by Jon Sharpe
Sandy’s bearded face was ashen under its tan as the jehu brought the coach to a rocking, swaying halt a few yards short of where Fargo sat on the stallion. As soon as the coach stopped, one of the doors flew open and Angie leaped out. ‘‘Jimmy!’’ she shrieked as she stared back at the destruction behind them. ‘‘Oh, God, Jimmy!’’
The roar was dying away now as the avalanche lost force. The trail was blocked by tons of rock that would take a week or more to clear away. Angie looked at it and wailed, ‘‘Jimmy!’’
A tentative voice came from the back of the coach. ‘‘Y-yeah, Angie?’’
She had covered her face with her hands as wretched sobs racked her body, but she stopped and jerked her head up as she heard those words. Fargo was surprised, too, but a grin spread over his face as Jimmy’s head rose above the roof of the coach at the back of the vehicle. He was clinging to the rear boot, and Fargo guessed that he must have leaped from his horse onto the back of the stage when he saw that he wasn’t going to be able to avoid the crushing rocks any other way.
‘‘Jimmy!’’ Angie cried again, but this time her voice was filled with joy. As the young man dropped to the ground, she ran to him and threw herself into his arms. She said, ‘‘Jimmy, I thought you were dead!’’
‘‘No, but I sure didn’t miss it by much,’’ he said as he embraced her and gave her an awkward pat on the back. His eyes widened in shock as she lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his in a passionate kiss.
Belinda and Grayson climbed out of the coach and smiled at the reunion going on. Grayson’s smile vanished, though, as he looked back down the trail and surveyed the damage done by the avalanche.
‘‘What about the other horses?’’ he asked.
‘‘Gone, I reckon,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘One more thing Stoddard has to answer for. But losing them won’t keep us from getting to San Francisco. The team that’s already hitched up can take us the rest of the way if it has to.’’
Grayson nodded. ‘‘Yes, you’re right. And blocking the trail like that won’t have any effect on the stagecoach line, either, since it won’t run through here on a regular basis. Stoddard has failed again.’’
‘‘And I reckon he knows that by now,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘All that dust will have hidden us from his men for a while, but enough of it has blown away by now so that they must have seen we’re still alive. We’d better get moving before—’’
Too late, he realized a second later as a rifle blasted and a bullet tore through the air next to his ear.
They were already under attack again.
13
‘‘Everybody behind the coach!’’ Fargo shouted as he threw himself out of the saddle. He slapped the Ovaro on the rump and sent the stallion galloping along the trail, out of the line of fire.
Given their situation, trying to flee would do no good. The riflemen hidden in the trees on the slope above them would be able to pick them off one by one, because the coach couldn’t go very fast on this narrow, twisting trail.
Anyway, even if they had tried to escape, the first one the bushwhackers shot would be Sandy, halting the stagecoach again.
Fargo brought the Sharps to his shoulder and fired at a puff of powder smoke he spotted on the hillside. He didn’t know if he hit anything, but at least he was putting up a fight. Meanwhile, the other five people scrambled behind the big Concord coach. More shots came from the slope, and bullets thudded into the vehicle.
Fargo ducked behind the team and moved in a crouching run toward the coach. As he did, he heard the meaty sound of lead striking flesh behind him, and one of the horses screamed in pain. A bitter taste filled Fargo’s mouth as he realized that the gunmen planned to kill all the members of the team. That would strand the stagecoach here and accomplish Hiram Stoddard’s goal of preventing it from reaching San Francisco.
Fargo drew his Colt and sprayed the hillside with slugs, hoping that would force Stoddard’s men to hunt some cover, and buy him and his companions a few minutes. From behind the coach, Sandy and Jimmy opened up with their guns as well.
Reaching the coach, Fargo pressed the Sharps into Grayson’s hands. ‘‘You still have cartridges for it?’’ he asked.
Grayson nodded. ‘‘Thanks, Skye. One good shot at those bastards is all I want.’’
‘‘Maybe I can flush them out for you,’’ Fargo said as he thumbed fresh rounds into his Colt. He snapped the cylinder of the big revolver closed. ‘‘I’m going to take the fight to them.’’
