Bowie's Knife Read online

  THIRD SHOT’S THE CHARM.

  Fargo’s vision was clearing. He turned his head enough to see Dandy going through the doorway and Sully holding a Smith & Wesson on her. The other one, Chester, a thin rail with a rat’s face, was watching them.

  Fargo whipped into motion. He swooped his right hand to his Colt and pivoted on his boot heels, thumbing back the hammer as he drew. Chester heard him and started to swing around and Fargo fanned a slug into his gut. The impact jolted Chester back a step. Gamely, Chester sought to point his revolver, and Fargo shot him again, square in the center of the sternum.

  Over at the door, Sully had spun and snapped off a shot but missed.

  Fargo fired as Sully went to take aim, fired as Sully stumbled, fired as Sully pitched forward and the Smith & Wesson clattered to the porch. . . .

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Texas Tornado, the three hundred seventy-seventh volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-1-101-60591-2

  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, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Excerpt from TRAILSMAN #382

  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.

  1861, the Texas border country—to get there is hard enough, to make it out alive even harder.

  1

  They were one day out of San Gabriel when the bandidos struck.

  Skye Fargo had called a halt on a low rocky rise. They were in desert country, and were grateful when the heat of the day gave way to the cool of night.

  Fargo wasn’t expecting trouble. As their guide, it was his job to keep an eye out for hostiles and outlaws, and he’d seen nothing to suggest they were in danger.

  A big man, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, Fargo wore garb typical of his profession: buckskins. He was a scout by trade, although that wasn’t all he did. He also wore a dusty white hat, a red bandanna, and scuffed boots. Strapped around his waist was a Colt that had seen a lot of use, and propped against the saddle next to him was a Henry rifle.

  A coffee cup in his left hand, Fargo was admiring one of the members of their party over the rim.

  Lustrous chestnut hair framed a pear-shaped face. She had full, luscious lips, an aquiline nose, and eyes as vivid blue as Fargo’s own. Her riding outfit, which included a pleated skirt, complemented her hourglass figure and full bosom. Dandelion Caventry was her name, and just looking at her was enough to set Fargo to twitching below his belt.

  “How did you get a handle like Dandelion, anyhow?” he wondered.

  “I much prefer Dandy,” she said in her Texas twang. “My mother is to blame. Dandelions were her favorite flower as a little girl, so when she had one of her own . . .” Dandy grinned and shrugged.

  “Thank God she wasn’t fond of horseshit.”

  Dandy laughed heartily but the man sitting next to her didn’t. He was enough like her that it was obvious they were related. He wore a tailored suit and a derby and a perpetual scowl. “You shouldn’t use that kind of language in the presence of a lady.”

  “Horses do, you know,” Fargo said.

  Dandy tittered.

  “That’s not the point,” the man said angrily. “You’re much too crude for my tastes, Mr. Fargo. Much too crude by half.”

  “Enough, Lester,” Dandy said. “I wasn’t offended. And I don’t need my brother to defend me.”

  “You shouldn’t have to hear that word,” Lester insisted.

  Fargo shook his head in amusement. “Boy, you have a lot to learn.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Lester said. “You’re not much older than I am.”

  “I’m old enough to say shit.”

  Dandy cackled but her brother became only madder. Balling his fists, Lester Caventry glanced at the two men who sat across the fire from them.

  “Are you just going to sit there and let him abuse us? Am I the only one with a shred of decency?”

  One of the men had a pale moon of a face and was heavyset. The other was taller with a walrus mustache. Their clothes were store-bought and far less expensive than Lester’s. Each wore a bowler and each wore a revolver that his hand was always near.

  “What would you have us do, Mr. Caventry?” asked the one with the moon face. Bushy brows poked from under his bowler like twin hairy caterpillars trying to crawl up his face.

  “You can insist that our guide show proper manners to my sister,” Lester said. “What does my father pay you for, anyhow, Mr. Bronack? You, too, Mr. Waxler?”

  “Your father,” Bronack said, “is paying us to protect the two of you from any and all threats, and see to it that the knife, if it’s genuine, reaches him safely.”

  “He never said we were to protect you from dirty words,” Waxler said.

  Fargo snorted.

  “You don’t amuse me, Mr. Waxler,” Lester said. “And what could happen to the knife, anyhow?”

  “Honestly, brother,” Dandy said. “If it is, in fact, the knife, it’s worth a small fortune.”

