Sierra Six-Guns

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo slugged her. He let go of her wrist and punched her full on the jaw, and he didn’t hold back. It rocked her onto her heels and left her in a heap at his feet, blood trickling from a corner of her mouth. Working quickly, he drew his Arkansas toothpick and cut strips from her shirt. He tied her wrists and her ankles and for extra measure stuffed a gag in her mouth. “That should hold you.”

  The lantern hadn’t broken and lay on its side. Scooping it up, he examined his side. The slug had left a furrow but spared his ribs. He retrieved the Henry and jogged on down the tunnel. They would suspect he was coming and be ready for him. So be it.

  Fargo thought the next obstacle would be Moon but he was mistaken. He came to a straight stretch and there she was at the other end in all her wild redheaded glory, her hands on her hips, a mastiff on either side, a pistol in her belt. Unlike her sister there was no sadness in her eyes or regret in her features. There was only pure hate.

  Fargo stopped.

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No.”

  “That’s something, at least,” Maxine said. “You killed two of my dogs, though, you son of a bitch.”

  “They were trying to kill me.”

  Maxine advanced several steps and the mastiffs moved with her, their hackles bristling, their fangs bared. “They were my friends. I wouldn’t expect you to understand but until Moon came along they were all I had. They went with me everywhere. They did everything I did. They mean more to me than my pa or my sister. They sure as hell mean more to me than you.” She glanced down and cried fiercely, “Get him!” Both mastiffs bounded forward and she came after them, drawing her six-shooter.

  Fargo dropped into a crouch and set the lantern down. He wedged the Henry to his shoulder and took a swift bead and blew out the brains of the dog on the right. Working the lever, he fed a new cartridge into the chamber and aimed at the second dog. It was incredibly fast. It was almost to him when he stroked the trigger. He was sure he hit it but it didn’t slow. He threw up his arms and it plowed into him, bowling him over. Quick as a cat he scrambled into a crouch and palmed the Colt but the mastiff was on its side, twitching and convulsing, blood seeping from a hole high in its chest.

  “Nooooooooo!”

  The screech saved Fargo’s life. He spun as Maxine’s revolver cracked and the slug buzzed his ear. She fired again but she was hasty. Fargo was more deliberate. He shot her in the face.

  His ears ringing, Fargo reloaded. He slid the Colt into his holster, reclaimed the lantern and the Henry, and moved on. Another fifty yards brought him to a side tunnel. He was passing it when he heard voices and a sob.

  Fargo entered the passage. A sharp bend hid whatever lay beyond. Another sob warned him he was close.

  “Please. I can’t take the pain,” Esther pleaded. “You can’t let me suffer like this. It’s inhuman.”

  No one answered her.

  “Say something. Damn you!” James Harker roared.

  “It’s no use,” Roy Landreth said. “He’s shown his true colors. We were fools to trust him.”

  Fargo had a good idea who they were talking about. Ready to shoot, he risked a quick look-see.

  Another chamber had been carved from the earth. A pit took up most of it.

  Quartz glistened in the walls, illuminated by a lantern on the ground near the pit’s edge. On the far side a dark opening led into another tunnel. Partway around, at the base of the wall, lay Roy Landreth’s cane.

  “Are you still up there?” James Harker hollered.

  The chamber was empty. Fargo cat-stepped around the bend and over to the hole. He set his lantern next to the other and asked, “Who are you talking to?”

  James and Landreth were bent over Esther. Straightening, they spun and gaped in astonishment. James was the first to find his voice.

  “Moon. We were talking to Moon. Isn’t he up there? He was just a minute ago.”

  “Get us out of here,” Landreth said. “Find a rope, a ladder, anything. Esther needs doctoring. Both her wrists are broken.”

  The cause of all the bloodshed and sorrow was on her back, her face as pale as a bedsheet, her arms on her belly, each bent unnaturally. Grimacing, she said, “When they threw us in, I landed wrong.”

  “I tried setting her bones but it made her scream,” James said.

  “Where’s Gretchen?” Fargo had figured she was with them.

  “We haven’t seen her since last evening,” James replied, and poked a finger at him. “Why are you still standing there? Do something.”

  “How did you get down here?”

  Roy Landreth responded. “Moon brought us down at gunpoint. Apparently he intended to betray us all along and keep the money for himself. Now quit asking stupid questions and help us out.”

  “Where did he get to?”

  “I’m right behind you,” Moon said.

  Fargo froze.

  “Toss the rifle and turn. Nice and slow or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  As much as Fargo wanted to settle accounts, he complied.

  Moon had a Remington in each hand. “Smart man. You get to live a little while.” He moved so his back was to the wall. “Seen any sign of Bromley?”

  “Not for a while.” Fargo was puzzled by why Moon hadn’t shot him dead. “He got hold of Gretchen.”

  From the pit came Landreth’s wail of, “God, no.”

