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
A FATHER’S WRATH
Fargo fired at the same split second as the would-be assassin, and the man’s face dissolved in a crimson spray. The man’s death wail rose loud to the sky and he pitched to the dirt, his frame racked by violent convulsions.
“Matthew!” Porter cried out, and started toward the door.
Fargo reached Porter just as he reached the threshold. Seizing hold of the back of Porter’s jacket, Fargo pushed him to one side. The clan patriarch collided with a rack of dry goods and both crashed to the floor.
A shot rang out, and lead smacked into the door a handsbreath from Fargo’s head.
“Damn you!” Porter raged. “That was my second-oldest son you just killed.”
Fargo yelled, “He was trying to kill me!”
Porter threw a bolt of cloth off his legs and shook a fist in seething fury. “I’ll see you suffer! I’ll see you on your knees beggin’ for your life! You’ll know the torment of the damned before I’m through!”
Trembling with rage, the old man looked dead into Fargo’s eyes, rose up, and charged, his fingers hooked like claws, ready to kill. . . .
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2004
Copyright © Jon Sharpe, 2004
All rights reserved
The first chapter of this title originally appeared in Nebraska Nightmare, the two hundred seventy-fourth volume in this series.
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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.
The Ozark Mountains, 1861—
where blood kin took on a
whole new meaning.
1
The woman’s hands were tied behind her back. Her face was streaked with grime, her clothes consisted of a threadbare shirt and britches. A pretty face, Skye Fargo thought, with bright green eyes and high cheekbones and lips like ripe cherries, all framed by lustrous hair the color of corn silk.
Her captors were cut from the same homespun cloth, two rough-hewn men with features as rugged as the Ozark Mountains through which they were making their determined way. The man in the lead had a bushy, unkempt brown beard that fell in great tangles midway to his waist. A double-barreled shotgun rested in the crook of his brawny left arm.
The man bringing up the rear was younger by half, and clean-shaven. He had a rifle trained on the woman’s back and was gnawing his lower lip.
Fargo’s lake-blue eyes narrowed. By rights this was none of his business. He was passing through northwest Arkansas after spending a wild week in New Or-leans indulging his fondness for whiskey, women, and cards. The smart thing to do was to keep riding and not interfere. But he found himself gigging the Ovaro into the open and placing his hand on the butt of his Colt. “Howdy, gents.”
The bearded man halted and started to raise the shotgun but lowered it again and said in a friendly-enough fashion, “Howdy yourself, stranger.” His gaze roved from the crown of Fargo’s dusty white hat to the tips of Fargo’s dusty boots. “We don’t often see your kind hereabouts.”
“My kind?” Fargo repeated. He was studying the woman, admiring how her hair cascaded over her slender shoulders and the swell of her bosom under her shirt.
“It’s plain as warts on a toad that you’re not hill folk,” the bearded man said. “Those buckskins. That gun belt you’re wearin’. Your horse and rig. You’re one of those frontiersmen, or plainsmen, as some call them. What might your name be?”
Fargo told him.
“Bramwell Jackson,” the man said with more than a trace of pride. “This here is my boy, Samuel. Don’t let his baby face fool you. He can drop a squirrel at two hundred yards with that rifle of his.”
Wondering if that was a veiled threat, Fargo nodded at the woman. “And the lady you have trussed up?”
“Is none of your concern,” Bramwell flatly declared. “So I’ll thank you to rein aside so we can be on our way.”
“In these parts,” young Samuel Jackson threw in, “folks know better than to stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Fargo leaned on his saddle horn. “I have the same problem with my nose that you have with your mouth. Suppose you tell me why she’s tied up like that? And what you aim to do with her?”
“So much for being sociable,” Bramwell said. Snapping the double-barreled shotgun to his shoulder, he thumbed back the double triggers. “You’ll oblige us or make your peace with your Maker.”
Fargo raised his hands, palms out. All it would take was a twitch of the hillman’s finger and he
would be blown clean in half. “I’m not looking for trouble, mister.”
“Then make yourself scarce,” Bramwell advised. “What we’re doing with this gal is no more than she has comin’ to her. Off you go now, or so help me, I’ll turn you into a headless horseman.”
Careful not to make any sudden moves, Fargo reined the Ovaro off the trail. The trio filed past, Samuel Jackson covering him with the squirrel gun until they were swallowed by vegetation. The woman never once looked back, never once said a word.
