High Country Horror 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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  BATTER UP

  Fargo walked on to Chatterly’s. He opened the gate and went to the steps and up them to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock but walked on in and made for the kitchen.

  He was almost to the parlor when Harvey Stansfield stepped out in front of him. Harvey was holding a new ax handle. In the parlor stood McNee and Dugan with ax handles of their own.

  “Hell,” Fargo said.

  “We have you now, you son of a bitch,” Harvey declared.

  “Were you born stupid or do you work at it?”

  Harvey roared like a shot bear and raised the handle like a club. A near-maniacal expression came over him and he swung at Fargo’s head. . . .

  SIGNET

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 2010

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in New Mexico Gun-Down, the three hundred forty-ninth volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2010

  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, business establishments, 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.

  Arizona Territory, 1863—where death comes

  in the dark of night, and worse in the bright light of day.

  1

  Skye Fargo was snapped out of a sound sleep by a whinny from the Ovaro.

  He rose onto his elbows and gazed about his camp. The fire had nearly gone out; only a few embers glowed red. Overhead, a legion of stars sparkled like gems.

  Inky shadows shrouded the surrounding woods. He glanced at the Ovaro.

  “What did you do that for?”

  The stallion seldom whinnied without cause. Fargo went on looking and listening and when nothing happened he rolled onto his side and pulled his blanket up.

  They were high on the Mogollon Plateau in wild country, and it was early autumn. At that time of year the night air was chill.

  No sooner did Fargo close his eyes than a far-off drumming caused him to open them again. He sat up, put his hat on, and rose. A big man, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, he wore buckskins and boots and had a red bandanna around his neck. Bending, Fargo plucked his gun belt from the ground and strapped it on.

  The drumming grew louder. Fargo stepped away from the embers to the edge of the trees so he was in darkness and put his hand on his Colt. It paid to be cautious where night riders were concerned. He reckoned there must have been half a dozen or more and he was proven right when eight riders came along the rutted dirt track that was called a road in these parts, and drew rein at the clearing’s edge.

  “Lookee here,” a man declared.

  “A horse,” another said.

  They reined into the clearing. One man dismounted and stepped to where Fargo’s saddle and blankets lay. “Someone was sleeping here but they’re gone.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “They’re not.” He showed himself, demanding, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  The man who had dismounted swooped his hand to his revolver but before he could clear leather Fargo slicked the Colt and trained it on him. They all heard the click of the hammer.

  “Try to jerk that six-shooter and you’re dead,” Fargo warned.

  “Hold on, Harvey,” said one of those on horseback. “Let’s not provoke him. We could be mistaken.”

  “Take your hand off that six-shooter,” Fargo said.

  The man called Harvey scowled but complied.

  Fargo kept his Colt on the would-be quick draw artist and came closer. He had thought maybe they were cowboys but several wore suits and bowlers or derbies and others wore store-bought shirts and britches or homespun.

  Townsmen and farmers, he reckoned. “What the hell is this about?”

  “As if you don’t know,” said Harvey.

  “I wouldn’t rile me more than you have,” Fargo told him.

  Harvey was almost as tall as Fargo and a lot thicker through the middle. He wore a bowler atop curly hair that framed a square block of a face with a nose as big as a cucumber. His suit included a vest from which a gold watch chain dangled. “I don
’t like some saddle tramp telling me what to do.”

  “Harvey, please,” said the rider who had spoken before. “Let me handle this, will you?”

  “Sure, Tom,” Harvey said. “Kiss his ass, why don’t you?”

  The rider kneed his horse a little closer. “I’m sorry, mister, to barge in on you like this, but it’s a matter of life and death. My name is Tom Wilson. We’re all of us from Haven.”

  Fargo recollected a town by that name. Several had sprung up in the past few years in the deep valleys that penetrated the Mogollon Plateau. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re hunting for a missing girl,” Wilson said. “A young woman, actually. She’s nineteen years old. Her name is Myrtle Spencer and she was wearing a blue dress when she was seen last.”

  “What do you mean, missing?”

  The man called Harvey growled, “As if you don’t know, you son of a bitch. Where is she?”

  “Harvey,” Wilson said. “You’re not helping matters.”

