by Sharpe, Jon
TIME’S A-WASTIN’!
Clemens opened his eyes.
Fargo said, “Last chance to tell me who is behind this.”
“Go . . . to . . . hell.”
“I’ll find out anyway,” Fargo said. “I’m going on to Meridian.” Odds were whoever didn’t want him there would make themselves known.
“Tried to . . . help . . . pard,” Clemens managed to get out as more blood oozed.
“I still need a name.”
Clemens didn’t answer.
Standing, Fargo aimed his Colt at the center of Clemens’s forehead. “Reckon I’ll put you out of your misery, then.”
For the first time fear showed in the other’s eyes. “You said . . . you’d wait . . . and bury me.”
“I said I’d bury you,” Fargo agreed. “I never said I’d wait around for you to die.”
“Bastard.”
“Nice meeting you, too.” Fargo stroked the trigger.
SIGNET
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The first chapter of this book previously appeared in New Mexico Madman, the three hundred seventy-sixth volume in this series.
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Contents
Time’s A-Wastin’!
Copyright Page
A town deep in the Rockies
Title 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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Excerpt from TRAILSMAN #378
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.
A town deep in the Rockies, 1861—where outlaws ruled the roost, and life came cheap.
1
Skye Fargo wasn’t expecting trouble. He’d been riding for days to reach the town of Meridian, and once he was over a high pass he’d have only six or seven miles to go. It was midmorning when he reached the top of Bald Peak and the cleft that would take him from one side of the range to the other.
That high up, the air was cool, even in the summer. A hawk circled over the timber and a raven eyed him from a roost in a tree.
The pass was a cleft with high walls, wide enough for a wagon. It was like riding through a tunnel without a roof.
Out of habit, Fargo rode with his hand on his Colt.
This was wild country. The Shadow Mountains, as they were called, were the haunt of hostiles and outlaws. The unwary paid for being careless with their lives.
Fargo had lived too long on the raw edge to let his guard down. So it was that as he came to the end of the pass, he drew rein to scan the slopes below.
A big man, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, Fargo wore buckskins and a white hat nearly brown from the dust of many miles. His eyes were as blue as a high-country lake. His face was flint-hard, and uncommonly pleasing to the female eye. One look at him and most folks realized he wasn’t the sort of hombre you tangled with if you were in your right mind.
But someone decided to.
Fargo glimpsed a flash of light near a cluster of giant rock slabs. He’d seen similar flashes before—the gleam of sunlight off metal. Hunching forward, Fargo used his spurs. The Ovaro exploded into motion just as a shot cracked and a leaden bee buzzed his ear. Drawing the Colt, Fargo fired at the slabs even as he reined sharply to the right.
He needed to hunt cover. Except for scattered boulders, the ground was open to the tree line, making it easy to pick a rider off. Or so the bushwhacker no doubt hoped.
Bent low over his saddle horn, Fargo galloped hard. He worried the shooter would try to bring down the Ovaro. To prevent that he fired twice more to make the man hunt cover.
A large boulder loomed. It wasn’t big enough to shield the Ovaro but Fargo put it between him and the rifleman to make it harder for the man to hit them.
His best hope was to reach a line of pines that came within a few hundred feet of the crest. He nearly got a cramp in his neck from looking over his shoulder for another flash of sunlight. Strangely, there wasn’t any. There had just been that one shot.
Then Fargo saw why.
A man on a sorrel had broken from the cluster of slabs and was making for the forest.
Maybe his own
shots had come too close for comfort, Fargo realized. Or it could be the killer figured to reach the woods first and cut him off.
Like hell, Fargo vowed. The Ovaro was second to no other horse when it came to speed and stamina. He’d pitted the stallion against the fine mounts of the Comanche and the Sioux and in races with whites, and the Ovaro nearly always proved their better.
Pebbles clattering from under the stallion’s flying hooves, Fargo made it to the pines without being shot. Once in among them, he raced down the slope, flying for more than fifty yards before common sense warned him to haul on the reins and give a listen.
