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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Teaser chapter
BYE-BYE, BIRDIE
Staying well away from the Ovaro’s tracks, Fargo returned to the oak. He jumped, caught hold of the low limb, and pulled himself up. Moving to a higher branch, he sat and put the Henry across his legs. Off through the trees the rider appeared.
A white man in a high-crowned hat and a cowhide vest and a flannel shirt and chaps. In a holster high on the man’s right hip was a Starr revolver. Fargo raised the Henry to his shoulder.
The man appeared to be in his thirties, maybe early forties. He had a square, rugged face sprinkled with stubble. He was broad across the chest and sat the saddle like someone born to it. His gaze was on the ground.
Fargo let the rider get almost to the oak and then he levered a round into the chamber and said, “Tweet, tweet.”
The man jerked his head up and drew rein and started to draw but froze when he saw the Henry pointed at him . . .
SIGNET
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The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Sierra Six-Guns, the three hundred forty-first 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.
The Rockies, 1860—where the stakes are higher than the mountain peaks, and death crouches in the shadows beside every trail.
1
Someone was stalking Skye Fargo.
As usual, Fargo was up at the pink tinge of dawn. The mornings were chill that deep in the Green River country, and the first thing he did was rekindle the fire and put what was left of last night’s coffee on. He sat cross-legged, letting the flames warm him, and gazed at the pink to the east.
Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed. For an instant he thought he saw the silhouette of a rider in the distance. He blinked, and it was gone. He watched for it to reappear and when it didn’t he held his hands to the crackling flames and listened to his stomach growl.
Fargo opened his saddlebags. He took out a bundle of pemmican wrapped in rabbit fur, unwrapped the fur, and bit into a piece.
This was the life Fargo liked best, just him and the Ovaro, wandering where the wind took them. For a while, anyway. His poke was almost empty and soon he must give thought to filling it. Not that he cared all that much about money. If he did, he wouldn’t make his living as a scout and tracker and whatever else chance tossed his way.
When the Arbuckle’s was hot, Fargo poured a steaming cup full. He held the cup in both hands and sipped and felt it warm him down to his toes. He looked to the east and saw the silhouette again. The rider was coming over the crest of a hill and dipped into dense timber.
Fargo’s brow puckered. The rider was coming from the same direction he had. In fact, the rider appeared to be smack on his trail. It could be coincidence but Fargo hadn’t survived as long as he had by assuming people always had the best of intentions.
He finished the cup and poured another. He usually had two, sometimes more. Coffee cost money and he hated to waste it. By the time he was done the sun was up and the world around him was rosy and warm. He doused the fire and rolled up his blankets. He threw his saddle blanket on the Ovaro and then the saddle. He collected his saddlebags, tied his bedroll, and was ready to ride out.
Fargo checked to the east. The rider wasn’t in sight. He forked leather, the saddle creaking under him, lifted the reins, and lightly touched his spurs to the stallion. He rode to the northwest. He was in no particular hurry.
The forest was alive with wildlife. Robins and sparrows and jays warbled and chirped and squawked. A raven flapped overhead. A startled rabbit bounded away. A pair of does raised their tails and fled in high leaps. A cow elk crashed through the brush, snorting in annoyance at being disturbed.
Fargo climbed to the top of a hill and drew rein. Shifting in the saddle, he stared down at the meadow. In a while the rider emerged from the trees and went to the exact spot where Fargo had camped. The ma
n dismounted and knelt and put his hands to the embers.
“I’ll be damned.” So far as Fargo was aware, he didn’t have any enemies out to kill him. Not at the moment, anyway. He’d made more than a few. It came from his knack for running into folks who thought they had the god-given right to ride roughshod over everyone else. He couldn’t abide that. Step on his toes and there was hell to pay.
Fargo reined around and rode on. He wasn’t overly worried. Whoever was after him was a good tracker but he was in his element. Few knew the wilds as well as he did. Few knew as many tricks to stay alive.