  “I don’t care.” Harvey gestured angrily at Fargo. “I say we make him tell us what he did with her. And if he won’t tell, then we string him up.”

  “I don’t know any Myrtle Spencer,” Fargo said.

  Two other riders were edging their hands toward holsters. They were trying to be sneaky about it but they were as obvious as a charging buffalo.

  Fargo took another step and extended the Colt so the muzzle gouged Harvey’s brow. “I won’t say this again. Tell your friends to sit real still while we sort this out or I will by-God splatter your brains.”

  Harvey stiffened. He glared at Fargo, then said, “You heard him, boys. Don’t try anything. We’ll hear what the bastard has to say.”

  Wilson turned to the other two. “Dugan. McNee. You’re not helping matters. Let me do the talking and you behave yourselves.” He smiled at Fargo. “My apologies, mister. But we’re high-strung over that missing girl. She’s as sweet as can be and we would hate for anything to happen to her.”

  “I don’t know any Myrtle Spencer,” Fargo repeated himself.

  “That may be. But you wouldn’t have to know her to abduct her,” Wilson said.

  “Do you see a woman around here anywhere?” Fargo asked in mild exasperation. “Use your damn heads.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” Wilson said. “Would you mind terribly much if me and a few of the rest were to look around?”

  “Suit yourselves,” Fargo said. “But keep your hands away from your hardware.” He nodded at Dugan and McNee. “All of you can look except those two and this one.” He tapped the Colt against Harvey’s forehead. “I want them where I can keep an eye on them.”

  “Hell,” Harvey said.

  “You brought it on yourself, Harve,” Wilson said. He climbed down and commenced walking about the clearing. Two others, at his urging, went into the trees. They were back in a couple of minutes, shaking their heads. One of them said, “Not a sign of her.”

  Wilson turned to Fargo. “Would you care to explain who you are and what you’re doing here?”

  “That’s none of your business.” Fargo didn’t poke his nose into the affairs of others and he would be damned if he would let anyone poke their nose into his.

  “Please,” Wilson said. “It’s important. If you’ve done nothing wrong you have no reason to worry.”

  Fargo was trying to be reasonable. He resented Harvey but there was a woman missing, or so they claimed. “Don’t you have a lawman in Haven?”

  “Yes, we do, in fact. Marshal Tibbit. He is out with another search party. They went north and we came south.” Wilson turned to the others. “I have an idea. Why don’t one of you fetch the marshal while we keep an eye on this gentleman? Lawrence, would you mind?”

  “No,” a townsman said. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.” Reining around, he jabbed his heels against his animal and trotted up the road.

  “Now then,” Wilson said. “Why don’t the rest of us make ourselves comfortable until Marshal Tibbit gets here? Is that all right by you, mister?”

  Fargo reluctantly nodded. Lowering the Colt, he stepped back and twirled it into his holster. “I have coffee left if anyone wants some.”

  Wilson smiled and nodded. “That would be nice, yes. I’m not used to being up this late. It must be pushing midnight.”

  Fargo hunkered to rekindle the fire. He kept an eye on Harvey, who had gone over to Dugan and McNee; the three were huddled together, whispering. When the flames were crackling, Fargo turned to Tom Wilson. “You say this woman went missing?”

  “She lives in Haven with her mother and father. Works at the dry goods store. They say she went out to hush the dog, which was making a ruckus, and never came back in. When her parents went out they found the dog with its throat slit and poor Myrtle was nowhere to be seen.”

  “It was a big dog, too,” a townsman mentioned. “Whoever killed it had to be awful quick or awful strong or both.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Fargo said.

  “I don’t think it was you, either,” Wilson said, “but we’ll let the marshal decide what to do with you.”

  “Could it have been hostiles?” Fargo asked. He was thinking of the Apaches. They had no love for the white man, or white woman.

  “If it was, it’s the first lick of trouble in a coon’s age. We’re a fair-sized town and the heathens leave us be.”