The mountain had gone quiet. The bushwhacker could be anywhere.
Quietly, quickly, Fargo replaced the spent cartridges in the Colt. He added a sixth since he normally left the chamber under the hammer empty.
Shadow dappled the woodland. For that matter, much of the range was darker than usual. It was why people called them the Shadow Mountains.
Fargo gigged the stallion. He was alert for movement of any kind. Once, a hint of motion made him raise the Colt but it was only a jay taking wing.
What spooked it? Fargo wondered. Reining behind a spruce, he climbed down. He twirled the Colt into his holster, shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard and worked the lever to feed a round into the chamber.
Tucked at the knees, Fargo worked around the spruce and over to a fir. He hunkered and studied the shadows near where the jay had been. Just when he was about convinced he must be mistaken, a head and a hat poked from behind a trunk and scoured the woods in his direction.
Fargo froze. The man had a fair idea where he was but didn’t know for sure. He watched as the head swung from side to side and then disappeared. At that distance he couldn’t tell much other than the man had a beard a lot bushier than his own.
Fargo waited. With any luck the killer would come to him. It depended on how much the man wanted him dead.
Apparently a lot, because it wasn’t a minute later that Fargo spied a figure flitting from tree to tree.
Inwardly, Fargo smiled. Slowly raising the Henry, he pressed the stock to his shoulder, his cheek to the brass, and sighted down the barrel. All he needed was a clear shot.
The man didn’t give it to him. Whoever he was, the killer was always on the move and never showed more than a small part of himself.
Fargo decided to go for the chest. He saw the man dart behind an evergreen. Shifting slightly, he fixed his sights on the other side. Sure enough, the man reappeared. Fargo held his breath, and fired.
The Henry boomed and bucked and the figure plunged to the ground.
Fargo didn’t go rushing down. He stalked through the vegetation until he spied a pair of legs jutting from behind a log. They were toes-up and weren’t moving.
Suspicious of a trick, Fargo eased onto his belly and snaked to the log. Taking off his hat, he slowly raised his head high enough to see over.
The bushwhacker was flat on his back. Tall and lean, he had dark eyes wide in shock. His clothes were store bought and not in good condition, and his hat was pinned under his head and partially flattened. In the middle of his shirt was a spreading scarlet stain. His chest rose and fell in labored breaths, and each time he breathed out, scarlet bubbled. Pink froth rimmed his thin lips.
Jamming his own hat back on, Fargo stood and trained the Henry on his would-be killer. He stepped over the log, kicked the man’s Spencer well out of reach, and snatched a Remington from a holster and tossed it after the rifle.
The man glared the whole while.
Stepping back, Fargo cradled the Henry. “What were you after? Money?”
The bushwhacker went on glaring.
“Stupid son of a bitch,” Fargo said. “I’ve got barely ten dollars in my poke.”
The man tried to speak but all that came out were puffs of breath. Gritting his blood-flecked teeth, he tried again, gasping, “Not . . . money.”
“What then? My horse?” Fargo looked around. The killer’s sorrel was down the slope a ways, tied to a tree. “You’ve already got one.”
“Not . . . horse,” the man gasped.
“You tried to blow out my wick for the hell of it?” Fargo had met some who would. Human wolves with no more conscience than a rock.
“You,” the bearded man said. “Kill . . . you.”
Fargo’s brow puckered in puzzlement. “You were waiting for me?”
A crafty gleam came into those beady eyes.
“Hold on,” Fargo said, looking the man up and down. “I’ve never seen you before. Why in hell would you want to kill me?”
The man didn’t answer.
Fargo was at a loss. No one knew he was coming to Meridian. Not even the person who sent for him, since he’d never answered her letter. “Who are you?”
The man glared.
“I’ll make a deal,” Fargo said. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll bury you. Don’t, and I’ll leave you for the coyotes and the buzzards.” Some men wouldn’t care one way or the other but he had nothing else to bargain with.
“Clemens,” the man got out. “Handle . . . is Clemens.”
“I’ll ask you again. Why ambush me?”