‘‘Skye, what are you—’’ Belinda began, but before she could finish the question, he had tossed his hat aside, left the cover of the coach, and sprinted for the trees, moving at an angle and darting back and forth to make himself a more difficult target to hit.
Bullets whined around his head and smacked into the rocky ground around his feet. But he managed to reach the trees without being hit, and once he was among the pines, he knew the bushwhackers couldn’t see him anymore. Like a wolf among sheep, he launched into a deadly game of hunter and hunted— although these ‘‘sheep’’ were heavily armed and just as capable of killing him as he was of killing them.
Fargo moved through the woods and up the slope with a stealth that was second nature to him, as silent and swift as a Comanche. He holstered the Colt and drew the Arkansas toothpick instead. At close quarters, the long, heavy knife was a terrible weapon.
The firing died away, and he heard a low-voiced call. ‘‘Damn it, where’s Fargo? I’m not worried about any of those other pilgrims.’’
‘‘He made it into the trees,’’ another man replied. His voice held an edge of fear. ‘‘He’s probably up here among us by now.’’
‘‘All right, kill the damn horses and let’s get out of here,’’ the first man said. Fargo recognized the voice. It belonged to the hardcase called Elam, who must have recovered at least somewhat from the wound Fargo had given him in Los Angeles.
Elam was farther away, but the man who had answered him was close by, no more than a dozen feet from Fargo. Not making a sound, Fargo closed in on him. The man crouched behind a thick-trunked pine tree. He was drawing a bead on the stagecoach team with his rifle when Fargo’s left arm looped around his neck and jerked him upright.
Fargo could have cut his throat and killed him with little or no sound, but instead he thrust the blade into the bushwhacker’s back and loosened his hold on the man’s neck so that a scream of agony ripped from his throat. The shriek echoed across the hillside.
The gunmen had started to open fire again, but only a couple of shots had sounded before they heard the scream and stopped pulling their triggers. ‘‘What the hell was that?’’ one man yelled, giving away his position.
Fargo pulled the toothpick free and let the bushwhacker’s limp body fall to the ground.
‘‘It’s Fargo! Fargo must’ve gotten one of us!’’
A grim smile touched Fargo’s mouth. That was what he wanted to hear. He wanted them spooked. It would make them careless.
He cat-footed through the trees toward another of the men and came upon him kneeling behind a bush. The man heard the rustle of pine needles under Fargo’s booted feet and whirled around with a startled shout, trying to bring his rifle to bear as he did so.
Fargo’s left hand closed around the rifle barrel and wrenched the weapon aside, while at the same time his right drove the toothpick into the bushwhacker’s belly. The hombre screeched in pain, but the scream trailed off into a gurgle as Fargo ripped upward with the blade, opening him up and spilling his guts out. Fargo shoved the dying man away from him.
Killing so brutally went against the grain for the Trailsman, but he was facing long odds. And he knew that none of these men would hesitate to kill the folks who had taken cover behind the stagecoach. They were hired guns and more than likely had blood on their hands from way back.
The second scream was still echoing when a man shouted, ‘‘Damn it, Elam, I’m gettin’ out of here!’’
‘‘Me, too!’’ ca
lled another man. ‘‘I’m not gonna sit here and wait for Fargo to kill me!’’
‘‘You sorry bastards!’’ Elam bellowed. ‘‘Come back here and finish the job!’’
His companions must have been more afraid of Fargo than they were of him, however, because a moment later, when the shooting started again, only one rifle spoke. Fargo felt confident that it belonged to Elam.
One might be enough, though, unless Fargo could silence it in a hurry. Another horse in the stagecoach team gave a shrill whinny of pain as a bullet struck it.
Fargo forgot about being quiet. He stuck the Arkansas toothpick back in its sheath, drew his Colt, and crashed through the brush toward the sound of the shots. Elam must have heard him coming because the big hardcase was already turning toward Fargo as the Trailsman burst into a tiny clearing where Elam was crouched behind a screen of trees.
The rifle in the man’s hands blasted as Fargo threw himself forward. The slug whistled over Fargo’s head. He squeezed off a shot as he hit the ground, aiming at Elam’s chest. Elam moved just as Fargo pulled the trigger, though, and the bullet dug a shallow furrow in his upper right arm instead.
