Hannibal Rising tt-340

by Jon Sharpe

  But God, she was fast. Fargo had been in a footrace once against some of the fastest runners in the country, including an Apache girl famed for her speed, and Julienne was every whit their equal. He kept her in sight but it took all he had. She flew through the vegetation as if she had wings on her feet. She looked back once and only once, and did a strange thing; she smiled.

  Fargo concentrated on running and nothing but running. He avoided a pine and vaulted a stump and lost a few yards.

  Up ahead were a cluster of big oaks. Julienne streaked in among them—and disappeared.

  Fargo reached the oaks and stopped. There wasn’t much undergrowth. He figured she had ducked behind a trunk and was waiting to ambush him. Warily, he advanced, holding the Remington by the barrel. He passed several trees without seeing sign of her.

  A sound overhead caused Fargo to glance up. Julienne had just launched herself from a tree limb. He dodged but wasn’t quite quick enough and felt a stinging sensation in his right shoulder. She had cut him. He whirled toward her as she alighted in a crouch. He swung the revolver like a club.

  With incredible swiftness, Julienne dodged. Before Fargo could draw his arm back, a knife flashed and blood welled. She had cut him again. He retreated a few steps and she came after him.

  “For what you did to Jacques I will kill you piece by piece. You will be a long time dying.”

  “Big talk, bitch,” Fargo said to goad her. He watched her knives, only her knives. When the left blade swept at him he was ready and skipped aside. The other knife flicked at his neck but he slipped out of reach.

  “You are uncommonly quick, monsieur.”

  “Your brother said the same thing shortly before I blew him to hell.”

  Julienne’s features hardened. Her eyes were smoldering volcanoes. She came in fast and she came in low, windmilling both blades, a human threshing machine bent on his destruction.

  Fargo backpedaled. He ducked. He weaved and turned, always a hairsbreadth from harm. But he couldn’t keep it up. Sooner or later she would bring him down.

  The tip of a knife narrowly missed Fargo’s throat. The keen edge of the other caught his wrist.

  Fargo drew back as if in pain and again she came after him. He wanted her to. He cocked his arm as if to club her with the revolver and when she jerked back he threw it with all his strength and hit her full in the face. She cried out and blood sprayed; then Fargo had her by the wrists and she was twisting and pulling to break free and he was trying to hurl her to the ground.

  Fargo had seldom encountered a woman so strong. He locked a foot behind her leg and sought to trip her. With amazing agility Julienne hopped over his leg and her right foot rose and caught him on the side of the head. His ear flared with agony. She hopped again and this time kicked him in the side of the neck.

  A part of Fargo admired her skill. She was one of the toughest fighters he had ever tangled with. He tried to pin her arms but she was as slippery as a wet eel. She kicked him in the leg, in the ribs.

  Fargo was losing. He was bleeding and tired and growing weak. But she wasn’t the only one who could kick. He buried his boot in her gut and she doubled over. With a wrench, he tore the knife from her right hand, reversed his grip, and as she straightened, sank the blade to the hilt in her eye.

  Julienne arched her back and her mouth parted. Incredulity widened her other eye; then she oozed to the ground and lay quaking before she subsided and was still.

  “Damn,” Fargo said.

  Tom Clyborn had been stabbed in the lungs. He lingered two days in a bed at the hunting lodge attended by a doctor from Hannibal. His last words, Samantha told Fargo, were a question. “All I ever wanted in life was to be rich. Was that too much to ask?” He had laughed bitterly, and died.

  Roland’s arm was in a sling. Broken in two places, the doctor said. He was battered and bandaged and would be a long while healing but he would live.

  The sheriff took Theodore Pickleman into custody. The lawyer had tried to run off after Fargo shot Jacques but Sam snatched up a rock and beaned him with it.

  As for the chest that cost so many their lives, Fargo went to the creek the next day with a shovel and Samantha and began poking around the willow trees that lined the near bank.

  “Why the willows?”

  “Don’t you remember what Pickleman told us your father said to him?” Fargo reminded her. It had stuck in his craw and he finally figured out why.

  “Something about whoever found the chest wouldn’t have any cause to weep—” Sam stopped. “A weeping willow! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I could be wrong.”

  He wasn’t. The earth near the sixth willow they came to had recently been disturbed. Fargo dug down a few inches and there it was: a small wooden chest with a folded sheet of paper inside. He let Sam take the paper out. She unfolded it, and frowned.