  “Which
is what Father is willing to pay for the stupid thing,” Lester said bitterly.

  “Don’t start with that again,” Dandy said.

  Fargo sighed. Ever since leaving Austin he’d had to put up with their spats. Some brothers and sisters didn’t get along, and these two were always carping. To be fair, Lester did a lot more of it than Dandy. So much, in fact, several times along the way he’d been tempted to bean the sourpuss with a rock.

  “I still think you should stand up for my sister’s virtue,” Lester directed his spite at Bronack and Waxler. “Is it too much to ask that those in our company act like gentlemen?” He gave Fargo a pointed glare.

  “Honestly, brother,” Dandy said.

  Fargo was about to tell Lester that he could take his holier-than-thou attitude and shove it up his ass when the Ovaro raised its head and nickered.

  Fargo was instantly alert. His stallion wasn’t prone to skittishness. Something—or someone—was out there. Something—or someone—had agitated it. He probed the desert below the rise but saw only the ink of night.

  Without being obvious about it, Fargo shifted his right arm so his hand brushed his Colt. “Bronack, Waxler,” he said quietly.

  The pair caught on right away. They didn’t jump up in alarm. They were professionals. Each eased his hand to his six-shooter and slowly gazed about.

  “What is it?” Lester asked much too loudly.

  “Shut the hell up,” Fargo said. “Don’t move unless I say to. You and your sister, both.”

  “Now see here—” Lester began.

  “Do as he says,” Dandy intervened. “Father hired him because he’s the best there is at what he does.”

  Fargo caught movement to the west and then to the east. Whoever was out there had the rise hemmed and was closing in. “When I tell you,” he said to the Caventrys, “drop on your bellies and stay down until the shooting stops.”

  “What shooting?” Lester asked in confusion.

  A shape rushed out of the night, the glint of a rifle in its hands. A muzzle was thrust toward them and the man shouted in Spanish, “Nadie se mueva! Les hemos rodeado!”

  Like hell, Fargo thought. He drew as he dived and thumbed off a shot. The slug caught the man high in the chest and sent him crashing to the hard earth.

  Half a dozen other shapes materialized. Rifles and pistols cracked and boomed.

  Bronack and Waxler sprang to Dandy and Lester to protect them while blasting away.

  Fargo saw a figure charge up and fanned two swift shots. He went for the head. Hair and brains spewed out the crown of a sombrero and the figure tumbled.

  As quickly as the attack commenced, it fizzled. The rest whirled and bolted, firing a few wild shots. Their footsteps rapidly faded.

  Fargo rose into a crouch. “Anyone hit?”

  “I’m fine,” Dandy said.

  “I’m not,” Lester said. “I heard one of the bullets go right past my ear.”

  “Did it crease you?” Dandy asked.

  “No, but it scared the daylights out of me.”

  It was a shame, Fargo reflected, that some people gave birth to jackasses.

  Bronack and Waxler straightened. Bronack was unhurt but Waxler had been nicked in the left arm. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’ll bandage it and be good as new.”

  Fargo went to the man he’d shot in the head. The grubby clothes, the stubble, the bandoleer with half the loops empty, marked him as surely as if he wore a sign. “Bandidos.”

  “Here and now?” Lester said. “Wouldn’t they have been smarter to attack us in the daytime?”

  “They’d have been smart to pick us off from out in the dark,” Fargo said. That they hadn’t was peculiar. Or maybe the bandits wanted them alive to whittle on. Except for Dandy. They’d undoubtedly put her to a different use.

  “We were lucky,” Bronack said.

  “I can’t quite believe it happened,” Dandy said. “It was over so fast.”

  “It happened, all right.” Fargo kicked the body. “Here’s your proof.” He went through the man’s pockets but all he found was a folding knife with two blades, one of which was broken. Moving to the other one, he did the same and wound up with a handful of pesos.

  “Shouldn’t we douse the fire in case they come back?” Lester anxiously asked.

  “They won’t,” Fargo said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Three guesses.” Fargo glanced at Bronack. “Keep them here and keep them quiet.”

  With that, staying low, Fargo glided down the rise and crouched at the bottom. He could make out some creosote and yucca, and to his left, mesquite. The bandits had fled to the south. He crept after them, careful to stop and listen often. He’d gone maybe a hundred yards when he heard what he’d hoped to hear: the drum of hooves, dwindling. He crept on and came to a wash. An acrid scent tingled his nose. At the bottom lay the stub of a smoldering cigar.

