by Jon Sharpe
Once on the Ovaro, Fargo headed north. When he reached the edge of town, he looked back.
Flames were shooting into the night sky and clouds of smoke drifted like fog. With any luck the fire would spread to the jail before an alarm was spread.
It could be that neighboring buildings would go up and then more if they didn’t organize a water brigade.
“Serves them right,” Fargo said aloud, and brought the stallion to a gallop.
As he rode he thought of Alice Thorn. He thought of her condition. He thought of those who had been clapped in leg irons. He thought of his own trial, and of being behind bars. He thought of all that so that when he reached the lane, he was a cauldron about to boil over.
The ranch house was a black block. A horse nickered, and he spied it, tied to a porch rail. Mako’s, he reckoned, and drew rein.
Swinging down, Fargo shucked his Colt instead of taking the Henry. He was going close in; he wanted to see their faces.
The lane was gravel and although he placed each boot lightly, a couple of times the gravel crunched.
He angled across the grass for a better view of the front of the house and heard a rasp. Almost too late he realized it was a window being raised and he threw himself flat as multiple spurts of flame and thunder sent lead his way.
Six shots, fired so swiftly it could only be one person.
Fargo started to crawl and was surprised when his name was hollered.
“You came back,” Luther Mako said. “I gave you credit for more brains.”
Fargo knew he shouldn’t answer. But he had to. “I gave you credit for being better than you are.”
“I’m as good with a six-gun as most anyone breathing,” Mako bragged.
“You whip them out fast enough,” Fargo conceded, and added, “The same as you do with your cock.”
There was a short silence.
“So she told you,” Mako said. “It was just the once. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do,” Fargo said. “Or have you forgotten you were screwing Stoddard’s daughter?”
“How did you—?” Mako began, and caught himself.
From somewhere upstairs came a bellow from His Honor. “What was that? What did he just say about Gwendolyn?”
“One more thing,” Fargo called out to the lawman. “Alice Thorn is dead. You killed her. Her and her baby both.”
“Baby?” Mako said. “I didn’t know. I swear to God I didn’t.”
Fargo wasn’t listening. He was on the move, to the far side of the house. He covered the final ten feet in a sprint. His back to the wall, he peered in a window.
Inside, twin pistols boomed.
Fargo jerked back as the glass shattered and shards fell like rain. He fired twice, then raced to the rear and over to the back door.
They would be waiting for him.
Hiking his leg, Fargo kicked. It was bolted, as he figured it would be. His kick did no more than jar it.
Leaping aside, he ran back the way he had come as revolvers cracked and slugs tore through the door. He sprinted to the shattered window and was through and in the parlor.
Out in the hallway the Starr revolvers blasted twice more.
In the vicinity of the stairs, Horatio Stoddard’s voice drifted down from the second floor. “Did you get the son of a bitch?”
“Shut the hell up,” Mako growled. “I’ll have a look-see.”
Fargo crept to the hall. He couldn’t see Stoddard, but Mako was midway to the back door. Fargo pointed his Colt at the middle of Mako’s mass. With his other hand he thumped the floor.
Luther Mako spun, and Lord, he was quick. His revolvers were thunderclaps.
Fargo fired, thumbed back the hammer, fired again.
Mako lurched and those lightning pistols cracked twice.
Emptying the Colt, Fargo felt a sting.
The sudden silence was broken by the sound of a heavy body falling.
Fargo commenced to reload.
“Mako?” Horatio whispered. “Is he dead?”
From the hall came a ragged intake of breath.
“Damn it, Luther, answer me.”
Feet scraped the stairs.
Fargo finished and quietly cocked the hammer. By now his eyes had adjusted and he saw Horatio Stoddard almost to the bottom with the shotgun to his shoulder.
Horatio moved to the lawman and made a clucking sound. “How could you let him do this to you? You were supposed to be one of the best.”
By then Fargo was behind him. He touched the Colt to the nape of Horatio’s neck and Horatio bleated and turned his head.
“Bye,” Fargo said, and squeezed the trigger.
Holstering the Colt, Fargo picked up the shotgun and leveled it at the pasty face glaring up at him.
“I hope you rot in hell,” Luther Mako croaked.
“You first,” Fargo said.
The boom of booth barrels shook the walls.
Now there was only one thing left to do.
Fargo lit a lamp and rummaged in the kitchen and found a half-full bottle of whiskey. Opening it, he took a long pull, then dashed the lamp to the floor.
When he climbed on the Ovaro, three windows were aglow.
Fargo nodded and tapped his spurs. It was a long ride to anywhere, and the night was young.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
TRAILSMAN #381
BOWIE’S KNIFE
1861, the Texas border country—to get there is hard enough, to make it out alive even harder.
