by Jon Sharpe
Fargo rode on. He did not know how many of the war party were left. He had accounted for quite a few, the Russians had undoubtedly slain a few more. He would guess at least twenty still roved the valley. That was an awful lot of warriors, but he had more than enough ammo.
Taking the box from his pocket, Fargo reloaded.
The sun was over an hour high when the sounds of battle wafted to Fargo’s ears. Shots and screams and yells and the strident whinny of horses, a bedlam of death that drew him like a beacon. He slowed as he drew near.
Apparently, the Russians had been caught in a stand of aspens near the stream. Cut off from the forest, they had been surrounded. A half dozen bodies in tunics and paint lay in the grass around the aspens, along with two dead Russians.
Furtive movement in the aspens proved that some of the Russians were still alive. Tlingits were visible in the woods a few hundred feet from the stand. But they had learned their lesson and were not eager to cross the open space in the face of Russian rifles.
Fargo circled to come up behind the Tlingits. He rode at a walk and stopped often to scan the vegetation. He need not have worried. The Tlingits were so intent on the Russians, they did not spot him. He drew rein fifty feet from where Gray Fox exhorted the other warriors on. Evidently they were girding for another charge.
Fargo raised the Henry, then lowered it again. He waited. He was in no hurry. He would take his time and do it right.
In a short while, the Tlingits climbed on their horses and moved to the tree line. They stopped, and Gray Fox cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted in Russian.
Vassily Baranof answered.
Fargo could not tell what they were saying but their tone gave some clues. Gray Fox taunted the Russians, maybe saying they would all soon be dead. Vassily responded with defiance. Then, to Fargo’s mild surprise, Gray Fox switched to English.
‘‘I hear you, Russian dog. But know this. The blood of my son cries out for the blood of all your kind.’’
‘‘You are a fool, old man,’’ Vassily returned. ‘‘A liar, as well. You do not do this for your son. He died decades ago. No, you do this because of your granddaughter.’’
‘‘You know, then,’’ Gray Fox said.
‘‘I had nothing to do with it,’’ Vassily shouted.
‘‘Now which one of us is the liar?’’
‘‘She came to me. She said she wanted to make money the way my Russian girls do. She did not give me her real name but I knew who she was. I put her up in a shack down by the docks with the other Indian women who work for me.’’ Vassily laughed. ‘‘That is what set you off, isn’t it, old man? Your own granddaughter, spreading her legs for money.’’
Gray Fox did not reply.
‘‘You blame me for her selling her body?’’ Vassily went on. ‘‘But it was her decision. I never approached her. Hell, I can’t stand your kind. The only reason I have any Indian girls at all working for me is because some men like them. The men say they make love like animals.’’
‘‘You are a pig,’’ Gray Fox yelled. ‘‘You prey on the innocent and have no regrets.’’
‘‘There are none of us innocent, old man. Your granddaughter least of all. Maybe if you live, you should visit her in her shack. Bring money and she might spread her legs for you.’’
‘‘For that,’’ Gray Fox said solemnly, ‘‘you will take a long time dying.’’
‘‘Your threats do not scare me, old one,’’ Vassily baited him. ‘‘We have guns and you do not, and if I have to, I will save a bullet for myself. You will not have the pleasure of torturing me.’’
‘‘Just so you die,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘Whether I do this for my son or my granddaughter or both, the important thing is that the taint of the Baranofs ends with you, Vassily Baranof.’’
‘‘Come, then, you and those fools with you. You will find that no matter what you think of me, the Baranofs die like men.’’
Gray Fox addressed the Tlingits in their own language. Half a dozen bows were raised and arrows nocked to sinew strings.
Fargo stayed where he was. The two sides deserved what was coming to them. As far as he was concerned, they could butcher one another to the last man. They had brought it down on their own heads.
At a signal from Gray Fox, the bowmen let fly. They immediately slid new arrows from their quivers and launched a second flight, doing it so fast, the second six were in the air before the first six arced down on the aspens.
Gray Fox bellowed in the Tlingit tongue and the war party swept toward the stand. Unlike the Sioux or the Comanches, who often whooped and hollered when they attacked, the Tlingits fought in deadly silence.
