by Jon Sharpe
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
ONE WRONG MOVE
If he hadn’t taken the next three steps, Fargo wouldn’t have been able to guess what Ollie had in mind. But the way he moved, the way his back was arched unnaturally, told Fargo what Ollie intended.
Fortunately for Fargo, Ollie was not only obvious about trying to hide a gun down the back of his Levi’s; he was also so hotheaded he couldn’t wait for a good chance to use it.
Ollie shouted, ‘‘Now!’’ and flung himself to the ground. In some ways the moment was pathetic. He had trouble ripping the gun from the back of his jeans, and by the time it saw daylight Fargo had put a bullet straight into the top of Ollie’s skull. Blood and brain exploded like a fireworks display. . . .
SIGNET
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First Printing, September 2008
The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Apache Ambush, the three hundred twenty-second 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.
Wyoming Country, 1861—
sometimes you don’t know who to trust,
and you find yourself trapped in a deadly game.
1
Something was wrong.
Skye Fargo came through the narrow mountain pass and looked below to the stage station sprawled across a small, rocky stretch of land. On a fine, sunny morning in Wyoming, a stage pulled up in front of the place. There should have been some sign of activity. Even the horses in the rope corral seemed strangely still and quiet. The few scattered outbuildings cast deep morning shadows.
Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed as he sat his Ovaro stallion and scanned the situation more carefully. For the past two months he’d been working for a Mr. Andrew Lund, the wealthiest man in this part of the Territory. Not only did Lund own the two largest gold mines, he also owned the largest stagecoach line. Fargo’s job was to travel the trouble routes and see if he could stop the robbers who’d been making Lund’s life hell. Fargo had been forced to do some killing, but so far there had been significant improvement in the safety of the routes. His biggest regret was that despite his efforts, two drivers and a passenger had been killed in one part of the Territory while Fargo had been pulled away to sack a gang in the other.
Fargo knew the man and wife who ran this station for Lund. They were in their sixties, had been farmers until they got too old and too weary to fight off Indians any longer, and ran the cleanest station with the best food anywhere in the entire Lund organization.
Whatever the problem was, it wasn’t Indians. Indians weren’t quiet unless they were lying in wait. Plus, one of the Indians would have been rounding up the horses in the corral, running them off if not stealing them.
To the west of the station was a line of scrub pine. At the moment a couple of deer were sampling the grass carpeting the thin area of forest.
Fargo walked his Ovaro over to the trees, hiding it in a separate copse of pines. He ran to the denser spread of trees and began working his way in morning shadow to the area behind the station. The scent of pine was sweet and the forest creatures inquisitive as this giant made his way through their kingdom.
Nothing moved in back of the adobe-sided station, either. Empty crates were stacked on one side of the rear door; the other side was empty. There was a window on the empty side.
Fargo moved carefully, crouching down, Colt drawn and ready, working his way to the window on the back wall. The only sounds were those of the soughing mountain winds, the cries of a soaring hawk, and the creaking of pine limbs when the wind came hard.
He ducked below the window, preparing himself for surprise. He might well ease himself up to peer inside and find himself staring at another human being. A damned unfriendly one.
He inched himself up to the window. No face awaited him. What he saw was self-explanatory. In the center of the station four passengers stood together while three masked gunmen went through their bags. A fourth gunman stood to the side, holding a sawed-off shotgun on them.
Fargo didn’t see Lem Cantwell, the station manager, at first,
but as his eyes searched the large central room inside they spotted a snakelike line of red on the stone floor and traced the line all the way to the bloody white-haired head of an older man. With a dark ragged hole the size of a baseball on the left side of his head, there was no doubt that he was dead. Fargo didn’t see Pauline, Lem’s wife. Had the bastards killed her, too?
The first thing he had to do was check his anger. Much as he wanted to go bursting in there now, he’d probably only get himself killed and help nobody.
He forced himself to focus on the job at hand and not on the Cantwells.
He crouched down again and duckwalked over to the side of the door. He stood up, slid his hand over to the doorknob, and gently began turning it back and forth.
