by Jon Sharpe
‘‘There it is,’’ Fargo told them. ‘‘San Francisco.’’
The ocean breeze was refreshing, and they stood there in silence for a long moment, embracing the wind, awed by the sight before them.
‘‘Oh, Skye,’’ Belinda finally said as she placed a hand on his arm and leaned against his shoulder. ‘‘It’s beautiful.’’
‘‘It certainly is,’’ Grayson agreed. ‘‘A part of me can’t believe we’re finally here.’’
‘‘We ain’t all the way there yet,’’ Sandy pointed out. ‘‘We still got a little ways to go.’’
Fargo said, ‘‘Sandy’s right. We’d better get moving. I’d hate to get this close and then have Stoddard stop us.’’
Even as he spoke, he halfway expected somebody to take a shot at them again. But the beautiful evening remained quiet and peaceful, and a short time later, the stagecoach rolled onto the cobblestone streets of San Francisco.
The journey was over.
14
Before ever coming west, Arthur Grayson had written a letter to the Metropole Hotel, the finest in San Francisco, reserving rooms for him and his daughter upon their arrival. That was where Fargo found himself later that evening, having dinner in a luxuriously furnished dining room lit by sparkling crystal chandeliers.
Even though he wore clean buckskins, he knew he looked out of place in such fancy surroundings, and the waiters who worked in the hotel dining room made no secret of the fact that they thought he didn’t belong there. But Fargo had never been the sort of man to let such things bother him. He was comfortable just being himself, no matter where he was or who he was with.
Tonight he was with Belinda Grayson, who looked lovely in a dark blue, low-cut gown as she sat across from him. Her father had dined with her and Fargo, but he had gone on up to his room, leaving the two of them alone. Grayson had meetings lined up the next day with the most prominent businessmen and bankers in San Francisco, to discuss his new stagecoach line with them, and he wanted to be well rested. Fargo wasn’t sure where Jimmy and Angie were, but he would have been willing to bet money that they were together, wherever they were.
Sandy had headed for the nearest saloon, vowing to get drunk and stay drunk for a week. Fargo didn’t doubt that he could manage that.
Fargo and Belinda had lingered over snifters of brandy after dinner. She smiled at him now over hers and said, ‘‘I’m ready to go upstairs. How about you, Skye?’’
Fargo yawned, making a show of covering his mouth with his hand, and said, ‘‘Yeah, I’m pretty tired, all right. Looking forward to a good night’s sleep for a change. Nothing but some nice, undisturbed sleep.’’
‘‘Keep that up and that’s all you’ll get,’’ Belinda scolded, but the smile on her face took any sting out of her words. Fargo knew that she was anticipating what the evening would bring as much as he was. Once again they would join in making love, a merging of body and passion that would send both of them to the heights of pleasure. Fargo lifted his glass and clinked it against hers, then drained what was left of the brandy.
A smile with a trace of sadness in it touched Belinda’s beautiful face. ‘‘I suppose now that we’ve reached the end of the trail, so to speak, you’ll be moving on, Skye?’’
‘‘Not right away,’’ Fargo assured her. ‘‘I’d like to take a few days to let my horse rest, stock up on supplies, things like that.’’ He inclined his head. ‘‘But the time will come when I’ll be riding. I won’t lie to you about that, or anything else, Belinda. I’m a long way from being ready to settle down.’’
‘‘I know that,’’ she said with a hint of wistfulness in her voice. ‘‘But a girl can dream, can’t she?’’
‘‘Everybody can dream,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘This old world would be a pretty sad place without them.’’
A few minutes later, arm in arm, they climbed the opulent staircase and went down the second-floor hallway toward Belinda’s room. Fargo felt his pulse quickening as he thought about how they would soon be nude together in a big, comfortable bed, with the whole night in front of them to do delicious things to and with each other.
When they reached the door, Belinda handed him the key to the room. He unlocked the door and went in first, taking a match from his pocket to light the lamp.