From the aspens came a scream. At least one of the arrows had scored. On its heels came a shout from Vassily Baranof and then a ragged volley that spewed lead and smoke. One of the Tlingits clutched his chest and toppled and another twisted to the impact of a heavy slug in his arm but the rest reached the stand unscathed.
Fargo still did not move.
The clash was fierce and noisy. Guns boomed, men shrieked and cursed. A riderless horse bolted out of the stand, its back smeared scarlet. A Russian staggered into view, an arrow in his belly. He fell to his knees, and probably never noticed the painted warrior who dashed up behind him and bashed out his brains with a war club.
Grinning in triumph, the warrior started to turn to go back into the stand.
Quick as thought, Fargo snapped the Henry to his shoulder and fired. The slug caught the Tlingit high in the chest and spun him completely around. He was dead before he struck the ground.
Another riderless horse crashed out of the stand and fled to the south.
The bedlam reached a crescendo. The outcome had been decided, and fewer guns were banging.
Suddenly Vassily Baranof burst into the open. His coat was torn and his shirt was bloody and his pants had a long tear in them. Backpedaling, he fired into the aspens, a fierce grin lighting his features.
After him came Pyotr and Fedor. The former had a gash on his left cheek and was limping. The latter had a feathered shaft jutting from his shoulder and was a portrait in terror.
Tlingits spilled out of the trees after them. Pyotr shot two and then was overhauled by three more who stabbed and chopped with their double-bladed knives. He screamed as he went down and went on screaming as they hacked him to pieces.
Fedor tried to run but a spear transfixed his leg. Howling in agony, he fell on his side. In desperation he attempted to pull the spear out but he was not strong enough. By then two warriors stood over him, their wicked knives glinting in the sunlight. Fedor looked up at them and whined like a puppy that knew it was about to be kicked. Strangely, though, they did not touch him.
That left Vassily. He had a revolver in each hand and was firing with cool precision. He had dropped four Tlingits and now five more, including Gray Fox, were almost on him. Vassily took deliberate aim at Gray Fox but the next instant an arrow sliced through his right knee and he buckled. The lead meant for Gray Fox flew into the blue vault of the sky instead.
Vassily did not give in to the pain. Gritting his teeth, he aimed at another warrior, only to have his arm struck by a war club. Four of the five warriors pounced, their numbers and weight too much for him. His arms and legs were pinned.
It was then that Gray Fox stepped forward. He was smiling, a smile as icy as the arctic north. ‘‘And now we have you,’’ he said in English.
Why English instead of Russian, Fargo could not say, unless Gray Fox spoke English better than Russian and was well aware Vassily was fluent in it, as well.
Vassily surged against his captors but there were too many. ‘‘Do it!’’ he demanded. ‘‘Do not play with me as a cat would a mouse. Get it over with!’’
‘‘That would be foolish,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘I have waited too long for this moment. Killing you quickly would spoil it.’’
Fedor was still on the ground. He was wringing his sleeve, his eyes misted with tears. He sp
oke in Russian.
‘‘No. You do not get to live,’’ Gray Fox answered in English. ‘‘You did not lift a weapon against us. That is true. But you are still our enemy.’’ He flicked a finger across his throat, and just like that, one of the warriors whipped his razor-edged knife across the little chemist’s.
Fedor bleated. That was the only sound he made, and he made it only once. He thrashed madly about, his hands over his throat in a vain bid to staunch the spray of his life’s blood. His movements grew weaker and weaker and finally ceased altogether.
Vassily spat at Gray Fox but missed. ‘‘You are scum, all of you. He never hurt any of your kind.’’
‘‘He worked for you. That was enough.’’
Although furious, Vassily did not waste himself trying to break free. ‘‘So what do you have in your cruel heart for me, savage? Cut me to bits as you did poor Pyotr? Gouge out my eyes and chop off my fingers? What torture boils in that heathen brain of yours?’’
Gray Fox smiled. ‘‘I have given it much thought, white man.’’ He gestured, and the Tlingits formed a ring around Vassily. All drew their wicked knives.