Pushing his hat back on his head, Fargo scratched his hair in puzzlement. He didn’t know what to make of it. He should do as the hillman told him and continue west to the Rockies. The woman had not asked for his help. She hadn’t so much as looked at him. So why get involved? he asked himself.
Fargo glanced in the direction he had been going, then in the direction the Jacksons and their captive had taken. “When will I learn?” he said, and reined after them. He held the stallion to a walk; he was in no hurry to ride into the twin barrels of that shotgun. There was a common saying to the effect that buck-shot meant burying, with good reason. A shotgun was the next best thing to a cannon. It could splatter a man’s innards from hell to heaven and back again.
The woods were quiet but that was to be expected. Birds and small animals often fell silent when their domain was invaded by man.
The undergrowth was thick, but by rising in the stirrups Fargo could see almost fifty yards ahead, enough to be forewarned of an ambush.
Evidently the hillmen were in a hurry. They quickened their pace to a brisk walk. Nor did they speak to the woman, who walked with her chin held high in silent defiance.
The terrain was typical of the Ozark Plateau, as the region was known. Steep hills, verdant valleys, and rapid streams had to be traversed. Hardwood and pine forests were the rule, broken by fertile lowlands layered with rich soil suitable for farming.
Fargo came to a wooded tract of shortleaf pines. Signs of wildlife were abundant, everything from gray and red squirrels to deer. He noticed a log that had been ripped apart by a black bear in search of grubs. A little further on he spooked a rabbit, which bounded off in long, frantic leaps.
Down one hill and up another. That was how Fargo spent the next hour and a half. Then he heard a yell and the murmur of voices, and drawing rein, he slid down, shucked his Henry rifle from its saddle scabbard, and after looping the reins around a handy limb, he cat-footed through the brush until he came to the end of the trees. He thought he would find a homestead. Instead, he beheld an entire settlement.
Over a dozen ramshackle buildings lined a dirt street that ran from south to north. Plank and log buildings cobbled together by someone who’d never heard of carpentry looked fit to collapse at the next strong gust of wind. A crudely painted sign identified a general store. Another advertised THE JACKSONVILLE SALOON.
Other than a lone mule at a hitch rail, there were no signs of life. Fargo figured the heat of the afternoon sun had driven most of the inhabitants indoors.
The saloon door opened and out strolled Bramwell Jackson. A much older man accompanied him and produced a plug of tobacco. They each took a bite and chewed, their cheeks bulging, and talked in hushed tones.
Fargo circled to the left to come up on the saloon from behind. He intended to find out what became of the woman and why she had been bound. Passing a gap between two houses, he spotted her at the other end, on her knees in the dirt, young Sam Jackson standing guard. Sam was staring toward the saloon and kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
On an impulse Fargo crept toward them. He made no noise but the woman looked up and saw him. She did not smile. She did not seem relieved. She did not react in any way.
“I want you to know I don’t like this much,” Sam Jackson said, glancing at his charge. “But since you joined the rebels, I reckon it’s fittin’.”
“Oh sure,” the woman angrily spat. “Blame the women. Isn’t that always the way?”
“Don’t start with me, Clover,” Sam said. “I’m only doing what I’m told.” He let out a long sigh. “You’ll be lucky if they let you off with a hundred lashes with a bullwhip.”
Clover shifted and glared. “Why don’t the elders just up and hang me? They’ll have one less worry.”
Sam snorted. “You’re peculiar, even for a female. Count your blessin’s you’re still breathin’.”
By then Fargo was close enough to touch the Henry’s muzzle to the back of Sam Jackson’s neck. “Not a peep,” he whispered. “Not so much as a twitch.” Fargo half expected the young man to shout a warning to Bramwell but Sam stood stock-still, his mouth clamped shut. Reaching around, Fargo relieved him of the rifle. “Back up. Nice and slow.”
Once Sam was out of sight of the saloon, Fargo made him lie facedown on the ground with his hands behind his back. He removed the younger man’s belt and used it to bind Sam’s wrists. The belt was old and cracked and wouldn’t hold him for long but Fargo needed only enough time to reach the Ovaro.
“You shouldn’t be doing this, mister,” Sam broke his silence. “You have no idea what you’re mixin’ into.”