  Moon frowned and said, “I should have shot that loco son of a bitch long ago. But I spared him for her sake.” He paused. “Maxine, not the other one. Me and her have become real close.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “She’s a wildcat, that gal. Why she fancies me I’ll never know. You’d think she would go for a gent like those dandies in the pit. Someone who wears fine clothes and has good manners.” Moon chuckled. “Listen to me. We should get to it. But first I need to know. Tucker and Beck. Where are they?”

  “Dead.”

  “I heard shots a while ago. Was that Conklin and you, by any chance?”

  “He’s dead too.”

  “Damn. But that means more money for me.”

  Fargo was stunned by what Moon did next: he twirled the Remingtons into their holsters and patted them. “What’s this?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “You’re that sure of yourself?”

  Moon nodded. “It will give me something to brag about, how I shot the great scout in a fair fight.”

  “I have something to brag about too.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I shot Maxine.”

  Moon visibly shook. “You’re just saying that to rattle me.”

  “You’ll find her back up the tunnel. But you better hurry. There might not be much left after the rats get done.”

  Moon uttered a sharp cry and his hands became twin lightning bolts. So were Fargo’s. He fired as Moon cleared leather. He fired as Moon banged off two shots. He fired as Moon staggered, and he fired again as Moon pitched to his knees and yet again as Moon’s arms sagged limp at his sides. Fargo raised the Colt. “I shot her in the face,” he said, and did the same to Moon.

  “Is he dead?” James called up.

  “They don’t get any deader.” Fargo was almost finished. Only one thing left to do. He turned toward the pit and froze a second time.

  In the tunnel opening in the other side stood Bromley. His hood was pulled back, his features hideous. Gretchen was belly-down over his shoulder, and she wasn’t moving.

  “Did Brom hear right? You killed Brom’s girl?” Throwing Gretchen down, the madman hurtled around the pit, moving incredibly fast for someone so huge.

  Fargo’s fingers flew to his belt. The Colt was empty. He realized he wouldn’t be able to reload before the brute reached him, and spun toward the Henry. Diving, he swept it into his hands and turned to shoot but a living avalanche slammed into him and he was flung against the wall so hard, it was a wonder every bone in his body didn’t shatter. A calloused hand knocked the Henry from his
grasp. A fist caught him in the pit of his stomach and drove him to his knees.

  Howling in fury, Brom gripped Fargo by the throat and shook him as a grizzly might shake a marmot. “Brom kill you! Brom kill you for killing Brom’s girl!”

  By then Fargo’s hand was out of his boot. “Kill this,” he said, and thrust the toothpick into Brom’s right eye. The razor-sharp steel sliced through the eyeball and deep into the socket. Brom stiffened and his maw of a mouth grew wide but all he did was gasp, and die.

  Fargo yanked the toothpick out. “Thoughtful of you to dig your own grave,” he said, and kicked him in the chest. Like a tall tree in the forest, the deformed lunatic toppled back and went over the edge. There was a crash and a shriek and then silence.

  Fargo moved to the edge.

  James and Landreth were statues. Sprawled between them was Brom’s bulk. Esther’s head poked from under Brom’s shoulder, her face nearly purple, her tongue lolling, as lifeless as the creature who had unwittingly crushed her.

  Collecting his pistol and rifle, Fargo hastened around the pit. The two men shouted but he ignored them. Reaching Gretchen, he knelt and slowly rolled her over, dreading what he would find. Her right cheek was puffy and she had a large bruise on her brow. He gently shook her.

  Gretchen groaned. Her eyes opened, and she said softly, “You saved me again?”

  “It’s a long ride to San Francisco and I can use the company.”

  Gretchen laughed but caught herself. “God, I hurt all over. And I’m so tired.”

  “Rest.” Fargo scooped her into his arms and retraced his steps to the tunnel he came out of. Along the way he helped himself to a lantern. As he was about to leave, James Harker bellowed his name.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave us down here. We’ll starve to death.”

  “Maybe you can get the stage driver to bring you some food.”

  Fargo carried Gretchen to the main tunnel. She had passed out and he let her rest. When he reached Serilda he set Gretchen down, drew his toothpick and turned to cut Serilda loose. Her back was to him. From her posture he could tell she had struggled to free herself. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Serilda?”

  She didn’t answer or move.

  Fargo eased her onto her back, and swore. Her face was discolored, her eyes wide, her body stiff. In her struggles she had swallowed the gag and choked to death.

  Fargo couldn’t get out of the tunnels fast enough. He smiled when at last he emerged from the mine entrance and breathed fresh air and felt warm sunlight on his face.

  Gretchen stirred and sleepily asked, “How are we doing, handsome?”

  “We’re doing just fine,” Skye Fargo said.

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  The following is the opening

  section of the next novel in the exciting

  Trailsman series from Signet:

  THE TRAILSMAN #342 ROCKY MOUNTAIN REVENGE

  The Rockies, 1860—where the stakes are higher

  than the mountain peaks, and death crouches in the shadows

  beside every trail.

  Someone was stalking Skye Fargo.

  As usual, Fargo was up at the pink tinge of dawn. The mornings were chilly 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 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. Ravens 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 man 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 tree tops. 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?”