That was enough to make Elam yell in pain and drop his rifle. Rather than try to recover it, he flung himself backward, behind the shelter of the trees. Fargo’s second shot knocked some bark off the rough trunk of a pine, but that was all the damage it did.
Biting back a curse, Fargo leaped to his feet as he heard Elam heading down the slope toward the trail. The man might have dropped his rifle, but he still had a handgun, and he still represented a threat to Belinda, Grayson, and the others.
Fargo went after him.
‘‘Watch out down there!’’ he shouted to those who had remained with the coach. ‘‘Elam’s headed your way!’’
As Fargo raced through the woods, he caught glimpses of Elam but never got a good enough look to take a shot. Also, he ran the risk that, if he missed, his bullet might range on down the slope and out of the trees, where it could hit one of his friends. Grimacing, he holstered the Colt.
He caught up with Elam just as the hardcase reached the edge of the trees. Fargo threw himself at the man in a diving tackle. He caught Elam around the knees and brought him down. Elam twisted and slashed at Fargo’s head with the barrel of his gun, which he held in his left hand now because his right arm was wounded.
Fargo jerked his head aside so that the blow missed, but the gun thudded into his shoulder and sent knives of pain stabbing through his arm before the limb went numb. Fargo reached across his body and grabbed Elam’s left wrist with his left hand. Wrestling like that was awkward for both men, but Fargo managed to hold the gun off so that Elam couldn’t bring the barrel in line for a shot.
Fargo brought his knee up and slammed it into Elam’s midsection. Elam grunted at the impact but didn’t stop fighting. His right arm was wounded, but unlike Fargo, he could still use it. He grappled with Fargo and got his right hand on the Trailsman’s neck. The fingers clamped down in a cruel grip that cut off Fargo’s air.
Knowing that he couldn’t last long like that, Fargo used his feet, kicking hard against the ground so that both he and Elam rolled over and started to topple down the slope. Brush tore at them but didn’t stop them. They emerged from the trees and went over the edge of a rocky outcropping. With nothing but air under them, Fargo felt himself falling.
He didn’t know how long the drop was going to be. It was only about five feet, but that was enough for the hard landing to knock him and Elam apart. Some of the feeling was coming back into Fargo’s right arm. He reached for the Arkansas toothpick.
But Elam had been able to hang on to his gun, and now, a few feet away from Fargo, the big hardcase was swinging the weapon up. Fargo knew he wouldn’t be able to reach his knife in time. Elam grinned as he prepared to splatter the Trailsman’s brains all over the hillside.
Three shots roared so close together that they sounded like one giant explosion. Slugs from the handguns fired by Sandy and Jimmy smacked into Elam’s back. It was doubtful that he ever felt the bullets’ impact, though, because at the same time a .52 caliber round fired by Arthur Grayson from Fargo’s Sharps struck him in the back of the head.
Fargo winced and turned his face aside from the crimson destruction. Elam’s body flopped forward, most of its head gone. The revolver slipped unfired from the hardcase’s fingers.
Fargo pushed himself to his feet and stepped past the corpse. As the echoes of the volley rolled away, the hillside became silent except for the never-ending sound of the sea at the base of the cliffs. The three men emerged from the shelter of the coach, but Grayson told Belinda and Angie to stay put for the moment.
‘‘Fargo, are you all right?’’ Sandy asked as Fargo came up to the stagecoach.
Flexing the fingers of his right hand as feeling fully returned to it, Fargo nodded. ‘‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks to you fellas. That was good shooting.’’
‘‘Are the rest of them gone?’’ Grayson asked.
Fargo nodded. ‘‘Except for the ones I killed. The others spooked and lit a shuck. Anybody hurt down here?’’
Sandy spat and said in disgust, ‘‘Only a couple o’ the horses. They’re dead. I hope them sumbitches who shot ’em burn in hell. I never did hold with hurtin’ animals.’’
‘‘The other horses are all right?’’
Jimmy was checking them as Fargo asked the question. The young man turned and said, ‘‘One of ’em’s got a bullet crease on his rump, but it don’t amount to much. They can all travel.’’