The conversation inside went on without interruption. One of the passengers was a pretty girl and so naturally at least two of the bastards were talking about how they were going to rape her when they were done robbing everybody. A third robber kept threatening the passengers to turn over everything valuable they had on them. He said that anybody caught holding out would be killed. But surely by now the passengers knew that they were to be killed no matter what they said or did.
Nobody had heard Fargo twisting the doorknob back and forth.
He twisted faster, harder, until one of them said: ‘‘What the hell’s that?’’
By now the girl was crying so hard that hearing the doorknob turn was even more difficult. But between her sobs one of the men said, ‘‘It’s the back door.’’
‘‘The back door?’’ another robber said. ‘‘Who the hell’d be coming in the back door?’’ Then: ‘‘Lou, you go find out.’’
‘‘Cover me,’’ Lou said. ‘‘This is strange.’’
Fargo gave the knob a final twist. Then he pressed himself flat against the adobe and waited. The chinking sound of Lou’s spurs grew louder the closer he got to the door.
Fargo knew he had only seconds to act.
The door opened, and the brim of a filthy white Stetson poked out of the doorframe. Fargo slapped the hat off Lou’s head and just as Lou turned to see who his assailant was—bringing his gun up—Fargo brought his own revolver down so hard on Lou’s skull that the scrawny man dropped without another sound. Fargo started dragging him away just as he hit the ground.
Fargo knew that the men inside still had the advantage. Three of them plus a sawed-off shotgun. If he went in there and started shooting, he’d do the very thing he hoped to avoid—get the passengers killed.
He heard shouts and threats, and then a couple of the men running to the back door.
But Fargo was still dragging Lou by his long, filthy black hair. Lou was going to have one hell of a headache when he woke up.
On the side of the station Fargo found an empty barrel. He hauled Lou and the barrel in front of the building. By now Lou was conscious, spluttering and cursing. Fargo put his gun to Lou’s right temple and said, ‘‘Turn the barrel over so you can sit on it and then sit down.’’
‘‘What the hell you think you’re doing? And why the hell’d you have to drag me by my hair, you son of a bitch? You know how much my head hurts?’’
Fargo ripped the man’s mask off. He was a middle-aged man, with pinched features, a broken nose, a brown walleye on the left. ‘‘What’s your name?’’
The man said nothing. Fargo slapped him hard across the back of the head. ‘‘You hear me? What’s your name?’’
‘‘Clemmons.’’
‘‘Any of the others named Clemmons?’’
Silence again. This time Fargo grabbed a handful of hair and pulled. Clemmons’ scream played off the mountains.
Clemmons said, ‘‘They’re all my brothers.’’
‘‘I was hoping for that.’’ These days many outlaw gangs were kin of some sort. ‘‘Brothers’’ was the jackpot.
Fargo shouted, ‘‘You heard him scream. The next time he screams it’ll be because I put a bullet through his head. You want your brother to die?’’
The expected response: ‘‘You hurt my brother, mister, you’re as good as dead.’’
‘‘That may be, but brother Lou here’ll die before I do.’’
‘‘Help us!’’ cried one of the passengers.
‘‘I’ll tell you how this is going to work,’’ Fargo shouted. The front of the station had a wide door in the center and a small window on the south end. There was no face in the window. ‘‘I’m going to give you one minute to let the passengers go. If they don’t start coming out, I kill your brother.’’
‘‘Then we’ll kill them.’’
‘‘Fine. But your brother dies with them.’’
‘‘He’ll kill me, Sam! You don’t know him! He already tore out half my hair draggin’ me around here!’’
‘‘Help us!’’ the same passenger cried again.
‘‘I want Pauline Cantwell, too.’’
‘‘If you mean the old woman, she’s dead.’’
Fargo was tempted to kill Lou Clemmons here and now. The Clemmonses would occupy a special place in any hell Fargo designed. But the purpose of using Lou as a hostage was to get the passengers out safe. It was a gamble, Fargo knew. The men inside might just kill them all right now. But they planned to kill them anyway. At least this way there was a chance they’d survive.
‘‘The old lady’s dead, just like you’re gonna be.’’
‘‘Goddamn, Sam! Don’t make him no madder than he already is!’’ Lou Clemmons pleaded.