  Harvey, Dugan and McNee came up and the former snapped at Wilson, “Why are you being so friendly? For all we know, he took Myrtle and she’s lying out there somewhere strangled to death. This tramp should—”

  Fargo had listened to enough. He swept up out of his crouch and slammed his right fist into Harvey’s jaw. He didn’t hold back. Harvey cried out and staggered but he didn’t fall. Fargo set himself and waded in but before he could land another blow Dugan and McNee leaped in, fists flying. Fargo blocked, countered, slipped punches but not all of them. Pain flared in his left cheek, his shoulder, his ribs. He got his left forearm up in time to deflect a looping swing by Dugan and retaliated with lightning jabs that drove Dugan back. McNee sprang in, and again Fargo’s ribs complained. A quick hook and Fargo had the satisfaction of pulping McNee’s lower lip. For a moment he was clear, but only for a moment. Harvey came at him again. Fargo stood his ground and gave as good as he got. He was so intent on Harvey that he forgot about Dugan and McNee but he was reminded when they flung themselves at his arms.

  Fargo strained to break free. He had almost succeeded when Harvey hit him in the gut. He kicked Harvey in the shin and Harvey cocked his fists to hit him again. Succor came from an unexpected source.

  “Here now, that’s enough!” Tom Wilson cried, and shoved between them. “Three against one. I won’t have that.”

  “Out of my way, damn you,” Harvey fumed. He tried to shove Wilson aside but Wilson held his ground.

  “Simmer down, will you? The marshal’s not going to like that you attacked this man.”

  “He took the first swing!” Harvey exploded, and grabbing Wilson by the shoulders, he pushed Wilson so hard that Wilson sprawled onto his back. There was a thud, and Wilson went limp.

  “Tom?” one of the others said. The man rushed over and knelt. He slipped a hand under Wilson’s head and drew it back, startled. His palm was smeared red. “Damn. He’s bleeding. He hit his head on a rock.”

  “Is he alive?” asked another.

  The man with the blood on his palm felt for a pulse and nodded. “He’s just knocked out, is all.”

  Harvey whirled on Fargo. “It’s your fault, you son of a bitch.”

  “You’re the one who pushed him,” Fargo said.

  “Only because he was trying to defend you.” Harvey drew his six-gun. “What do you say, boys? Why wait for the marshal? Let’s make him tell us where Myrtle is.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” asked the man kneeling beside Tom Wilson.

  “Easy as pie,” Harvey said, and slashed the barrel of his revolver at Fargo’s face.
/>   It was called pistol-whipping. Lawmen would pistol-whip drunks and belligerents to subdue them. Sometimes the whipping was so severe that those who were beaten suffered a broken nose and busted teeth and were left black-and-blue for weeks.

  Fargo had no intention of letting that happen. As Harvey swung, he ducked, and the pistol flashed over his head. Instantly he brought the heel of his right boot down on the tip of Dugan’s left boot. Dugan howled in pain and his grip slackened enough that Fargo swung him bodily at McNee and both went tottering. Harvey was raising his arm to use the pistol. In a streak, Fargo had his Colt out and slammed the barrel against Harvey’s face, splitting Harvey’s cheek. Harvey forgot himself and clutched at his face; he would have done better to protect his gut.

  Fargo drove his left fist in so far, he would have sworn his knuckles brushed Harvey’s spine. Harvey buckled at the knees but Dugan and McNee had recovered and hurled themselves at Fargo, seeking to seize his arms as they had before. Fargo clipped Dugan across the head and Dugan toppled. McNee dodged, clawed for a pistol on his left hip, and was so slow unlimbering it that Fargo smashed him twice across the chin.

  “Enough!” the man who was next to Tom Wilson cried. “In God’s name, stop this!”

  Fargo wanted to hit them some more. But both Dugan and McNee were down and Harvey was on his knees, doubled over. He nodded and stepped back.

  Suddenly another townsman was behind him and jammed a cocked revolver against the back of his head.

  “Hold it right there, mister.”

  “Danvers, what in hell are you doing?” asked the man kneeling beside Wilson.

  “I think Harvey is right. If this hombre was innocent he wouldn’t have made such a fuss.” Danvers reached around and took Fargo’s Colt. “Let go or I’ll squeeze this trigger, so help me.”

  Fargo swore, and let go.

  Harvey was struggling to his feet. “Thanks for seeing sense, Danvers,” he said. “Now let’s revive Dugan and McNee and get to it.” He leveled his revolver at Fargo. “Fetch a rope.”

  Danvers moved toward their horses.

  “What are you up to?” demanded the man on his knee. “It can’t be what I think it is.”