bounty hunter. “And now I’ll finish him off.”

  Fargo was about to rush the redheaded terrors to try to stop them when there was a tremendous bellow.

  Thunderhead had had enough. The gunshots, the yells, the screams, had frayed his temper to the snapping point.

  Horns low, he hurtled at the Johnsons.

  There was nothing Fargo could do. Why the longhorn picked them and not him or Aramone or Crown, he’d never know. Maybe it was their red hair. Bulls hated the color red, or so everyone said.

  Whatever the case, Thunderhead was on them in a fury. Jared fired but the shot had no effect. It was like a ten-ton boulder slamming into three twigs. Thunderhead butted Solomon, crushing his chest, and slashed his long horns right and left.

  Just like that, it was over.

  Aramone let out a wail.

  Fargo braced for the bull to whirl and attack them.

  But no. Thunderhead turned and went to Mabel and the calf. His anger had evaporated as quickly as it exploded. Touching his muzzle to hers, he appeared perfectly peaceful.

  Rafer Crown was on his feet, but wobbly. Aramone ran to him and looped both her arms around his waist.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “That’s usually what happens when someone is shot.”

  Not taking his eyes off the longhorns, Fargo sidled to the Ovaro, yanked his Henry from the scabbard, and only then asked, “How bad?”

  “The kid clipped my shoulder,” Crown said. “I’ll live.”

  “You’d better,” Aramone said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Crown stared at all the crumpled forms and once again gave voice to Fargo’s own opinion. “This has been some mess.”

  “It’s over, thank God,” Aramone said. “I’ll bandage you and you can rest.”

  “Rest, hell,” Crown said. “We’re taking that bull to the Bar T and collecting the bounty.”

  “Fine
by me,” Fargo said. He had some serious drinking to do. And then there was Candice, who wanted to show how grateful she was. By now she would have healed enough that she could.

  Fargo smiled. Things were looking up.

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening

  section of the next novel in the exciting

  Trailsman series from Signet:

  TRAILSMAN #386

  NEVADA VIPERS’ NEST

  Carson Valley, Nevada Territory, 1861—where Skye Fargo must track down an elusive, mysterious woman or be branded a murderer of women and children.

  Skye Fargo’s stallion always showed a distinctive quiver in his nostrils when he whiffed death.

  And they had begun that quivering now as Fargo started to ascend a low ridge overlooking the remote Carson Valley at the western edge of the newly formed Nevada Territory.

  Fargo expelled a weary, fluming sigh as he reined in. “Steady on, old campaigner,” he told his nervous Ovaro. “You know that trouble never leaves us alone for very long.”

  The buckskin-clad man some called the Trailsman sat tall in the saddle, his alert, lake-blue eyes watching his surroundings from a weather-bronzed, crop-bearded face. He was wide in the shoulders, slim in the hips, and a dusty white hat left half his face in shadow.

  The deadly alkali flats of Nevada stretched out to infinity behind him, the majestic, ascending folds of the California Sierra rose before him. Fargo was currently employed by the army as an express messenger between Camp Floyd, in the Utah Territory, and Fort Churchill in Nevada.

  Normally his route would not take him this far west into the silver-mining country. But the Paiutes, Bannocks and Shoshones in this region—no tribes to fool with—had recently made common cause to war on whiteskins. Fargo had been forced to flee in this direction to shake a war party determined to lift his dander.

  And now this new trouble . . .

  “Caught between a sawmill and a shootout,” Fargo muttered. “Story of my life.”

  He clucked at his nervous stallion and gigged him up to a trot, sliding his brass-framed Henry rifle from its boot. The ridge he now ascended was strewn with boulders, and Fargo’s slitted eyes stayed in constant scanning motion, watching for dry-gulchers.