‘‘I’m counting off starting right now, Clemmons. If you don’t send them out right away, you’ll be burying your brother this morning.’’
‘‘Listen to him, Sam! Listen to him!’’
Fargo could hear them talking. Arguing, really. Finally a new voice shouted: ‘‘Don’t kill him!’’
‘‘Then send out the passengers.’’
‘‘You son of a bitch,’’ one of them said.
‘‘That won’t get you anywhere. Now open the door and send them out.’’
Fargo’s nose detected a warm sour smell. Lou Clemmons had wet himself. ‘‘This isn’t right, mister. You’d be killing me in cold blood.’’
‘‘How’d the Cantwells die in there? I should’ve killed you already.’’
Clemmons sucked up tears.
‘‘Ten seconds!’’ Fargo shouted.
Heavy footsteps inside. Arguing again. The door was pulled back.
A man in a Roman collar and a dark suit came out first. The suit had been splashed with his own vomit. When he reached the ground outside, he flung his arms to the heavens and offered a silent prayer. Then he stumbled toward Fargo.
The second person out was a heavyset woman in a shawl and a gingham dress. She had a hard prairie face. She looked a lot tougher than the minister and, for that matter, Lou Clemmons. She walked straight for Fargo and took her place standing behind him where the minister was. Fargo wondered uncharitably if the minister would faint.
The girl came third. She wore brown butternuts and a white cotton blouse that hung in shreds. They’d already started to assault her. She didn’t seem to notice or care that one of her fine small breasts was exposed. She was dazed and lost. The heavyset woman walked to her, took off her shawl, and wrapped it around the girl to cover her. She slid her arm around her and then half carried her to a position behind Fargo.
Last came a little elderly man whose face was covered in blood. What the hell had a little old man said or done to them that caused him to be beaten so severely? His face was a pudding of red blood under which small features could dimly be seen. He wore a green suit soaked with his own gore, and the way he stumbled, Fargo wondered if he could even make it to a position behind him.
The minister hurried to him. He literally picked up the small man in his arms and rushed him back to where the woman and the girl stood. He set him down and immediately began wiping the old man’s face with a cloth and soothing him with words. Fargo thought much better of the religious man now.
‘‘Now w
e want our brother, you bastard!’’
‘‘Not going to get him,’’ Fargo said. He angled his head quickly so that the four behind him could hear. ‘‘Head for those trees over there. Get way out of range.’’
‘‘Oh, shit,’’ Lou Clemmons said, and just after he spoke the words he filled his pants.
‘‘Hurry,’’ Fargo snapped to the four.
He didn’t watch them but he heard them walking, running, dragging, scurrying to get out of range any way they could. Now it was just Fargo and the Clemmonses.
‘‘We want our brother. Send him over here.’’
Fargo pretended not to hear. ‘‘I want all three of you to walk out here and throw your guns down. You don’t do that, your brother dies right now.’’
‘‘That ain’t what you promised.’’
‘‘I didn’t promise anything. Now do like I say or he’s dead.’’
‘‘Please, Sam! Please!’’ Lou Clemmons didn’t mind fouling himself, apparently, but crying was so unmanly he worked hard at pretending those weren’t tears running down his cheeks or trembling in his voice.
‘‘All right. We’re coming out.’’
‘‘One step outside, you throw your guns away or he dies.’’
‘‘I’m getting goddamned sick of you.’’
‘‘Feeling’s mutual. Now do like I say.’’
The door squeaked open and two men who had the misfortune of looking pretty much like their brother Lou came out. They’d tossed their masks. There was no point now.
‘‘The guns,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘You’re gonna be dead in three minutes.’’
‘‘Sam, Sam, please don’t say that to him,’’ Clemmonswhined. ‘‘Shit’s sake man, he’s got a gun barrel pressed right against my temple.’’
‘‘The guns.’’
They sneered and they stalled, but when they heard the hammer pulled back on Fargo’s Colt they pitched their guns a few feet away.
Sun glinted off something metal. Fargo angled his head so he could follow the brightness. A rifle barrel was edging its way into the front window.