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “This cost me three brothers and a sister.” Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll have the last laugh on Father, though. I’m sharing everything equally with Roland.”

  “Good for you.”

  Sam shook herself. Grinning, she put her hand on his. “There’s something I’d like to share with you if you don’t mind coming up to my bedroom. Are you interested, kind sir?”

  “What do you think?” Fargo laughed and smacked her on the fanny.

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening

  section of the next novel in the exciting

  Trailsman series from Signet:

  THE TRAILSMAN #341 SIERRA SIX-GUNS

  California, 1859—A storm is coming to Kill Creek.

  Skye Fargo liked the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were miles high. They were remote. Lush forest covered the lower slopes, snow capped the high peaks.

  Unlike back East, where much of the wildlife had been killed off to fill supper pots, animal life was everywhere. Ponderous grizzlies were on perpetual prowl, tawny mountain lions glided through shadowed woodlands, hungry wolves roved in packs. Elk, deer, mountain sheep, and a host of smaller creatures were the prey the predators fed on.

  On a sunny autumn morning, Fargo drew rein on a switch-back on a mountain no white man had ever set foot on and breathed deep of the crisp air.

  A big man, he wore buckskins and a white hat brown with dust. A red bandanna around his neck had seen a lot of use. So had the Colt on his hip and the Arkansas toothpick snug in an ankle sheath. His eyes were as blue as a small lake below. His beard was neatly trimmed.

  Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He was on his way to San Francisco and had decided to spend a week or so alone in the high country. He liked to do that every now and then. It reminded him of why he enjoyed the wild places so much.

  Fargo loved to roam where no one had gone before. Where most men kept their gaze on the ground and the next step they were about to take, his gaze was always on the far horizon. He had to see what lay over it.

  A game trail made the descent easy. A lot of creatures came to the lake daily to slake their thirst.

  Fargo was almost to the bottom when he spied two does. They jerked their heads up but they weren’t looking at him. They stared intently at a thicket that bordered the shore. Suddenly wheeling, they bounded off, their tails erect.

  Fargo wondered what had spooked them. It could be just about anything. Deer were easily frightened. Still, to be safe, he reined up and watched the thicket. A minute went by and nothing appeared so he clucked to the Ovaro and rode to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle, and he stretched. He had been in the saddle since sunup.

  Sinking to one knee, Fargo dipped a hand in the lake. The water was cold and clear. He sipped and smacked his lips. “How about you, big fella?”

  As if the stallion understood, it lowered its muzzle.

  “Not too much now.” Fargo had a habit of talking to the stallion as if it were a person. Often, it was his only companion for days at a time.

  The stallio
n went on drinking.

  High in the sky a bald eagle soared. In the forest a squirrel scampered from limb to limb. Out on the lake a fish broke the surface. The day was peaceful and perfect, exactly as Fargo liked them.

  Then the Ovaro raised its head and pricked its ears and nickered.

  Fargo looked, and froze.

  A dog had come out of the thicket. A huge dog, almost four feet high at the front shoulders and bulky enough to weigh upwards of two hundred pounds. It had a blunt face with a broad jaw and a thick barrel of a body. Its color was somewhere between brown and gray. At the moment it was standing still, its dark eyes fixed intently on him.

  “Hell,” Fargo said. Where there was a dog there were bound to be people and he had hoped to fight shy of them for a spell.

  The dog took a step and growled.

  Fargo smiled and gestured. “I’m friendly, boy. You’d be wise to be the same.” Out of habit he placed his hand on his Colt. He wasn’t worried. If the dog came at him he could drop it before it covered half the distance.

  From behind him came the crack of a twig.

  Fargo glanced over his shoulder.

  Another dog, the same breed and about the same size, had emerged from the woods. Its hackles were raised and its lips were drawn back. Its teeth looked to be wickedly sharp.

  “Damn.” Fargo didn’t like this. He stepped to the Ovaro and snagged the reins and was about to slip his boot into the stirrups when a sound caused him to whirl.

  A third dog wasn’t more than ten feet away. Its huge head held low, it crouched.

  “Down boy.” Fargo scanned the shore for sign of the owner but saw no one.He quickly mounted. He figured to get out of there before the dogs decided to attack.

  The nearest dog moved to a point between the stallion and the woods, blocking his way.

  “Son of a bitch.” Fargo was trying to recollect where he had seen dogs like these before. Then it came to him—Saint Louis, some time back. Mastiffs, they were called. He seemed to recall they were bred in England or some such place, but he could be mistaken.

