California Carnage

  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

  LOOKING FORWARD!

  PINE BOX PAYOFF

  In a voice tight with suppressed anger, Stoddard asked, ‘‘Are you going to work for me or not?’’

  ‘‘Not hardly,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’ve still got over eighty dollars of your money. I’ll send it over to the hotel tomorrow. I spent the rest on supplies getting here.’’

  ‘‘Don’t bother,’’ Stoddard snapped. All pretense of geniality had vanished. ‘‘You should keep it. You never know—you might need to pay for a funeral someday.’’

  He didn’t have to say the rest of what he meant. Fargo understood it just fine.

  You’ll die next!

  SIGNET

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2007

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Border Bravados, the three hundred eighth volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

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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, 1858— where the stagecoaches that run along the Old Mission Trail carry trouble for the Trailsman.

  1

  The swift patter of footsteps along the street told the big man in buckskins that something was wrong. He stood in the shadows of an alley mouth with his lake blue eyes narrowed, waiting to see what was going to happen.

  The girl came out of the night. Her long brown hair whipped around her shoulders as she jerked her head back and forth to look for any sign of her pursuers. She was on the far side of the street from the man in the shadows, but he could see her fairly well in the light that spilled through the doorways of several cantinas, still open at this late hour.

  From somewhere in the darkness, a man stepped out in front of the fleeing girl. She skidded to an abrupt halt and cast wild glances around her, looking for somewhere else to run.

  Before she could move, the man came toward her, his arms outstretched. She opened her mouth to scream. It was a hot, muggy night in the pueblo of Los Angeles, a night for screaming.

  But before she could make a sound, the man clapped a rough hand over her mouth and grabbed her arm with his other hand. Cruel fingers dug into the flesh.

  ‘‘I’ve got the bitch,’’ he called to whoever had been pursuing the girl. Their hurried steps came closer.

  Across the street, Skye Fargo strode out of the shadows and said, ‘‘Let her go.’’

  His voice was deep and powerful; it carried well even though he didn’t raise it. The man holding the girl rasped a curse and swung around, pulling her with him so that she was between him and Fargo.

  ‘‘Who the hell—’’

  ‘‘I said, let her go,’’ Fargo repeated as he continued across the street in an unhurried fashion. He was a muscular man, a little above medium height, bigger than he appeared to be at first glance, with the speed and power of a wolf rather than the bulk of a bull. A short, dark beard sprouted on his jaw, and intelligent eyes peered out from under the broad brim of a sand-colored hat.

  ‘‘What business is it of yours?’’ the man who held the girl challenged. ‘‘Better light a shuck out of here, hombre, before you wind up in trouble.’’

  A faint smile touched Fargo’s lips. ‘‘I don’t think I’m all that worried by threats from a low-down skunk who manhandles girls.’’

  ‘‘You son of a bitch. You don’t know who this little bitch is—’’

  At that moment, the girl sank her teeth into the palm of the hand over her mouth.

  The man screeched in pain, jerked his hand away, and hauled her around so that she faced him. Blood covered the palm of the hand she had bitten as he raised it to smash her face.

  The blow didn’t land because Fargo had never stopped moving, and a couple of quick steps brought him in reach while the man was pulling his arm back to strike. Fargo’s right fist shot out in a short, sharp punch that smashed into the man’s face. The man let go of the girl as he stumbled backward. He caught his balance and clawed at the butt of the gun stuck behind his belt.

  Fargo didn’t give him a chance to pull the weapon. He bored in, fast and hard, sinking a left in the man’s belly. Wh
iskey-laden breath gusted out of the man’s mouth. Fargo threw a right cross that clipped the man on the chin, and followed it with a looping left that landed with a solid impact on the jaw. The man went to his knees and then toppled onto his side. He lay there gasping for breath and groaning in a soft voice.

  Fargo stepped back and turned as he heard a rush of footsteps behind him. The man’s friends had caught up.

  The Colt in Fargo’s hand rose as he came around to face the others. They stopped short as they saw the black mouth of the gun’s muzzle pointing at them. The heavy revolver was rock steady.

  ‘‘Move over here behind me,’’ he told the girl, who was staring at the man Fargo had knocked down. She did as he said, scurrying to put him between her and the men who had been chasing her.