Before he could strike the lucifer, something crashed into the back of his head. It felt like the whole world had fallen in on him, and as he plummeted into darkness, Fargo realized that even though Hiram Stoddard had been defeated, he had one thing still driving him on.
Vengeance.
‘‘Mr. Fargo! Skye!’’
Fargo heard the voice and felt a hand shaking his shoulder. He climbed back up out of the black morass that had claimed him. A shake of his head cleared away the cobwebs, and he knew right away what had happened. Either Stoddard or someone working for him had found out which room was Belinda’s, and they had been waiting there for her. But Fargo had come in first, and the lurker had knocked him out.
He wasn’t surprised to see Arthur Grayson kneeling beside him with a frightened look on his face. Fargo shoved himself to his feet and said, ‘‘What’s happened? Where’s Belinda?’’
‘‘They took her,’’ Grayson said in a voice ragged with terror.
‘‘Stoddard’s men?’’
Grayson jerked his head in a nod. ‘‘It must have been. A note was delivered to my room a few minutes ago saying that if I want to see Belinda alive again, I have to abandon my plans for the stagecoach line. If I agree to do that, I’m supposed to come to some place on the Barbary Coast called Red Mike’s, and Belinda will be returned safely to me there.’’
Fargo shook his head, even though that made it throb with pain. ‘‘It’s a trap,’’ he said. ‘‘Stoddard’s just trying to lure you down there so he can kill you. And then he’ll go right ahead with whatever he has in mind for Belinda.’’
‘‘I—I was afraid that was his plan. But what else can I do? The note said that if I went to the authorities, Belinda would be killed.’’
‘‘I reckon you’ll have to go to this Red Mike’s. But you won’t be going alone.’’
Before Fargo could say anything else, hurrying footsteps sounded in the hall. Jimmy appeared in the open door, saying, ‘‘Mr. Fargo! Something terrible’s happened!’’
Fargo and Grayson turned to him. ‘‘They got Angie, too?’’ Fargo asked.
‘‘Yeah.’’ Jimmy blinked in confusion. He had a bloody gash on his forehead where something had struck him, probably a pistol. ‘‘What do you mean? Where’s Miss Belinda?’’
‘‘Stoddard has her, along with Angie,’’ Fargo replied. ‘‘And we’re going to get both of them back. Do you know where Sandy went?’’
‘‘He said somethin’ about a place called the Pirate’s Den. I reckon it must be a tavern.’’
‘‘Find out where it is,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘and find Sandy. He’ll know where Red Mike’s is. That’s where Mr. Grayson and I are headed. You and Sandy get there as soon as you can. Can you remember that?’’
Jimmy’s head bobbed up and down. ‘‘You bet I can. I know I ain’t the smartest fella in the world, but with Angie’s life at stake, I won’t forget what you told me.’’
‘‘I know you won’t.’’ Fargo clapped a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as he and Grayson left the room. ‘‘Good man. Don’t waste any time.’’
‘‘I sure won’t.’’ Jimmy turned and ran down the hall toward the stairs.
Fargo turned to Grayson. ‘‘You have a pistol?’’
‘‘In my valise.’’
‘‘Get it. I’ll meet you downstairs.’’
A couple of minutes later, Fargo and Grayson left the Metropole and strode toward the area known as the Barbary Coast. Even though it had calmed down somewhat from its heyday, it was still a dangerous place, and Fargo figured that before the night was over it would once again see more than its share of death.
The usual fog had rolled in, throwing a wet cloak over the
city. A scandalized desk clerk at the hotel had told Fargo where Red Mike’s was located, but warned the two men to stay away from there. It was a notorious dive, the scene of many murders over the years. Fargo and Grayson ignored the warning, of course.
When they reached their destination, Fargo saw a dim light burning over the doorway of the squat, two-story frame building only a block from the waterfront. He pointed it out to Grayson and said, ‘‘Give me a couple of minutes and then go on inside.’’
‘‘What are you going to do?’’
‘‘I’ll see if I can get in the back.’’
‘‘Stoddard will have guards posted,’’ Grayson cautioned.
‘‘Then I’ll just have to be quieter than they are,’’ Fargo said.
