California Crackdown Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright 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

  Teaser chapter

  PUT ’EM UP

  Fargo waited until the man was back sitting beside his friend before he stepped into the clearing, his Colt pointed at the two.

  Both of them jumped and started to reach for their guns, but Fargo said, “Too early and too cold to die.”

  Both men froze, half up, half reaching for their guns.

  “Sit back down now real slow and put your hands where I can see them.”

  Both men did as they were told. Now the trick would be getting information out of them. . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2008

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Wyoming Death Trap, the three hundred twenty-third volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  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.

  California, 1861—the death of a good friend at the

  hands of ruthless killers means that many will die

  before the Trailsman feels that his need for vengeance

  has been satisfied.

  1

  Skye Fargo eased silently from behind the tree and studied the two men crouched in the bushes ten paces from him. Both had Colts filling their hands.

  Their intent was clearly the gold wagon coming down the trail toward Sacramento. And Fargo’s business was to protect it.

  Fargo knew there were three more gold rustlers on the other side of the wagon road that was the supply line up to Placerville and the mines in the area. It was also the only way to get the gold down to the banks and train lines in Sacramento. . . .

  Cain Parker, owner of Sharon’s Dream, one of the bigger mines in the area, had begged Fargo to come help him protect his gold between the mine and Sacramento. Cain really didn’t need to beg, since he and Fargo had known each other for years and had been back-to-back in their share of fights together. Fargo figured he owed Cain his life a few times over, so anything Cain asked, Fargo would do.

  The name of the mine, Sharon’s Dream, had come from Cain’s late wife, one of the nicer women Fargo had ever met. She had always talked about she and Cain going farther west to search for gold, but it wasn’t until after she died that Cain took his son, Daniel, then a teenager, and did just that.

  Fargo had arrived at the Sharon’s Dream gold mine a little after eight in the morning. The main house was a two-story wood building that looked like it would fit better just outside Boston. It was freshly painted white and stood out in the warm, morning sun against the browns and grays of the dirt and rocks around it. Three long and low unpainted buildings near the edge of the hill looked like bunkhouses, one much larger than the others. The mine opening itself was about halfway up a rock-strewn hillside above and to the right of the bunkhouses, with the mine tailings spreading out below it like a woman’s fan.

  Placerville had started and gotten its name from an intense gold rush of Placer mining in the streams in the area. But as with most Placers, the gold had to come from somewhere, and soon the miners were digging into the hills, following the veins, or just digging in hopes to find a vein.

  From what Fargo understood, Cain had managed to stake a claim to a really rich and long vein that so far showed no signs of playing out. He said it was taking almost thirty men to work the mine in shifts, cooks to keep them fed, and a number of hired guns to guard the place.

  As Fargo rode up, Cain came running out of the house.

  “Fargo, you old trail hand,” Cain said, a huge smile on his face. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Didn’t know you were having eye problems as well,” Fargo said, climbing down from his big Ovaro and shaking his old friend’s firm, solid hand. He had to admit, he had missed being around Cain. The two of them just seemed to fit together. Fargo knew a lot of people around the West, but he had very few close friends like Cain.

  Cain stood about a fist shorter than Fargo, and was a good ten years older. But the age was only showing on his thinning hairline and the sun wrinkles on his face that disappeared completely when he smiled. The rest of him still looked as
solid as a rock.

  Cain could smile and laugh with the best of them. And he had the ability to inspire loyalty from those around him. Standing there with his old friend again brought back so many good memories of so many good times.

  “How long has it been?” Cain asked, finally letting go of Fargo’s hand.

  “Too long. Four years, maybe five.”

  Cain laughed. “Yup, too long. How about we don’t let that happen again?” He swung his arm wide, gesturing toward the spread around them. “So, what do you think of Sharon’s Dream?”

  “Big and impressive,” Fargo said, telling the truth. “Sharon would have been proud.”

  Cain smiled at the memory of his wife. “Yeah, she would have been, wouldn’t she?”

  “No doubt.”

