Ozarks Onslaught

by David Robbins

  Total shock set in. The Jacksons were statues, unwilling to believe the evidence of their own eyes.

  Argenta broke the spell by laughing and saying, “It was easy wrapping that fool boy around my finger. All I had to do was pull down his britches and he would walk on hot coals for me. The fool.”

  “What?” Sam said.

  That was when Patrice walked over and raised the muzzle of her rifle close to Argenta’s chin and squeezed the trigger. The slug burst out the top of Argenta’s head, showering brains and bone and gore on those who were nearest.

  “No!” Sam cried, and fired from the hip. His shot entered Patrice low on her ribs and exited under her other arm. She died without a sound, falling across the body of the woman she had just slain.

  Evangeline aimed her rifle but Sam shot her through the chest and then an elder jerked his rifle up but Sam shot him too, and then it was Bramwell who took aim but he hesitated, choked with emotion, and said plaintively, “How could you?”

  “I loved her,” Sam said, and thumbed back a hammer.

  Fargo fired, heard the fleshy splat of lead, fired again as Sam swivelled toward him, fired a third time as Sam fired but Sam’s bullet went into the floor and his spun Sam around and wilted the stripling like a flower too long under a scorching sun. Sam pitched across the sill, his arms limp, his revolvers falling from lifeless fingers.

  “No,” Bramwell said. “No, no, no.”

  Fargo picked up the Henry and was out the door before anyone could think to stop him. He was halfway to the Ovaro when Clover caught up.

  “You’re leavin’? Just like that?”

  “Sorry,” Fargo said, and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again one day.” But that was unlikely since he would never, ever come anywhere near Jacksonville for as long as he lived. Mounting, he spurred the Ovaro to a trot. He looked back to be sure no one was after him. Clover waved and he returned it. Then he faced west and breathed deep of the wind on his face and in his hair, and he did not look back again.

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening

  section from the next novel in the exciting

  Trailsman series from Signet:

  THE TRAILSMAN #276

  SKELETON CANYON

  Arizona, 1860—A rich, wild land where evil

  men cast long shadows in the hot sun.

  The big man in buckskins was coated with a thick layer of trail dust, as was the black-and-white Ovaro stallion he led along the street. Weariness lay heavily on both of them, but no amount of exhaustion could completely disguise the strength and vigor that was naturally theirs. Man and horse were both magnificent specimens, and under better circumstances that would be evident.

  But right now they were plumb worn out after days on a long, hard trail, and all they wanted was rest.

  The man, at least, was not destined to get it. Not right away, anyway.

  His name was Skye Fargo. At the sound of a loud, angry voice, he raised his head and looked to the left, toward a saloon called the Pine Tree. A man came flying backwards through the entrance, knocking aside the batwing doors. His booted feet flailed desperately as he tried to catch his balance on the wide boardwalk, but he failed in the effort and plunged off the edge into the street, to land with a resounding crash right in front of Fargo.

  Fargo stopped and looked down at the man, as did the stallion. Fargo’s gaze was one of curiosity, because his mind was always alert no matter how tired he was. The Ovaro, on the other hand, regarded the man lying in the dust with more of a baleful glare. This human, whoever he was, formed a barrier between the horse and its rightful rest.

  The man on the ground blinked rheumy eyes, stared up at Fargo, and said, “Lord, you’re a big one, ain’t you?”

  “Are you all right, old-timer?” Fargo asked.

  The man, who was mostly bald, with a fringe of white hair that matched his tuft of white beard, pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. His leathery face showed the effects of years spent in sun and wind, in biting cold and blistering heat. His clothes were on the ragged side, but not too tattered. He swatted at them, raising clouds of dust, and said, “I’m fine, lad, don’t worry about me.”

  He had a slight accent, probably British, Fargo thought. He had run into Englishmen on the frontier before. This big land drew all sorts, from all over the world.

  Fargo slapped the man on the shoulder and started to lead the stallion around him. “All right, then. Better be more careful in the future.”

  “Oh, I intend to. No more fisticuffs for me.” The old man turned toward the Pine Tree Saloon, and as he did so, he reached into the front of his shirt and pulled a gun that had been tucked into the waistband of his ragged trousers.