He went about a mile, enough to give the man hunting him the idea that he didn’t suspect anything. Then he cast about for a likely spot. An oak tree with a low limb caught his eye. He rode directly under it and went another hundred yards before he drew rein. Swinging down, he tied the Ovaro behind a spruce and shucked his Henry from the saddle scabbard.
Staying well away from the Ovaro’s tracks, he returned to the oak. He jumped, caught hold of the low limb, and pulled himself up. Moving to a higher branch, he sat with his back to the bole and put the Henry across his legs.
“Come and get me, you son of a bitch.”
The minutes crawled. A squirrel scampered among the treetops. He was glad it didn’t notice him. The racket it would make would alert the rider.
A golden finch and its mate landed on a nearby limb and flew off in alarm when they saw him.
A hoof thudded dully.
Fargo fixed his gaze on the Ovaro’s tracks. Off through the trees the rider appeared. A white man in a high-crowned hat and a cowhide vest and a flannel shirt and chaps. In a holster high on the man’s right hip was a Starr revolver.
Fargo raised the Henry to his shoulder.
The man appeared to be in his thirties, maybe early forties. He had a square, rugged face sprinkled with stubble. He was broad across the chest and sat the saddle like someone born to it. His gaze was on the ground.
Fargo let the rider get almost to the oak and then he levered a round into the chamber and said, “Tweet, tweet.”
The man jerked his head up and drew rein and started to draw but froze when he saw the Henry pointed at him.
“Take your hand off the six-gun.”
The man did.
“Raise your arms and keep them where I can see them.”
The man did.
“Now give me a good reason why I shouldn’t blow out your wick.”
“You’d kill a man for nothing?” The rider’s voice was deep and low, almost as deep and low as Fargo’s.
“Do I look green behind the ears?” Fargo rejoined. “I don’t like being hunted. So think fast and make it good.” He noticed that the man wasn’t tense or anxious or upset. Most would be, with a rifle held on them.
“I have been hunting you, yes.”
“You admit it?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I don’t have anything to hide. I’m not out to do you in, if that’s what you’re thinking. If I was, you wouldn’t have caught on to me.”
“Brag a lot, do you?”
The man grinned. “My handle is Stoddard. Jim Stoddard. I work for Clarence Bell of the Circle B. Could be you’ve heard of him.”
“Could be I haven’t.”
“The Circle B is up to the Sweetwater River country. In ten years it will be the biggest ranch in these or any other parts.”
“You ride for the brand?”
“That I do. I’m a puncher. But I hunted a lot as a kid and I’m a fair hand at tracking so Mr. Bell sent me to find you.”
“How in hell did you know I was even in the territory?”
“Mr. Bell had a letter to send east. We went to Sweetwater Station the day after you shot that gent who cheated you at cards.”
Fargo sighed. The Central, Overland, California, and Pikes Peak Express Company ran a stage line from Saint Louis to Salt Lake City. Sweetwater Station was a stage stop. There was also a saloon. He’d stopped for a drink and a friendly game of cards but the game didn’t stay friendly and he had to shoot a two-bit gambler who had a card rig up his sleeve.
“The barkeep told Mr. Bell and mentioned as you were almost as famous as Kit Carson and Jim Bridger.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Mr. Bell sent me after you and here I am,” Stoddard concluded his account. “Now if you’ll climb down and fetch your horse, I can take you to the Circle B.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Fargo told him. The account made sense as far as it went but he still wasn’t satisfied and he didn’t lower the Henry. “Why does your boss want to see me?”
“To hire you. He says he is willing to pay you a thousand dollars to do him a favor.”
Fargo whistled. “It must be some favor.” He waited for the cowboy to tell him what it was but Stoddard just sat there. “Is it a secret or am I supposed to guess?”
“I would say if I knew. The boss wants to tell you himself. He did say that he’d give you a hundred dollars just to come hear him out.”
“He’s awful generous with his money.”
“He can afford to be.” Stoddard wagged his arms. “Can I put these down? My shoulders are commencing to hurt.” He started to do it anyway and stiffened when Fargo sighted down the Henry’s barrel. “Hold on. I just explained everything. You have no call to shoot me.”