  Cain pointed up at the hill above the huge pile of tailings. “It’s still pouring out the high-quality ore. In fact, we have a shipment headed to Sacramento today.” He pointed to a wagon being loaded.

  “Guess my timing is perfect,” Fargo said.

  “As always,” Cain said. “You up for going to work?”

  “No better time than the present,” Fargo said.

  Cain laughed. “I don’t know. Some of my memories tell me the past was a pretty good time as well.”

  Cain introduced Fargo as the Trailsman to his six men that were to guard the shipment, and made it clear that Fargo was in charge of getting the ore to the refinery, even though Cain himself was riding along. Not a one of them seemed to mind. In fact, most of them had heard of Fargo and looked downright relieved he was on the job.

  He just hoped he could live up to whatever they had heard about him.

  Fargo could tell that four of the men were hired trail hands and were comfortable with their guns. One carried Colts on both hips, and all of them had carbines in sheaths on their horses. The other two didn’t look so trail experienced. One, Cain introduced as Hank, his mine foreman. The other was Walt, a young kid with strong-looking arms, a ready smile, and an eagerness to do anything to help.

  Fargo had two of the experienced trail hands ride ahead of the wagon with carbines across their saddles, two behind, and Walt and Hank on the wagon. Cain was driving the wagon and Hank sat beside him. Walt sat on the gold boxes, riding backward to make sure no one came up behind them.

  Cain said he had lost three good men so far in the last six shipments, but had managed to get the gold out every time. But the robbers had gained in numbers each time, and it seemed like the focus was on Cain’s shipments more than the other mines in the area.

  Fargo didn’t much like the sound of that. Sure, Cain was doing well, but if he really was being targeted, that meant there was a lot more behind this than just a gang of robbers taking opportunities as they came down the trail.

  As they pulled onto the main Placerville road from the Sharon’s Dream side road, Fargo had the wagon slow down. He wanted to give himself time to scout ahead on his big Ovaro stallion.

  As the wagon moved slowly along, he was often a good distance from the road, moving along high ground to scout out what was ahead before circling back. He knew the Placerville road. He had been in the area a number of times as the gold boom exploded. With luck, he could clear this band of robbers out of the area in a few weeks, while enjoying some time with his old friend.

  It was from a ridgeline to the north of the trail that he saw the five men taking up positions in a stand of tall trees and thick brush to ambush the gold shipment.

  He had left his horse and moved silently down on them.

  From the looks of the two men crouched in front of him, Cain had gotten Fargo on the job just in time. The wagon and the men guarding it didn’t stand a chance against five guns blazing a short distance from the narrow corridor between the trees.

  The two thieves were dressed like miners. They wore stained and faded overalls over dirty white undershirts, rough work boots, and thin-brimmed hats. These men were not professional robbers. They had been hired by someone to do this, which meant Cain had a much bigger problem than these five. This was no gang of trail thieves and gun sharps. This sounded like another mine owner with money who was after the gold ore coming out of Sharon’s Dream.

  The rumbling of the heavy wagon echoed ahead through the trees and brush, and the two men both raised their guns, their attention completely on the road. With his Colt in hand, Fargo stepped toward them.

  Fargo could move silently like a mountain lion when he wanted to. He was within a step of the closest robber when the man glanced around and said, “What . . . ?”

  It was his last word before Fargo smashed his fist into the man’s face, the punch slamming him back into a boulder. The man slid down, unconscious.

  “No!” Fargo said, pointing his Colt at the other man, who was just now turning to fire on Fargo.

  Fargo put two bullets into the man’s right shoulder. Fargo could see him teeter, then fall to the ground. But the man wasn’t done yet. Lying flat on his back, he fired as he brought his gun up, his shot smashing wide and splattering into a tree behind Fargo. Fargo put two quick shots into the miner, then ducked behind a tree to make sure he was out of the way of fire coming from across the trail.

  “Harry!” someone shouted from across the road. This one was hiding in a stand of trees about thirty paces away and slightly up the road toward the wagon.