  Fargo’s lake-blue eyes narrowed. From the looks of it, the old-timer intended to burst back into the saloon and start blazing away at whomever had thrown him out. As Fargo got a better look at the gun in the light that spilled through the saloon’s entrance, he revised his opinion. The revolver was ancient and rusted, and probably wouldn’t fire.

  But if the old man stomped in there and started waving it around, odds were that somebody would pull a working gun and let some daylight into his innards. Other people might get hit by stray bullets if lead started flying, too.

  So even though this was really none of his business, Fargo sighed, reached out, and caught hold of the old man’s sleeve.

  “Wait a minute,” Fargo said. “You don’t want to go in there like that.”

  “The hell I don’t.” The old man tried unsuccessfully to tug his sleeve loose from Fargo’s grip. “A feller’s got to defend his honor, don’t you know?”

  “Getting killed is no way to do it.”

  The old-timer turned an owlish gaze toward Fargo.

  “Sometimes it’s the only way,” he said softly.

  Fargo might have continued the argument, but at that moment, heavy footsteps from the boardwalk made him glance in that direction. A tall, massively built man with broad shoulders and long arms seemingly as thick as tree trunks had slapped the batwings open and stepped out of the saloon. He had an ugly, rawboned face and a tangle of coppery hair under a pushed-back black hat. He hooked his thumbs in the gunbelt strapped around his hips and said, “How come you’re just standin’ there, you damned old pelican? Didn’t I tell you to drag your ass outta Gila City?”

  The old man’s eyes widened even more. He started to jerk the useless old revolver upward, but he was slow about it, more than slow enough to get himself killed. The man on the boardwalk cursed and grabbed for his own iron.

  Fargo left his feet in a flying tackle.

  He crashed into the old man and bore him to the ground as a gun roared. The slug spanked through the space where the old-timer’s head had been a split second earlier. Fargo rolled over and surged up into a crouch. He held his left hand toward the man on the boardwalk, palm out, as he shouted, “Hold your fire!” His right hand hovered close to the butt of the Colt on his hip just in case the man tried to trigger another shot.

  The man on the boardwalk let the barrel of his gun drop a little. Smoke curled from the muzzle. “What in blue blazes are you doin’, mister?” he yelled at Fargo. “You could’a got yourself killed!”

  “Nobody needs to get killed over this,” Fargo said. “Just take it easy.”

  The man on the boardwalk snorted in contempt. “Tell that to that worthless old bum whose hide you just saved. He’s the one who pulled iron on me.”

  Fargo reached down and picked up the revolver the old man had dropped. “You couldn’t hammer a nail with this thing without it falling apart, let alone shoot anybody.”

  “Well, how in hell was I supposed to know that? All I saw was somebody tryin’ to point a gun at me!”

  The man had a point, Fargo thought. The old-timer was at least partially to blame for this ruckus.

  “All right, you know now you don’t have anything to worry about. Why don’t you holst
er that hogleg and go back inside?”

  “You gonna get that stinkin’ old man out of here?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Fargo said.

  The man shrugged and slid his gun back in its holster. “All right. But if I catch sight of him again tonight, I’m liable to beat him to death. Remember that.”

  Fargo didn’t say anything, but he didn’t think he was likely to forget the big redheaded man—or his threats.

  The man went back into the Pine Tree. The rest of the saloon’s patrons had crowded around the door and the windows, watching the confrontation, and they greeted him with cheers and backslaps as if he were some sort of conquering hero. Fargo just shook his head and reached down to help the old-timer to his feet.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” the old man whined. “I don’t need nobody to fight my battles.”

  “Then you should choose them more wisely,” Fargo said. He picked up his wide-brimmed brown hat, which had fallen off when he tackled the old man, slapped it against his thigh to get some of the dust off it, and put it back on his head. He wrapped his fingers around the old man’s skinny upper arm. “Come on. You look like you could use something to eat, and so could I.”