‘‘Then we’ve still got a four-horse hitch,’’ Grayson said. ‘‘That will be slower, but they can still pull the coach.’’
Fargo nodded. It would take a while to unhitch the two dead horses and rearrange the team, but even though the avalanche and the ambush had slowed them down, it wasn’t going to stop them.
‘‘Let’s get to work,’’ he said.
The sun was past its zenith by the time the stagecoach was rolling again. The grisly task of unhitching the two dead horses and toppling them off the edge of the trail to plummet to the rocks below had taken quite a while, just as Fargo had predicted. He hoped they would be able to put their hands on some fresh horses when they reached the town of Santa Cruz, just the other side of Monterey Bay.
That proved to be the case. The old Spanish settlement near the mission had several livery stables. Grayson found some suitable draft animals at one of them, and although he had to pay a steep price for them, the proprietor having figured out that Grayson was over a barrel, not long past the middle of the afternoon the stagecoach was on the trail again, being pulled by the fresh team of six horses.
A decent road ran between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, through hills that were covered with giant redwood trees. Fargo had seen those towering old-timers before, but they never failed to impress him.
Not that there was much time to take in the scenery. Sandy was driving the team for all it was worth, taking the bends in the trail at a clip that was a little faster than it might have been under other circumstances. Everyone wanted to reach San Francisco as soon as possible, though, because once the coach rolled into the city by the bay, Hiram Stoddard would no longer have any reason to harm them. He would have failed in his quest to stop Arthur Grayson’s stagecoach from reaching San Francisco first.
Fargo rode about fifty yards in front of the coach. He no longer needed to range as far ahead as he had earlier in the trip. Now he was more guard than guide, keeping his eyes open for any last-ditch ambush attempt by Stoddard’s men.
Stoddard might not have any men anymore, Fargo mused. Since Elam was dead, along with two more of the bushwhackers who had struck on the trail alongside Monterey Bay, the rest of the hired guns might have decided that enough was enough. The only loyalty hardcases like that had was to money, and they valued their lives more than they did anything else.
From the hills covered with redwood trees, the trail dropped into the broad Santa Clara Va
lley, then rose again into the hills at the southern end of the peninsula that ran between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay. The bustling, cosmopolitan city of San Francisco, once a sleepy Spanish village called Yerba Buena, sat at the northern tip of the peninsula. In the ten years since the discovery of gold in California, the city had exploded in size and population. It had endured some growing pains along the way. The violence and vice that had plagued the areas known as Portsmouth Square and the Barbary Coast had led to the rise of Committees of Vigilance that had cleaned out the more unsavory elements.
Portsmouth Square and the Barbary Coast were still there, and the establishments that called them home still did a brisk business in gambling and whoring, but things had settled down enough by now that the vigilantes, as they were called, had disbanded. Fargo had several favorite saloons along the Barbary Coast and was looking forward to visiting them. After the long, dangerous trip from Los Angeles, some good whiskey and maybe a friendly poker game would be excellent diversions.
The reddish-gold orb of the sun had lowered itself into the Pacific by the time the stagecoach rolled through all the smaller villages south of San Francisco. Dusk was beginning to cloak the countryside as the vehicle climbed up one last hill. Fargo reined in at the top of that rise and lifted a hand to Sandy, signaling for him to stop. The jehu called out to his team as he hauled back on the lines. As the coach rocked to a halt, Arthur Grayson called from inside, ‘‘What’s wrong, Skye? Why have we stopped?’’
‘‘Thought you might like to get out and take a look around,’’ Fargo said as he swung down from the saddle.
The coach door opened and Grayson climbed out, followed by Belinda and Angie. Jimmy was riding on the driver’s seat with Sandy, so he had already seen what Fargo was talking about. He dropped to the ground and stood next to Angie, slipping an arm around her shoulders as he did so.
From here, the travelers gazed out over the city. It was already dark enough so that the lights of San Francisco glittered brightly as they spread across the end of the peninsula. To the right was the bay, to the left the Pacific Ocean itself, lit by the fading glow of the sun. Northward, across the opening between ocean and bay known as the Golden Gate, lay wooded hills that stretched on up the coast all the way to Oregon Territory.