“People don’t always tell the truth.” Holding the Henry steady, Fargo moved to a lower branch. “Shed the hardware. Use two fingers.”
“Damn, you are one suspicious son of a bitch,” Stoddard complained, but he slowly plucked the revolver from its holster and slowly bent and let it drop to the grass. “Happy now?”
“Open the vest.”
“All I’ve got under it is my shirt.”
“Open it anyway.”
Frowning, the cowboy parted the vest wide. “There. I’m not carrying a hideout. I’m no assassin. I punch cows for a living.”
Still keeping the Henry on him, Fargo slipped to the lowest branch, perched for a moment with his legs dangling, and dropped. He landed in a crouch on the balls of his feet. Unfurling, he sidled around and picked up the Starr. “I’ll hold on to this until I think I can trust you.”
“I don’t much like you taking my six-shooter. I feel half naked without it.”
Fargo sympathized. He would feel the same. “Your boss should have told you what he wants me for. He must have plenty of cowhands working for him—”
“Pretty near thirty.”
“Yet he needs me to do him a favor? Why not have one of you do it?”
“I honest to God don’t know. The big sugar doesn’t confide in me like he does Griff Jackson.”
“Who?”
“The foreman. As tough an hombre who ever lived. If Mr. Bell had sent Jackson instead of me, he’d take your rifle and beat you half to death with it.”
Fargo moved a few yards behind the cowboy’s sorrel. “Ride ahead until we get to my horse. No tricks, hear?”
“Mister, I ain’t featherheaded. I get forty a month, and found. That’s hardly enough to die for.”
Fargo was beginning to like him. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”
“What the hell for?”
“To pass the time.”
Stoddard muttered something, and then declared, “If this don’t beat all. Are all of you Daniel Boones so nosy?”
“The ones who are fond of breathing.”
“There’s not much to tell. I was raised on a farm in Indiana. I got an itch and drifted west when I was sixteen and did some cow work and liked it. Been at it every since. Drifted to Denver a while back and Mr. Bell was hiring and I signed on.”
“He came all the way up here to start a ranch?” Fargo had heard of a few but there wasn’t a town to be had for hundreds of miles and no railhead, either.
“Mr. Bell ain’t like you and me. He’s always looking to the future. He says as how the country is growing and people are multiplying like rabbits and all of them will need
beef to eat.”
“He’s not worried about Indians? The Bannocks or the Cheyenne or the Arapaho?” All of whom, Fargo knew, had clashed with whites in recent years.
The situation was bound to get worse now that the Indians realized the white man intended to claim their land.
“Mr. Bell says it will be a cold day in hell before he’ll let redskins or anyone else run him—” Stoddard stopped and straightened and reined up. “Say, is that your animal?”
Fargo looked, and his blood chilled. They were almost to the spruce. The Ovaro was no longer tied to it. Three men were about to lead it away. Two were on horseback. The third had dismounted to untie the reins and had them in his hand. Fargo stalked toward them. He tossed the Starr to the cowpoke as he went by and snapped, “That’s my horse you’re stealing.”
The three were cut from the same coarse cloth. They weren’t white and they weren’t red. They were a mix. Their clothes were grubby and they were grubby but their rifles and revolvers looked to be well oiled and their eyes glittered like the eyes of hungry wolves.
The man holding the stallion’s reins had a Sharps at his side and bushy eyebrows as big as wooly caterpillars. “It was here by itself,” he said. “We reckoned maybe someone left it.”
Fargo almost called him a liar to his dirty face. Instead he held out his left hand. “I’ll take those.”
“Sure, mister.” The breed held out the reins. “We don’t want trouble. If you say it’s yours, it’s yours.” He turned to climb on his mount.
“Hold on.” Fargo was wondering how it was that they happened to be there at the same time as Jim Stoddard. He glanced at the cowboy and saw that Stoddard had holstered the revolver. “You didn’t think to holler and see if anyone was around?”
The breed shrugged. “We figured anyone who would leave a fine animal like this must be dead. It’s not as if we were following you to steal it.”
“That’s exactly what they were doing,” Jim Stoddard remarked.