  It seemed that one of the two men had been named Harry. Fargo didn’t much care which one. They had planned on bushwhacking and killing good men trying to do an honest day’s work. They didn’t even deserve names on the crosses over their graves. Actually, as far as Fargo was concerned, they were better served as buzzard meat.

  One man eased out from behind a tree, glancing first up the road at the now stopped wagon and then over at where his friends were.

  “Get back!” another robber said from his hiding place.

  At least one of them had a slight bit of sense.

  Taking no chances, Fargo aimed at the man who had left his cover and smashed his gun hand with a clean, quick shot. The man spun like he’d been dancing with a pretty girl in a saloon, then went over backward in a dance move no one would ever want to try to repeat.

  Two guns opened up, splintering bark chest-high from the tree Fargo was using as a shield.

  Fargo dropped to the ground, spotted where one gun was firing from, and patterned the area with three quick shots.

  The shout of pain and then the sound of a body falling into the brush were clear as Fargo sat with his back against the tree and quickly reloaded all six cylinders.

  For a moment, the forest was silent; then came the sound of a man crashing through the brush as the last ambusher ran for his life, trying to make it to where they had tied off their horses.

  Fargo dashed across the road, his heavy boots pounding the dust.

  Down the road he could see that Cain and his men had done exactly as he had told them to do when they heard gunfire. Cain had pulled the wagon off the road and into the closest shelter available. Everyone had dismounted and taken cover, their guns up and ready.

  Up ahead of him, the ambusher was making a lot of noise as he scrambled up the open rock slope to the horses. Fargo burst out of the trees on the other side of the small grove just as the man worked to mount a reluctant steed. He also looked like a miner, but the horse and gear he rode didn’t fit him.

  And he clearly wasn’t used to mounting and riding fast as he struggled to hold the horse still enough for him to get in the saddle.

  Fargo took a deep breath. No point in killing him. Fargo almost smiled. The way the man was riding— looking like he was ready to fall off his horse—maybe he’d kill himself anyway.

  Carrying his Colt in a ready position, Fargo climbed up the hill the rest of the way to check on the remaining horses. They were well kept and the tack was expensive, the type you’d find the owner of a ranch using, not a fellow dressed like he was fresh out of a mine. Or, for that matter, the man down in the trees who looked like a typica
l rustler. Someone with money was behind this and had given them good horses for the job.

  Marshal Tal Davis pushed his way through the batwings and strode into the saloon. He recognized just about everybody in the place.

  He was looking for faces he didn’t recognize. The burly, red-haired man behind the bar who went by the name of Irish was pouring a couple of miners rye when he glanced up and exchanged a familiar look with the lawman. Like all the bartenders in town, Irish was on notice to report any stranger who might be a hired gun. While paid killers didn’t all look the same— nor were they the same in age or nationality—they tended to be cocky about their calling. Davis always laughed about how many hired guns got themselves killed in saloon shoot-outs by some local. It wasn’t that the locals were so fast on the draw; it was simply that hired guns tended to have mouths as big as their reputations. They often got drunk and got into arguments that left them dead at the hands of a talented— and more sober—amateur.

  Irish had sent a runner to tell the marshal that a suspicious-looking man was sitting in the back of the place playing poker and bullying the other four men sitting in.

  A long bar of crude pine ran along the west wall. A small stage ran the length of the back wall. The tables filled up the eastern part of the place. A low fog of tobacco smoke hovered over everything.

  Davis didn’t have any trouble figuring out who the probable gunny was. At the moment the man was slamming his wide fist down against the table, making it dance, toppling poker chips. His harsh voice was made even harsher by his drunkenness and anger. “You think I don’t know when a bunch of rubes are cheatin’ me?” he said.

  The other players watched in shock and fear as the gunny suddenly produced a shiny Colt .45 and pointed it at the face of a bald man.

  “You been cheatin’ me all along,” the gunny said, “and now you’re gonna pay.”

  “This is an honest game, Kelly,” the bald man said. He managed to sound calm. “You’re havin’ a run of bad luck is all. And to be honest, it don’t help that you managed to put away all them drinks while we’ve been playin’. Now my advice to you—”