“I couldn’t just ride off,” Fargo said.
“My pa will be furious. So will grandpa. They’ll come after you, mister. Mark my words.”
“Let them.” Removing his bandanna, Fargo paused. There was something he had to know. “What did this woman do? Is she wanted by the law?”
“No, nothin’ like that,” Sam said. “She made the mistake of gettin’ the leader of our clan good and mad.”
“That’s all? Open wide,” Fargo said, and when the young man obeyed, he stuffed the bandanna into his mouth. “In case you get any ideas about yelling for help.”
Sam coughed a few times, then breathed noisily through his nose.
Turning to Clover, Fargo was surprised to find her still on the ground. “I can get you out of here.”
“Why should I go with someone I don’t know? Someone I never set eyes on until today?”
Her answer was another surprise. “It’s either that or the bullwhip,” Fargo said, which goaded her into rising and coming over. Bending, he drew his Arkansas Toothpick from its ankle sheath inside his right boot and set to work on the rope around her wrists. “What exactly did you do?”
Clover stared at Sam Jackson and did not answer.
“Suit yourself.” Fargo wrapped a long piece of rope around Sam’s ankles and knotted it. “There. That should buy us the time we need.” Taking hold of Clover’s warm hand, he hurried into the trees. “Anyplace I can take you?”
“No.”
Fargo was growing annoyed with her attitude. “You might at least thank me.”
“For what? Being an idiot?”
Fargo stopped and looked at her but before he could ask her to explain herself, there was a shout from the settlement. Bramwell had found his son and was bellowing for others to come on the run.
“Let’s light a shuck.” Fargo ran the rest of the way. Vaulting into the saddle, he lowered his arm. “Up you go.”
Clover hesitated. “I don’t see why you’re going to all this bother.” But she permitted him to swing her up behind him.
“Hold on,” Fargo cautioned, and applied his spurs. They broke from the underbrush and he brought the Ovaro to a gallop. Her arms slid around his waist and clamped tight, her cheek rested on his shoulder blade.
“There they go!” someone hollered.
A shot shattered the tranquil woodland and lead smacked into a tree trunk. Looking back, Fargo glimpsed riders already giving chase. He reined left, threading through the boles with a skill born of long experience. No more shots rang out, and after a while the dull thud of hooves faded. Soon he felt safe in slowing so to not unduly exhaust the stallion. He glanced at Clover, who had her eyes shut and was scowling. “Are you all right?”
“Never better.” Her sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a blunt table knife. “Stop and put me down. I can find my own way from here
.”
“Not until you tell me what that was all about,” Fargo said. A reasonable request, in his estimation, after his efforts on her behalf.
“When goats sing.” Clover opened her eyes and straightened. “Fargo, is it? I suppose I should be grateful, but all you’ve done is brought more grief down on my head. The elders will be madder than ever.”
“The who?”
“The elders. They run things. Run Jacksonville. The rest of us must abide by their decisions or else.” Clover paused. “Usually.”
Although Arkansas was a full-fledged state, parts of it were as wild and wooly as the untamed territories west of the Mississippi River. Federal marshals were too few and too scattered to be counted on, and many counties had yet to appoint sheriffs. Settlements like Jacksonville had to deal with lawbreakers as best they were able. “Why are they out to punish you?” Fargo asked.
“I spoke my mind,” Clover said. “Happy now?”
“Since when is that a crime?” Fargo was listening for sounds of pursuit but so far he had not heard any.
“Since Porter Jackson took it into his head that he’s the Almighty,” Clover said bitterly. “He founded Jacksonville nigh on twenty years ago, and he lords it over everyone as if it were his God-given right.”
Several questions occurred to Fargo but just then hoofbeats drummed in the distance. Once more he brought the Ovaro to a gallop, once more Clover had to cling tight. She clung so hard, in fact, that he could feel the enticing swell of her breasts against his back.
“You’ll never outrun them,” Clover said in his ear. “They know this country a heap better than you.”
“Maybe so,” Fargo acknowledged, “but I won’t make it easy for them.” So saying, he plunged down one slope and up another, skirting thickets by a hairs-breadth, avoiding boulders by a whisker. At the top of the next hill he drew rein and scanned the country-side to their rear.
Ozarks Onslaught Page 1