They were one day out of San Gabriel when the bandidos struck.
Skye Fargo had called a halt on a low rocky rise. They were in desert country, and were grateful when the heat of the day gave way to the cool of night.
Fargo wasn’t expecting trouble. As their guide, he had to keep an eye out for hostiles and outlaws, and he’d seen nothing to suggest they were in danger.
A big man, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, Fargo wore garb typical of his profession: buckskins. He was a scout by trade, although that wasn’t all he did. He also wore a dusty white hat, a red bandanna, and scuffed boots. Strapped around his waist was a Colt that had seen a lot of use, and propped against the saddle next to him was a Henry rifle.
A coffee cup in his left hand, Fargo was admiring one of the members of their party over the rim.
Lustrous chestnut hair framed a pear-shaped face. She had full, luscious lips, an aquiline nose, and eyes as vivid blue as Fargo’s own. Her riding outfit, which included a pleated skirt, complemented her hourglass figure and full bosom. Dandelion Caventry was her name, and just looking at her was enough to set Fargo to twitching below his belt.
“How in hell did you get a handle like Dandelion, anyhow?” he wondered.
“I much prefer Dandy,” she said in her Texas twang. “My mother is to blame. Dandelions were her favorite flower as a little girl, so when she had one of her own . . .” Dandy grinned and shrugged.
“Thank God she wasn’t fond of horse shit.”
Dandy laughed heartily, but the man sitting next to her didn’t. He was enough like her that it was obvious they were related. He wore a tailored suit and a derby and a perpetual scowl. “You shouldn’t use that kind of language in the presence of a lady.”
“Horses do shit,” Fargo said.
Dandy tittered.
“That’s not the point and you know it,” the man said angrily. “You’re much too crude for my tastes, Mr. Fargo. Much too crude by half.”
“Enough, Lester,” Dandy said. “I wasn’t offended. And I don’t need my brother to defend me.”
“You shouldn’t have to hear that word,” Lester insist
ed.
“Shit?” Fargo said, and did some laughing of his own. “Boy, you have a lot to learn.”
“Don’t call me that,” Lester said. “You’re not much older than I am.”
“I’m old enough to say shit.”
Dandy cackled, but her brother only became madder. Balling his fists, Lester Caventry glanced at the two men who sat across the fire from them.
“Are you just going to sit there and let him abuse us? Am I the only one with a shred of decency?”
One of the men had a pale moon of a face and was heavyset. The other was taller with a walrus mustache. Their clothes were store bought and far less expensive than Lester’s. Each wore a bowler and each wore a revolver that his hand was always near.
“What would you have us do, Mr. Caventry?” asked the one with the moon face. Bushy brows poked from under his bowler like twin hairy caterpillars trying to crawl up his face.
“You can insist that our guide show proper manners to my sister,” Lester said. “What does my father pay you for, anyhow, Mr. Bronack? You, too, Mr. Waxler?”
“Your father,” Bronack said, “is paying us to protect the two of you from any and all threats, and see to it that the knife, if it’s genuine, reaches him safely.”
“He never said we were to protect you from dirty words,” Waxler said.
Fargo snorted.
“You don’t amuse me, Mr. Waxler,” Lester said. “And what could happen to the knife, anyhow?”
“Honestly, brother,” Dandy said. “If it is, in fact, the knife, it’s worth a small fortune.”
“Which is what Father is willing to pay for the stupid thing,” Lester said bitterly.
“Don’t start with that again,” Dandy said.
Fargo sighed. Ever since leaving Austin, he’d had to put up with their spats. Some brothers and sisters didn’t get along, and these two were always carping. To be fair, Lester did a lot more of it than Dandy. So much, in fact, several times along the way he’d been tempted to bean the sourpuss with a rock.
“I still think you should stand up for my sister’s virtue.” Lester directed his spite at Bronack and Waxler. “Is it too much to ask that those in our company act like gentlemen?” He gave Fargo a pointed glare.
“Honestly, brother,” Dandy said.
Fargo was about to tell Lester that he could take his holier-than-thou attitude and shove it up his ass when the Ovaro raised its head and nickered.
Fargo was instantly alert. His stallion wasn’t prone to skittishness. Something—or someone—was out there. Something—or someone—had agitated it. He probed the desert below the rise but saw only the ink of night.
Without being obvious about it, Fargo shifted his right arm so his hand brushed his Colt. “Bronack, Waxler,” he said quietly.
The pair caught on right away. They didn’t jump up in alarm. They were professionals. Each eased his hand to his six-shooter and slowly gazed about.
