Hannibal Rising

by Jon Sharpe

  With a shrug, Fargo clucked to the stallion. He had never been in this particular part of the Sierra Nevadas before and he was eager to explore. A fir-covered slope brought him to a ridge. He stopped to look down at the lake and blinked in surprise.

  The girl and her dogs were staring up at him.

  Fargo smiled and waved. It might do to show her he could be as friendly as the next gent.

  The girl pointed up at him and said something to the dogs and all four bounded up the slope.

  Fargo couldn’t believe this was happening. It looked as if she had sent her pets after him. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted, “What the hell are you doing? Call them back! Now!”

  The girl just stood and stared.

  Swearing lustily, Fargo hauled on the reins and used his spurs. He went down the far side of the ridge and came to a narrow valley. Bursting from the woods, he stuck to open ground and brought the stallion to a gallop. There was no way in hell the mastiffs could catch him now.

  Half a mile of hard riding brought Fargo to a bend. He thundered around it and abruptly drew rein, dumbfounded by the unexpected sight that unfolded before him.

  To the north reared broken bluffs, a creek meandering along their base.

  To the south along the flank of the valley were over a score of buildings, most made from planks and a few from logs and the rest slapped together using whatever was handy. A single street dotted by several hitch rails and a water trough ran the length of the town.

  “I’ll be damned.” Fargo had no inkling he was anywhere near civilization. So far as he knew, there shouldn’t be a town or settlement within a hundred miles.

  Hell, make that two hundred. He tapped his spurs and rode closer and the truth dawned.

  The street was thick with dust. One of the hitch rails was broken and the water trough was dry. The wear and tear of neglect showed on every building; roofs sagged, windows were broken, overhang posts had tilted or were cracked. Moved by the breeze, a single batwing on a saloon creaked noisily.

  It was a ghost town.

  Fargo rode to the near end of the street and drew rein. A small sign, faded but readable, told him the town’s name. “Kill Creek,” he said out loud. He rose in the stirrups and surveyed the creek and spotted a long-abandoned dredge. The dredge explained everything.

  Back in ’forty-nine, gold was found at Sutter’s Mill. A horde of people from all over the country and from all walks of life flocked to the California mountains hoping to strike it rich. That so few ever did didn’t deter them. Each thought they would be the one. Thousands more came to provide food and lodging and whatever else the gold seekers needed.

  Towns sprang up virtually overnight. All it took was for someone to find a nugget or two, or pan a poke’s worth. Word would spread like a prairie fire.

  Almost always, the new strikes were short-lived, and once there was no more gold to be had, the horde moved on to the next strike. In their wake they left abandoned towns and deserted camps.

  Kill Creek was one of those towns.

  That Fargo had never heard of it didn’t surprise him. There were dozens just like it, forgotten and empty of everything save bugs and dust.

  He rode down the street until he came to the creaking batwing. It wouldn’t hurt to rest a spell. He was about to climb down when something squeaked and a rat came scuttling from between two of the buildings, ran out into the middle of the street, promptly wheeled, and ran back into the shadows again.

  “It’s my day for stupid animals,” Fargo said, and chuckled. It died in his throat the very next moment.

  Around the bend at the other end of town loped the four huge mastiffs.

  Running shoulder to shoulder, their sleek muscles rippling under their hides, they made straight for Kill Creek.

  And for him.