  The dog to the right and the dog to the left moved slowly toward him.

  “Go away, damn you.” It occurred to Fargo that if they rushed him he might drop one or two but not all three, and all it would take was one to bring the Ovaro down. He didn’t dare risk that. Suddenly reining toward the lake, he used his spurs.

  The stallion reacted superbly, as it nearly always did. It took a long bound and plunged into the water.

  Fargo bent forward and hiked his boots out of the stirrups. The Ovaro would swim to the other side and he would be on his way, no worse for the bother. He chuckled, pleased at how he had outwitted the dogs, confident they wouldn’t come after him. He shifted in the saddle to be sure.

  All three mastiffs jumped in. The nearest surged swiftly after the Ovaro, swimming with powerful strokes, its head high, its teeth glistening in the sunlight.

  “Damn dumb dogs.” Fargo was growing mad. He’d tried to spare them, and now look. He drew his Colt and took aim but changed his mind and holstered it. So far the Ovaro was holding its own. If he could stay ahead of them until he reached the other side, he could get away. The dogs might be fast but over a long distance the Ovaro’s stamina would win out.

  The bottom of Fargo’s pants were soaked. He would have to dry them and his boots and socks later. But at least his saddlebags and bedroll were mostly dry. The Henry in the saddle scabbard was getting wet and he would have to dry and clean it later, a chore he could do without.

  Fargo checked behind him. The nearest dog hadn’t gained any and the others had no chance in hell of catching him before he struck solid ground.

  Several ducks took noisy wing, frightened by the commotion.

  The dogs didn’t give up.

  Fargo wished he knew who their owner was. He’d pistol-whip the bastard for letting them run free. It made him wonder what anyone was doing there, so far from anywhere.

  The Ovaro swam smoothly, tirelessly.

  Fargo’s gaze drifted to the shore they were making for and a tingle of alarm rippled down his spine. “It can’t be.”

  A fourth dog had emerged from the forest and was pacing back and forth, waiting for them.

  “What is this, the whole litter?” Fargo grumbled. He reined the stallion to the right. The mastiff on the shore moved in the same direction. Fargo reined to the left. The dog moved to cut him off. Once again Fargo drew the Colt. He had nothing against dogs but he would be damned if he’d let them attack him. As soon as he was close enough, the beast on shore was dead.

  They were awfully well trained, Fargo reflected, and was struck by a hunch. He scoured the vegetation and was about convinced his hunch must be wrong when a shadow detached itself from a tree. He couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if the figure was white or red but since Indians seldom had mastiffs he took it for granted it was a white man and hollered, “Call your damn dogs off!”

  The shadow didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me?” Fargo raised the Colt. “Call them off or you’ll bury them.”

  The figure stepped into the open.

  Fargo half wanted to pinch himself. “Lord almighty,” he blurted in amazement.

  It was a woman. She couldn’t be much over twenty. Luxurious red hair cascaded over her slender shoulders, framing an oval face as lovely as any female’s ever born. Her clothes consisted of a homespun shirt and britches that might have been painted on. She had an hourglass shape and a full bosom, and was barefoot. One hand was on her shapely hip and in the other she held a six-gun, which she now trained on Fargo. “You shoot any of my dogs, mister, and I’ll sure as blazes shoot you.”

  Fargo’s mouth moved of its own accord. “Then call them off, you idiot.”

  The girl’s face became as red as her hair. “You best keep away, you hear? We don’t cotton to strangers. It’s ours and ours alone.”

  “What is?”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to.” The redhead put two fingers to her mouth and let out with a piercing whistle. Immediately, the dog on the shore turned and trotted toward her.

  Fargo looked back. The dogs in the lake were veering toward her, as well. He turned toward the forest again—and she was nowhere to be seen. “What the hell?”

  Fargo was tempted to go after her but he had the Ovaro to think of. He continued on, and presently the stallion had solid ground under its hooves and was out of the lake and dripping wet.

  The three dogs bolted into the woods as soon as they were out of the water.

  “So much for them,” Fargo said in mild disgust for the inconvenience they had caused. He resumed his interrupted journey. When he reached the far end of the lake he stopped and glanced back, seeking some sign of the girl and her pack. He wondered who she was. A homesteader, he reckoned, which meant a cabin must be nearby. It bothered him. He never expected to find another living soul this deep in the mountains.

  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 thund
ered 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.