  Fargo descended. This was where the bandits had left their mounts. Trying to follow them would be pointless. He couldn’t track at night without a torch and they’d see him coming from miles off.

  “Damn,” Fargo said. He would have liked to show them how he felt about folks trying to kill him.

  He took his time returning to the rise. It was nice to be by himself. He was tired of listening to Lester complain about everything under the sun.

  Lester was a baby in a man’s body. Fargo reckoned it came from being born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Their pa, Stephen Augustus Caventry, was one of the wealthiest hombres in Texas. Hell, he was one of the richest anywhere. A shipping line, a stage line, and other interests had filled his coffers to bursting.

  Lester and Dandelion never wanted for anything their whole young lives. It hadn’t affected Dandy much but her brother had the mistaken notion that the whole world had been created just for him.

  Fargo had seldom met anyone who had their head so far up their own backside.

  Another two weeks or so and he would be shed of them. That was how long it should take to reach San Gabriel, get what they came for, and light a shuck for Austin.

  It had surprised him, Lester saying they were after a knife. No one had told him. Not Stephen Caventry, who’d offered him a thousand dollars to conduct his grown daughter and son to the border country and back. Not Dandy, who was friendly enough but not as friendly as he’d like. And not Lester, who gave the impression he believed they were on a fool’s errand.

  Fargo was so deep in thought, he’d let down his guard. The crunch of a foot behind him almost came too late. He started to turn even as a hand fell on his shoulder.

  2

  Fargo had his Colt out and cocked and whirled in the blink of an eye. He jammed it against the person who had grabbed his arm and he was a whisker’s-width from squeezing the trigger when he realized who it was. He barely caught himself in time. “What the hell?”

  Dandelion Caventry looked at his Colt and said, “Ouch.” She grinned and added, “Are you fixing to shoot me?”

  Fargo angrily jerked the six-shooter away and let down the hammer. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You were supposed to stay with the others.”

  “I was worried about you. I came to see if you needed help.”

  Fargo was rattled. It had been close. So very close. “Where are your father’s hired guns? Isn’t one of them supposed to be keeping an eye on you?”

  “Brony and Waxy heard a noise and went to investigate,” Dandy said. “And they’re bodyguards, not hired guns.”

  “Brony and Waxy?”

  “It’s what I like to call them.” Dandy smiled and ran a hand through her full mane of hair. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  “You didn’t,” Fargo lied. “But grabbing me was a damn stupid thing to do.”

  “I didn’t know if there were any bandits about or I’d have just s
aid something.”

  Fargo could see there was no convincing her she’d made a mistake that might have cost her life. She had an excuse for everything.

  “Are they gone?” she asked.

  “They appear to be.”

  Dandy grinned. “That’s the most exciting thing that’s happened this whole trip.”

  “Some kinds of excitement I can do without,” Fargo said.

  “I liked it,” Dandy said. “It set my blood to flowing.”

  “Your body sets mine to flowing.”

  “Excuse me?” Dandy said.

  “You heard me.”

  Dandy coughed and lost her grin. “I must say, you’re forthright about it. As forthright as you are about the language you use.”

  “I don’t beat around the bush, if that’s what you mean,” Fargo said. Reaching up, he touched a finger to her cheek. “This is the first chance we’ve had to be alone. We could go off a ways.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I never joke about tweaking tits,” Fargo joked.

  “The answer is no.”

  “Give it some thought. You might want to, later.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Dandy said. “I’m not that sort of girl.”

  “The sort who says horseshit?”

  Dandy laughed. “Don’t let my brother hear you say that. He’ll have a conniption.”

  As if that were his cue, a voice said out of the murk, “Is that you, sis?”

  Lester appeared, trailed by Bronack and Waxler.

  “Who else would it be, brother-mine,” Dandy teased him. “Unless one of the bandits was female.”

  “You shouldn’t have snuck off like you did, ma’am,” Bronack said. “Anything happens to you, your father will blame us.”

  “We’re paid to do a job and we wish you’d let us do it,” Waxler said.

  Stephen Caventry, as Fargo recollected, was in his sixties and chair-ridden thanks to an accident that cost the use of his legs. Apparently a horse he’d been riding was spooked by a rattlesnake and Caventry had taken a bad fall.