  Actually, when he had reached Gila City, he had been thinking more of sleep than anything else, but he was willing to postpone that for a while. He steered the old man down the settlement’s main street and a couple of blocks later found a hole-in-the-wall hash house that was still open. Fargo left the Ovaro at the hitch rail and took the old man inside.

  The place had no tables, only crude stools along a counter made of rough-hewn planks. Fargo and the old man were the only customers. The proprietor was a middle-aged Chinese man who put burned steaks and scorched potatoes in front of Fargo and the old-timer without asking what they wanted, then added cups of steaming coffee. The food was pretty bad, but Fargo was hungry enough to eat it anyway. The coffee was a different story. In one of those rare instances of finding a diamond surrounded by trash, it was wonderful. Fargo felt some of his strength returning as he sipped the strong black brew.

  “I appreciate this, lad,” the old-timer said as he gnawed at the tough steak. “Things have been a bit lean and hungry in recent weeks.” He put his fork down and extended a gnarled hand. “Bert Olmsted,” he introduced himself.

  Fargo shook with him. “Skye Fargo.”

  “It’s pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fargo. Or should I call you Skye?”

  Fargo shrugged. “Whatever you like.”

  “Call you anything as long as it’s not late to supper, eh?” Bert Olmsted slapped the counter and cackled. “You Yanks and your witticisms.”

  Fargo wasn’t the one who had made the weak joke, but he let that pass. Olmsted might not be falling-down drunk, but it was obvious he had put away a considerable amount of Who-hit-John during the evening. Fargo thought the food and coffee might sober him up a little.

  “Who was that fella who tossed you out of the Pine Tree?” Fargo asked when they had polished off the steak and potatoes.

  “The Miscreant’s name is Flynn Pearsoll,” Olmsted replied. “And a more belligerent sort I’ve never run across. All I did was ask him to perhaps stand me the cost of a drink, and he acted like a bull seeing red. Bellowed that I stank and threw me bodily out of the establishment.” Olmsted sniffed. “I suppose I am a bit odiferous, but still, there are limits.”

  “You shouldn’t have pulled your gun.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re correct about that. By the way, might I have it back?”

  Fargo had tucked the old revolver behind his belt. He took it out and slid it along the counter to Olmsted. “Is that thing even loaded?”

  “Of course. What good is an unloaded gun?”

  In this case, it probably didn’t matter, but there was always a slight chance that the revolver might go off if it was loaded. “Better be careful with it,” Fargo said. “It looks like it might blow up on you if you tried to fire it.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a fine weapon.” Olmsted looked Fargo up and down. “You’re rather heavily armed yourself, my friend.”

  Fargo had the Colt on his hip and an Arkansas Toothpick in a fringed sheath strapped to his right calf. A Henry rifle rode in a saddle boot on the Ovaro outside.

  Fargo drank the last of his coffee and said, “Man never knows when he’s going to run into trouble.”

  “My motto, exactly!”

  “Tell me more about Pearsoll,” Fargo suggested. He hadn’t really crossed swords with the man, so to speak, but he had the feeling Pearsoll might hold a grudge because of the way Fargo had interfered in his clash with the old man.

  Before Olmsted could say anything, the Chinese man behind the counter shook his head and said, “Flynn Pearsoll bad man. Drink half the time, fight half the time, chase ladies half the time.”

  “That’s three halves,” Fargo pointed out with a grin.

  “There plenty of Pearsoll to go ’round.”

  “Yeah, from the looks of him I’d say you might be right.”

  “He’s killed four men in Gila City and the vicinity,” Olmsted said solemnly. “That we know of.”

  “Are you saying I’d better watch my back?”

  Olmsted shrugged his bony shoulders. “Not your back, necessarily. Pearsoll, to give credit where credit is due, generally shoots his victims from the front. That is, when he doesn’t thrash the life out of them. That’s happened on at least one occasion.”

  “I’m not in the habit of walking around scared,” Fargo said. “But I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  The door of the hash house opened behind them. Fargo glanced over his shoulder, then looked again at the two newcomers who hurried into the place.

  He would have taken a second look at the two young women no matter where they were. They were that pretty. But here in these squalid surroundings, their beauty seemed even more striking.