  Three men glared at Fargo in the dim light. Like their friend, they were roughly dressed, beard-stubbled hardcases, the sort of no-accounts who could be found in the saloons and whorehouses of any frontier town. One of them demanded, ‘‘What the hell did you do to Elam?’’

  Another of the men said, ‘‘Better put that gun down, mister, before somebody gets hurt.’’

  ‘‘It’ll be you who does,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘Damn it, there’s three of us and one of you, and we’re armed, too!’’

  ‘‘That means I’ll kill two before any of you get off a shot. The third man might be able to hit me, but I’ll kill him, too, before I go down.’’

  From the grim, worried looks on their faces, none of them doubted what Fargo said.

  ‘‘Hell, take the little slut, and good riddance,’’ one of the men said. ‘‘We don’t want her that bad. And after you’ve been saddled with her for a while, you won’t, either. She’s nothin’ but trouble.’’

  Fargo heard the angry hiss of the girl’s indrawn breath behind him, but he didn’t look around, didn’t take his attention off the men he held at bay with his Colt. ‘‘I’ll take my chances,’’ he said. ‘‘Now pick up your friend and get out of here.’’

  ‘‘You’re gonna be damn sorry you ever laid eyes on us, mister.’’

  ‘‘Too late. I already am.’’

  Fargo moved back to give them some room as they came forward to help the first man onto his feet. He was groggy but conscious enough to stand under his own power once they got him upright. He glared at Fargo and might have tried to attack him again if one of his friends hadn’t pulled on his sleeve and said, ‘‘Let’s go, Elam. It’s over.’’

  ‘‘No, it ain’t,’’ Elam rumbled. ‘‘It ain’t hardly over.’’

  But he left anyway, moving off in an unsteady walk, accompanied by the other three men. Fargo didn’t lower his gun until they had disappeared in the darkness down the street, and even then he didn’t holster the weapon.

  ‘‘Mister, I can’t thank you enough—’’ the girl began.

  Fargo turned to her and grasped her arm with his free hand. His touch was gentle compared to that of the man who had grabbed her before. His voice held a note of urgency, though, as he said, ‘‘I don’t trust those varmints. Let’s get off the street before they double back and try to bushwhack us.’’

  She gasped. ‘‘You think they would?’’

  ‘‘They might.’’ Fargo steered her toward one of the nearby cantinas. ‘‘We’ll be safe enough in there, where it’s light.’’

  He had at least one friend there, too, because the place was run by a man named Pablo Almendovar, whose life had been saved by Fargo several years earlier. In fact, Fargo had been headed for Pablo’s cantina when he’d heard the hurrying footsteps and his instincts told him trouble was about to emerge from the darkness.

  He’d been right about that. Over the long, eventful years he had learned to trust his instincts, and they had seldom betrayed him.

  The atmosphere inside the cantina was close and smoky despite the open door. Not much air stirred tonight. Half a dozen men stood at the bar, drinking, while another half dozen were scattered at the rough tables. In one corner, an old man strummed a guitar. His blind eyes gazed out at the room, and what they saw, only he knew.

  The massive man behind the bar had a wild tangle of black hair and a jutting beard. His dark eyes lit up as he noticed Fargo. ‘‘Skye! Welcome, mi amigo, welcome!’’ His gaze moved to the girl beside Fargo, and his bushy eyebrows rose in appreciation.

  Fargo holstered his gun and headed for one of the empty tables, signaling to Pablo to bring drinks. He held a chair for the girl, then sat down opposite her. In the smoky light from the cantina’s lamps, he saw that she was older than he had taken her for, around twenty years old, more of a young woman than a girl.

  And although she was dressed in a long, colorfully embroidered skirt and a low-cut, short-sleeved white blouse that left her shoulders bare, the sort of outfit that the Mexican girls here in Los Angeles wore, she was not Mexican. Her clothes and her long dark hair had made her appear otherwise in the dim light outside.

  But her eyes were light blue and her skin was fair and creamy. Her heritage might be pure Spanish, but there was no indio blood in her. Fargo wondered if she belonged to one of the old Californio families, the Spaniards who had ruled California before it became part of the United States ten years earlier.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said in unaccented English. ‘‘I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t helped me.’’