He left Grayson there and circled the block to approachthe back of Red Mike’s along a narrow, stinking alley so dark that Fargo had to make his way as much by instinct as anything. He gripped the Arkansas toothpick, not wanting to alert anyone inside with a shot. With his other hand he felt along the wall, searching for a door. Even back here, the fog had penetrated and made it more difficult to see.
His hand touched the wood of a door at the same time as someone bumped into him in the darkness. The man muttered a curse. Fargo sensed as much as heard something sweeping through the air toward his head. He ducked, and an instant later heard a club of some sort miss his skull by inches. He brought the big knife up and felt the blade bite deep into flesh.
He managed to close his other hand around the guard’s neck before the man could let out a yell. Fargo pushed the toothpick deeper and then ripped it free. The guard collapsed. Fargo let him slump to the filthy floor of the alley.
A groan tried to well up in Fargo’s throat as he tried the door and found it barred on the inside. He knew he wouldn’t be able to break it down. But as he tilted his head back and looked up into the darkness, he wondered if Stoddard would have thought to have the windows on the second floor fastened as well.
Fargo sheathed the Arkansas toothpick and began running his hands over the rough planks of the wall, finding tiny gaps and imperfections to serve as handholds. He pulled himself up, grunting with the effort required to hang on and climb the almost sheer wall. Working his way along it by feel, he found a window and tried it. The pane slid up.
Fargo slipped inside, hoping that he wouldn’t find himself in the room of some whore who would scream because he had disturbed her at her work. The room seemed to be empty, though. Fargo crossed to the door and eased it open. He heard angry voices from down below as he stepped out onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the tavern’s main room.
The light from the lamps didn’t penetrate very far into the smoky air up here. Shadows wrapped Fargo as he drew his Colt and edged toward the balcony’s railing. He looked down and saw Arthur Grayson standing not far inside the door of the tavern. Grayson was scared, but he was mad and determined, too, as he faced Hiram Stoddard and a couple of hardcases, probably the only ones left from Stoddard’s gang of hired guns. Off to one side, behind a bar, stood a tall, burly man with a shock of red hair and a red mustache. That would be Mike, the proprietor of the place, Fargo thought. Stoddard must have paid him to run everybody off and close down for the night, because there were no customers.
One other man stood in front of the bar, though, and his presence came as a surprise to Fargo. Matthias Jarlberg had his left hand wrapped around Angie’s right arm, while on his other side, he gripped Belinda’s left arm with his right hand. He had followed them from Los Olivos, as Fargo had thought that he might, looking for Angie and revenge. Somehow, he had joined forces with Hiram Stoddard.
‘‘—should have known better than to cross me again, Grayson,’’ Stoddard was saying. ‘‘You’ve brought this on yourself.’’
‘‘Do what you want to me,’’ Grayson said, ‘‘but let Belinda and that other poor girl go. They haven’t done anything to you.’’
Stoddard chuckled. ‘‘Unfortunately, I can’t do that. You see, once I ran into Mr. Jarlberg here and realized that we had the same goal, I had to promise he could take the young lady back with him and do whatever he wanted to her if he would help me. And your charming daughter is to be the payment for my new friend Mike. There’s no need for you to worry yourself about what’s going to happen to her, though. You’ll be dead and won’t be able to worry about anything.’’
‘‘Fargo’s going to hunt you down and kill you,’’ Grayson said. ‘‘You know that, don’t you? No matter what you do to us, you’re a dead man.’’
Now there was irritation in Stoddard’s voice as he snapped, ‘‘Yes, well, I wish I had known that my men were going to cross paths with Mr. Fargo tonight. If I had, I would have given them specific orders to go ahead and kill him while he was unconscious. As it was, they thought it was more important to bring Miss Grayson back here to me right away.’’
So that was why he was still alive, Fargo thought. A stroke of luck . . . but he would take it.
‘‘You’re sure Grayson’s body will never be found?’’ Stoddard said to the redheaded bruiser behind the bar.
‘‘Not a chance,’’ Mike rumbled. ‘‘The bay keeps its secrets.’’