“Stop . . . you,” Clemens said.
“Stop me from what?” Fargo asked, and even as he did, it hit him. “To stop me from reaching town? From talking to her?”
“You do,” Clemens gasped, “you die.”
“Are you the reason she sent for me?”
Clemens snorted, or tried to. Crimson drops dribbled from his nose and more blood frothed his mouth. “Others will get you. He’ll get you.”
“Who?”
Closing his eyes, Clemens shuddered. His breathing became shallow and his face paled before Fargo’s eyes. The man wasn’t long for this world.
Fargo went through his pockets. He found twenty-two dollars in coins and a few bills, a folding knife, and a pocket watch that didn’t work. It told him nothing.
Fargo retrieved the sorrel. He untied it and brought it over and looped the reins around a broken branch on the log. Then he rummaged through the saddlebags. There were spare clothes, as worn as those Clemens had on, spare socks with holes in them, cartridges, some coffee and a coffeepot, a tin cup and a fork and a fire steel and flint for starting a fire.
Turning to his would-be assassin, Fargo squatted and poked him.
Clemens opened his eyes.
“Last chance to tell me who is behind this.”
“Go . . . to . . . hell.”
“I’ll find out anyway,” Fargo said. “I’m going on to Meridian.” Odds were, whoever didn’t want him there would make themselves known.
“Tried to . . . help . . . pard,” Clemens managed to get out as more blood oozed.
“I still need a name.”
Clemens didn’t answer.
Standing, Fargo aimed his Colt at the center of Clemens’s forehead. “Reckon I’ll put you out of your misery, then.”
For the first time fear showed in the other’s eyes. “You said . . . you’d wait . . . and bury me.”
“I said I’d bury you,” Fargo agreed. “I never said I’d wait around for you to die.”
“Bastard.”
“Nice meeting you, too.” Fargo stroked the trigger.
2
The town of Meridian wasn’t much. A main street flanked by a dozen businesses and houses and cabins, several short side streets, and that was it.
There was the usual general store and millinery and a livery. A saloon quenched the thirst of those who craved hard liquor. A church at one end reminded the sinners that the Almighty was watching over them.
Meridian was small but it still had a marshal; a sign on a small building sandwiched between the general store and a butcher’s proclaimed t
he fact.
Drawing rein at a hitch rail, Fargo dismounted. He was the focus of many a passerby. Or, rather, the body draped over the sorrel was. He tied off both animals and stepped to the door and walked on in.
Sprawled in a chair, his boots propped on his desk, the marshal was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. When Fargo smacked the desk, the lawman started and sat up so fast, he nearly spilled from his chair. “What in the world?” He had a belly that bulged over his belt and more than one chin.
“Having a nice nap?” Fargo asked.
The marshal colored. “Here now. Who are you and what’s your business?”
“I brought you some business, Marshal—?”
“Cripdin,” the lawman said. “Theodore Cripdin.” He adjusted his hat. “You shouldn’t ought to scare folks like that.”
“I was afraid if I poked you,” Fargo said, “you might scream.”
Cripdin scowled. “I’ll thank you to show more respect. And I’ll ask you again. Who are you and why are you bothering me?”
“Come out and see for yourself.”
Reluctantly, the lawman heaved out of the chair. His belly quivering like a bowl of pudding, he came around and hitched at his holster. “This better be important. I’m a busy man.”
“I can see that, Theodore,” Fargo said.
“It’s Marshal Cripdin to you.”
Fargo opened the door and held it for him. “Most places I’ve been, bodies are important.”
“Bodies?” Cripdin repeated. He stepped out and lurched to a stop. His mouth dropped and he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Good God. There is a body.”
“He said his name was Clemens,” Fargo told him. “He tried to kill me.”
Marshal Cripdin went around the hitch rail, gripped the dead man by the hair, and raised his head for a look. “I’ll be damned. Harve Clemens. You say he tried to kill you?”
Fargo nodded.
“Then how come you’re still alive? He has a string of killings to his credit half as long as your arm.”
“He was piss-poor at it,” Fargo said.