Fargo had heard enough. He walked the sorrel to the grass and let the reins drop. Dismounting, he made no effort to sneak up on them. He wanted them to see him. He wanted them to see it coming.
A warrior heard the sorrel stamp and glanced over his shoulder. At his sharp exclamation, they all faced around.
‘‘You!’’ Gray Fox cried. ‘‘What do you want?’’
Fargo raised the Henry, lined up the front sight with the rear sight and both sights on Gray Fox, and shot him through the head. For a few seconds the rest were paralyzed with shock. Then one shouted and they all bounded toward him.
Fargo shot one and aimed at a second and shot him and aimed at a third and shot him. Rapidly, methodically, he blasted warrior after warrior. He would drop one and another would leap over the body and keep coming. The fastest died first, then those not so fast, and finally the two who brought up the rear but were as game as their friends. By then he had emptied the Henry and drawn his Colt, and he killed the last of them when the man was almost at arm’s length with a knife raised for a fatal thrust.
Vassily Baranof had sat up and was leaning on his hands. He laughed merrily as Fargo walked up to him. ‘‘You astound me, American! You killed them all! Every last one! It is over.’’
‘‘Not quite,’’ Fargo said, and pressed the Colt to the Russian’s broad forehead.
‘‘No!’’ Vassily cried.
‘‘Yes.’’ Fargo squeezed the trigger.
Later that day, Skye Fargo trotted out of the valley. He did not look back. He was thinking of ship passage to Seattle, and the Cork and Keg, and a willowy woman named Marie. That, and one last thing. Smacking his lips, he said to the horse, ‘‘I’m going to stay drunk for a week.’’
LOOKING FORWARD! The following is the opening section from the next novel in the exciting Trailsman series from Signet:
THE TRAILSMAN #311 IDAHO IMPACT
Idaho Territory, 1860—a town of secrets,
a town of violence is dangerous
to the man seeking the truth.
Skye Fargo, pitching his poker hand into the middle of the table, said, ‘‘I’m out.’’
‘‘Hey, Fargo,’’ laughed the slicker in the red vest and handlebar mustache, ‘‘you can’t quit. I’m makin’ too much money off you.’’
Fargo frowned. ‘‘I wouldn’t push it, mister.’’
‘‘Guess he don’t know who you are, Mr. Fargo,’’ said the old-timer sitting to the left of Fargo. To the slicker, he said, ‘‘I wouldn’t be gloatin’, mister. This one, he don’t suffer fools.’’
Fargo stood up. ‘‘I’m the fool here. Havin’ a bad night and should’ve quit about an hour ago.’’
‘‘I didn’t mean anything by that,’’ the slicker said. ‘‘I was just havin’ a little fun with ya was all.’’
‘‘Already forgotten,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You boys finish up your game. I’m going to stand guard over those bottles behind the bar.’’
The crowd in the Gold Mine saloon had thinned out as ten p.m. approached. The sheriff of Twin Forks wanted to keep his town peaceful. He figured that drunks were at their worst as the hour drew later. He wanted the streets empty by the time he turned the jail over to his deputy for the night.
Fargo was riding through on his way to Boise where he was to meet an old friend who was having problems with rustlers. The friend had learned that the range detective who’d been hired to keep the man’s cattle safe was actually part of the rustling gang. Fargo would lend a hand and a gun if necessary.
Two beers and a shot of whiskey later, Fargo yawned, looking forward to the hotel room he planned to take for the night. He’d played cards a couple towns back and won decent money. He still had half of it left, even after the drubbing he’d taken this evening. He’d spent too many nights outdoors on the cold hard autumn ground. He was rewarding himself.
He was just draining the last of his beer when the batwings opened behind him and the beefy Swede behind the bar said, ‘‘Not in here, miss. No ladies allowed.’’
‘‘Whores would be all right, though, I’ll bet.’’
Whoever she was, she had a mouth on her sharp as a bowie knife. Fargo just had to turn around and see what she looked like.