“What is it?” Lester asked much too loudly.
“Shut the hell up,” Fargo said. “Don’t move unless I say to. You and your sister, both.”
“Now, see here—” Lester began.
“Do as he says,” Dandy intervened. “Father hired him because he’s the best there is at what he does.”
Fargo caught movement to the west and then to the east. Whoever was out there had the rise hemmed and was closing in. “When I tell you,” he said to the Caventrys, “drop on your bellies and stay down until the shooting stops.”
“What shooting?” Lester asked in confusion.
A shape rushed out of the night, the glint of a rifle in its hands. A muzzle was thrust toward them and the man shouted in Spanish, “Nadie se mueva! Les hemos rodeado!”
Like hell, Fargo thought. He drew as he dived and thumbed off a shot. The slug caught the man high in the chest and sent him crashing to the hard earth.
Half a dozen other shapes materialized. Rifles and pistols cracked and boomed.
Bronack and Waxler sprang to Dandy and Lester to protect them while blasting away.
Fargo saw a figure charge up and fanned two swift shots. He went for the head. Hair and brains spewed out the crown of a sombrero, and the figure tumbled.
As quickly as the attack commenced, it fizzled. The rest whirled and bolted, firing a few wild shots. Their footsteps rapidly faded.
Fargo rose into a crouch. “Anyone hit?”
“I’m fine,” Dandy said.
“I’m not,” Lester said. “I heard one of the bullets go right past my ear.”
“Did it crease you?” Dandy asked.
“No, but it scared the daylights out of me.”
It was a shame, Fargo reflected, that some people gave birth to jackasses.
Bronack and Waxler straightened. Bronack was unhurt, but Waxler had been nicked in the left arm. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’ll bandage it and be good as new.”
Fargo went to the man he’d shot in the head. The grubby clothes, the stubble, the bandoleer with half the loops empty marked him as surely as if he wore a sign. “Bandidos.”
“Here and now?” Lester said. “Wouldn’t they have been smarter to attack us in the daytime?”
“They’d have been smart to pick us off from out in the dark,” Fargo said. That they hadn’t was peculiar. Or maybe the bandits wanted them alive to whittle on. Except for Dandy. They’d undoubtedly put her to a different use.
“We were lucky,” Bronack said.
“I can’t quite believe it happened,” Dandy said. “It was over so fast.”
“It happened, all right.” Fargo kicked the body. “Here’s your proof.” He went through the man’s pockets, but all he found was a folding knife with two blades, one of which was broken. Moving to the other one, he did the same and wound up with a handful of pesos.
“Shouldn’t we douse the fire in case they come back?” Lester asked anxiously.
“They won’t,” Fargo said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Three guesses.” Fargo glanced at Bronack. “Keep them here and keep them quiet.”
With that, staying low, Fargo glided down the rise and crouched at the bottom. He could make out some creosote and yucca, and to his left, mesquite. The bandits had fled to the south. He crept after them, careful to stop and listen often. He’d gone maybe a hundred yards when he heard what he’d hoped to hear: the drum of hooves, dwindling. He crept on and came to a wash. An acrid scent tingled his nose. At the bottom lay the stub of a smoldering cigar.
Fargo descended. This was where the bandits had left their mounts. Trying to follow them would be pointless. He couldn’t track at night without a torch, and they’d see him coming from miles off.
“Damn,” Fargo said. He would have liked to show them how he felt about folks trying to kill him.
He took his time returning to the rise. It was nice to be by himself. He was tired of listening to Lester complain about everything under the sun.
Lester was a baby in a man’s body. Fargo reckoned this came from being born with silver spoon in his mouth. Their pa, Stephen Augustus Caventry, was one of the wealthiest hombres in Texas. Hell, he was one of the richest anywhere. A shipping line, a stage line, and other interests had filled his coffers to bursting.
Lester and Dandelion never wanted for anything their whole young lives. That fact hadn’t affected Dandy much, but her brother thought the whole world had been created just for him.
Fargo had seldom met anyone who had his head so far up his own ass.
Another two weeks or so and he would be shed of them. That was how long it should take to reach San Gabriel, get what they came for, and light a shuck for Austin.
It had surprised him, Lester saying they were after a knife. No one had told him. Not Stephen Caventry, who’d offered him a thousand dollars to conduct his grown d
aughter and son to the border country and back. Not Dandy, who was friendly enough but not as friendly as he’d like. And not Lester, who gave the impression he thought they were on a fool’s errand.
Fargo was so deep in thought, he’d let down his guard. The crunch of a foot behind him almost came too late. He started to turn even as a hand fell on his shoulder.