‘‘Very well, then. Let’s get this over with.’’
That sounded good to Fargo. He called out, ‘‘That’s right. Let’s end this.’’
And with that, he put his free hand on the balcony railing and vaulted over it.
He had already picked out the open space on the floor where he intended to land. The Colt in his hand was roaring and bucking even as he dropped through the air. One of Stoddard’s men doubled over and collapsed as the Trailsman’s bullets ripped into his belly. The other dropped his gun and staggered back, pressing his hands to the wounds in his chest as blood welled from them.
Stoddard screamed a frustrated curse as he clawed a pistol from under his coat. He fired at Fargo, forgettingGrayson for a second. That was a mistake, because Grayson had his gun out and blazed away with it, aiming across the room at Stoddard. Gasping in surprise and pain, Stoddard reeled back and looked down at the crimson blooming on his vest and fancy white shirt.
Fargo landed cleanly, rolled to break his fall, and came up ready to fire again. He didn’t get a chance to, because Jarlberg had flung the two young women aside and lifted one of the tavern’s small round tables. He lunged at Fargo, roaring in rage as he smashed the table into the Trailsman. Fargo went over backward under the impact, which also knocked the Colt out of his hand. The table had shattered, leaving Jarlberg gripping a leg of it in each hand. He lifted them, clearly intending to use them to smash Fargo’s brains out.
That was when Jimmy and Sandy came in the door. The revolver in Jimmy’s hand spat flame as he emptied it into Jarlberg’s massive body. Even as big and strong as Jarlberg was, the smashing impact of the slugs drove him backward in a grisly dance. The table legs slipped from his hands and he sat down hard, winding up with his back propped against the bar. He gasped, shuddered, and died.
At the same time, Red Mike lifted a scattergun from under the bar and swung it toward Sandy, but the rifle in the jehu’s hands spoke first. The bullet took Mike in the face and threw him backward. He bounced off the backbar and pitched forward to hang over the bar itself, his arms dangling limply in death.
Sandy lowered the rifle and announced, ‘‘That’s damn fine shootin’ for a man who’s drunk as a skunk, I’d say.’’ He looked over at Grayson and added, ‘‘Told you I was better drunk than sober.’’
Grayson wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy hugging his daughter and sobbing in relief that she was still alive.
Jimmy ran over to Angie, picked her up from the floor where she had fallen when Jarlberg shoved her away, and cradled her in his arms. She kept telling him that she was all right, but he didn’t seem to believe her. He had to keep stroking her hair and kissing her to make sure.
Fargo picked himself up, retrieved his Colt, and reloaded it. He checked on Stoddard and the tw
o hired guns. All of them were dead. Grayson was going to have a lot of explaining to do to the law. Even for San Francisco, this was a damned bloody mess and one hell of a way to conduct business. But Fargo had no doubt that Grayson would be able to make the authorities see that the killings had been justified.
That was one bad thing about civilization, Fargo mused. You couldn’t always just stamp the snakes that needed stamping and be done with it.
Sandy went to the bar with his rifle canted over his shoulder and picked up a bottle of whiskey that was sitting there. He pulled the cork with his teeth, spit it out, and said, ‘‘Gonna be lots o’ cryin’ and carryin’ on for a while. Reckon I’ll have another drink.’’
‘‘I think I’ll join you,’’ Fargo said. He was already looking forward to getting back to the wild lonesome, back to the frontier that would always be his home.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
THE TRAILSMAN #310
ALASKAN VENGEANCE
Alaska, 1861—where old hatreds snare the unwary in a web of deceit and bloodshed.
Skye Fargo wished he was sober. He had not been drunk in a coon’s age. It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what it felt like, which was just as well, because he felt like hell. His head was pounding to the beat of an invisible hammer, and his stomach was threatening to bring up all the coffin varnish he had chugged, plus his supper, besides. As if that were not enough, his eyes kept going out of focus. The saloon, and everyone and everything in it, would be blurry for a while, then his vision would clear again. It was a calamity in the making.