She was damned pretty, a sweet, slim little blonde all innocent of face though the splendor of her curves defied the innocence of the eyes and mouth. She wore a blue Western shirt stuffed into a pair of denims that were, in turn, stuffed into a pair of Texas boots. But for all her good looks, the most notable thing about her was the .45 she carried in her right hand.
‘‘I’m looking for a man named Theo Mason,’’ she said.
‘‘The banker from Redburn?’’
‘‘That’s the one.’’
‘‘He was in earlier. You can probably find him at his hotel.’’
‘‘Appreciate it.’’
The Swede glanced at Fargo, then back at the girl. ‘‘What’s the gun for?’’
‘‘The gun is for none of your business.’’
‘‘You got a smart mouth on you for somebody your age.’’
She laughed. ‘‘So I hear.’’ She seemed to notice Fargo for the first time. ‘‘You from town here?’’
‘‘Passing through.’’
‘‘Thought so. You look too smart to be a yokel like the rest of these fellas.’’
The Swede said, ‘‘Good thing you’re a gal. Otherwise you’d be walkin’ around with a couple black eyes. You don’t go insultin’ my town without fightin’ me, I’ll tell you that.’’
But she’d left her deep blue eyes on Fargo. ‘‘Maybe we’ll meet up later. My name’s Bonnie McLure.’’
Fargo shrugged.
The girl disappeared between the batwings.
‘‘Now there’s a handful,’’ Fargo said.
The Swede grinned, wiped massive hands on his dirty white apron. ‘‘In more ways than one. You see those tits of hers?’’
‘‘Yeah, I guess I did happen to notice them once or twice.’’
‘‘And a nice bottom, too. But you’d have to put up with that mouth of hers.’’ He poured himself a shot and threw it down. ‘‘Wonder what she wants Theo Mason for.’’
‘‘My guess is she wants to shoot him.’’
‘‘That’d be my guess, too.’’ The Swede called out to a man sitting at a table by himself. ‘‘Henry, get your ass over to the Hotel Royale. Ask for a Theo Mason. Tell him there’s some gal lookin’ for him. With a gun.’’
Henry, whose dusty clothes and ragged beard marked him as one of the many gold-crazed miners who’d come out here seeking a fortune, said, ‘‘You stand me to two drinks if I do?’’
‘‘I’ll stand you to one.’’
‘‘Two.’’
The Swede sighed. ‘‘You see the kind of crap I have to put up with, mister?’’
Fargo smil
ed.
‘‘Two drinks and I’ll do it, Swede,’’ Henry said.
‘‘Two drinks it is,’’ the Swede said amiably. ‘‘Now get going.’’
Fargo put his hat on, hitched up his gun belt and threw his saddlebags over his shoulder. Wind raced into the saloon, rattling the batwings. Nice night for a warm room with a warm bed.
He gave a little salute off the edge of his hat brim and walked outside. The town seemed respectful of the sheriff’s curfew. A lone buggy was the only vehicle in sight. The other two saloons were already dark. Fargo headed west. That’s where the hotels were located. The Excelsior promised the lowest rates. He didn’t need a palace.
He thought of checking on his big Ovaro stallion. Sort of reassuring the animal that he hadn’t deserted him. But the horse would be fine at the livery where he’d left him.
It was meant to be a scream but something muffled it.
Fargo was passing the mouth of an alley just as snow-flakes began appearing with no warning at all. He was just huddling deeper into his jacket when the sound came from the moon-shadowed alley.
He stopped, peered into the darkness. At first he saw nothing but a few garbage cans and a couple of stray cats sniffing around a back porch for food.
The silhouette of the man became coupled with the silhouette of the woman as he dragged her from behind a small loading dock. The dark shape of the woman was easy enough to recognize. She was the girl in the saloon who’d been looking for the banker.
The man slapped her with enough force to knock her to her knees. Then he reached down and grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet again. The second blow was even harder than the first. This time her scream came loud and clear.
So much for my nice warm bed, Fargo thought. At least for now.
He dumped his saddlebags on the street and started running into the narrow alleyway. He pulled his Colt from its holster as he increased his speed.
By the time he reached the pair, the girl was on her knees again and the man was about to slap her.