  ‘‘Nothing good, I’d wager,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I reckon introductions are in order. My name is Skye Fargo.’’

  ‘‘I’m Belinda Grayson,’’ she introduced herself. Not Spanish at all. She frowned and went on. ‘‘Your name seems familiar, Mr. Fargo. I believe my father may have mentioned you. Do you know him? Arthur Grayson?’’

  Fargo shook his head. ‘‘Afraid not.’’ He didn’t mention that he was well-known in some circles west of the Mississippi. He wouldn’t be surprised if Belinda’s father had heard of him.

  Pablo brought mugs of coffee flavored with dark chocolate over to the table and set them in front of Fargo and Belinda. ‘‘I did not know you were visiting our humble pueblo, Skye,’’ the burly proprietor of the cantina said. ‘‘But as always, I am glad to see you.’’

  ‘‘The feeling’s mutual, Pablo,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘How’s Juanita?’’

  Pablo grinned and made a rounded motion over his belly, indicating that his wife was with child again.

  Fargo chuckled. ‘‘How many does this make?’’

  ‘‘This will be the eighth little nino,’’ Pablo said with pride in his voice. He grew more serious as he went on. ‘‘You are here on business?’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘I’m supposed to meet a man named Stoddard.’’

  Across the table, Belinda had been sipping her coffee.But at Fargo’s mention of the name, she gasped and said, ‘‘You know Hiram Stoddard?’’

  ‘‘Never laid eyes on the man,’’ Fargo answered. ‘‘Why? Is there something wrong with him?’’

  ‘‘Those men who were after me outside . . . they work for Stoddard.’’

  Fargo’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her. He knew she was telling the truth. She was too surprised to be lying.

  ‘‘Why are you supposed to meet him?’’ she went on.

  ‘‘Some men would say that’s none of your business, Miss Grayson.’’

  Pablo withdrew to the bar with a worried frown on his face. He must have sensed the sudden tension at the table, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘‘I don’t mean to be impolite,’’ Belinda said. ‘‘It’s just that you helped me—’’

  ‘‘I would have helped any woman who was in trouble,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘And my father and Mr. Stoddard are enemies,’’ she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘‘That’s why those men were after me. I’m sure of it. They were going to capture me and hold me hostage until my father agreed to give up the plans for his stagecoach line.’’

  Fargo began to have a glimmering of what was going on. He had thought that the
men were after Belinda simply because she was a pretty girl and they wanted to have some fun with her. Their actions could have been motivated by more than that, though.

  ‘‘Your father and Stoddard are both trying to establish stagecoach lines that will follow the Old Mission Trail along the coast to northern California,’’ Fargo guessed.

  Belinda nodded. ‘‘That’s right. They’ve clashed before,in other places, over other business deals.’’ She sighed. ‘‘They’re mortal enemies, I suppose you could say. But my father is an honorable man, while Mr. Stoddard would stop at nothing to get what he wants.’’

  That was the way she saw it, anyway, Fargo thought. The story might be very different if Stoddard were the one telling it.

  On the other hand, the man called Elam had treated Belinda roughly, and Fargo had no doubt that the other three would have, too. They had looked like the sorts who wouldn’t draw the line at abusing a woman.

  If Stoddard had varmints like that working for him, then Fargo didn’t have a very high opinion of the man. He figured that, in all likelihood, he wouldn’t want to take any job Stoddard offered him.

  But along with a letter, Stoddard had sent him a hundred dollars to come here to Los Angeles and meet with him to discuss employment, and Fargo had taken the money. He would have to talk to Stoddard face-to-face and then make up his mind what he was going to do. If he didn’t accept Stoddard’s proposal, he would return what was left of the hundred bucks. That was the only fair way to handle things.

  Meanwhile, he asked Belinda, ‘‘Are you sure those hombres weren’t after you for . . . other reasons?’’

  She blushed, and her face was even prettier as the warm pink tinge crept across it. ‘‘I suppose that’s possible,’’ she admitted. ‘‘But they know who I am, and I just don’t believe it was their idea to come after me. I think Mr. Stoddard sent them.’’

  ‘‘What were you doing on the street at this time of night?’’

  At that blunt question, her chin came up with a hint of defiance and stubbornness. ‘‘I’m accustomed to walking where I please, when I please.’’