Sierra Six-Guns

  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

  Teaser chapter

  THROWING GAUNTLETS

  Fargo snapped. In the blink of an eye he had the Colt out and up and slammed the barrel against Landreth’s head.

  “Lord Almighty!” the hardcase called Tucker bleated. “Did you see that? I hardly saw his hand move.”

  “I’m serving notice,” Fargo said to all of them. “The next son of a bitch who gets in my way better have a hankering for the hereafter.” He twirled the Colt into his holster and looked at Moon. “How about you?”

  “If I decide to, I’ll pick the time and the place. This ain’t it.”

  Fargo took a stride but Moon wasn’t done.

  “One more thing. If and when I do decide, it won’t be in the back. I am a lot of things but not a back-shooter.”

  Fargo remembered him shooting the unarmed driver, and wasn’t impressed.

  “Anytime you want.”

  SIGNET

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

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18553-7

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Hannibal Rising, the three hundred fortieth 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.

  California, 1859—A storm is coming to Hell Creek. . . .

  1

  Skye Fargo liked the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were miles high. They were remote. Lush forest covered the lower slopes, snow capped the high peaks.

  Unlike back East, where much of the wildlife had been killed off to fill supper pots, animal life was everywhere. Ponderous grizzlies were on perpetual prowl, tawny mountain lions glided through shadowed woodlands, hungry wolves roved in packs. Elk, deer, mountain sheep and a host of smaller creatures were the prey the predators fed on.

  On a sunny autumn morning, Fargo drew rein on a switch-back on a mountain no white man had ever set foot on and breathed deep of the crisp air.

  A big man, he wore buckskins and a white hat brown with dust. A red bandanna around his neck had seen a lot of use. So had the Colt on his hip and the Arkansas toothpick snug in an ankle sheath. His eyes were as blue as a small lake below. His beard was neatly trimmed.

  Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He was on his way to San Francisco and had decided to spend a week or so alone in the high country. He liked to do that every now and then. It reminded him of why he enjoyed the wild places so much.

  Fargo loved to roam where no one had gone before. Where most men kept their gaze on the ground and the next step they were about to take, his gaze was always on the far horizon. He had to see what lay over it.

  A game trail made the descent easy. A lot of creatures came to the lake daily to slake their thirst.

  Fargo was almost to the bottom when he spied two does. They jerked their heads up but they weren’t looking at him. They stared intently at a thicket that bordered the shore. Suddenly wheeling, they bounded off, their tails erect.

  Fargo wondered what had spooked them. It could be just about anything. Deer were easily frightened. Still, to be safe, he reined up and watched the thicket. A minute went by and nothing appeared so he clucked to the Ovaro and rode to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle, and stretched. He had been in the saddle since sunup.

  Sinking to one knee, Fargo dipped a hand in the lake. The water was cold and clear. He sipped and smacked his lips. “How about you, big fella?”

  As if the stallion understood, it lowered its muzzle.

  “Not too much now.” Fargo had a habit of talking to the stallion as if it were a person. Often, it was his only companion for days at a time.

  The stallion went on drinking.

  High in the sky a bald eagle soared. In the forest a squirrel scampered from limb to limb. Out on the lake a fish broke the surface. The day was peaceful and perfect, exactly as Fargo liked them.

  Then the Ovaro raised its head and pricked its ears and nickered.

  Fargo looked and froze.

  A dog had come out of the thicket. A huge dog, almost four feet high at the front shoulders and bulky enough t
o weigh upwards of two hundred pounds. It had a blunt face with a broad jaw and a thick barrel of a body. Its color was somewhere between brown and gray. At the moment it was standing still, its dark eyes fixed intently on him.

  “Hell,” Fargo said. Where there was a dog there were bound to be people and he had hoped to fight shy of them for a spell.

  The dog took a step and growled.

  Fargo smiled and gestured. “I’m friendly, boy. You’d be wise to be the same.” Out of habit he placed his hand on his Colt. He wasn’t worried. If the dog came at him he could drop it before it covered half the distance.

  From behind him came the crack of a twig.

  Fargo glanced over his shoulder.

  Another dog, the same breed and about the same size, had emerged from the woods. Its hackles were raised and its lips were drawn back. Its teeth looked to be wickedly sharp.

  “Damn.” Fargo didn’t like this. He stepped to the Ovaro and snagged the reins and was about to slip his boot into the stirrups when a sound caused him to whirl.

  A third dog wasn’t more than ten feet away. Its huge head held low, it crouched.

  “Down boy.” Fargo scanned the shore for sign of the owner but saw no one.

  He quickly mounted. He figured to get out of there before the dogs decided to attack.

  The nearest dog moved to a point between the stallion and the woods, blocking his way.

  “Son of a bitch.” Fargo was trying to recollect where he had seen dogs like these before. Then it came to him: Saint Louis, some time back. Mastiffs, they were called. He seemed to recall they were bred in England or some such place but he could be mistaken.

  The dog to the right and the dog to the left moved slowly toward him.

  “Go away, damn you.” It occurred to Fargo that if they rushed him he might drop one or two but not all three, and all it would take was one to bring the Ovaro down. He didn’t dare risk that. Suddenly reining toward the lake, he used his spurs.

  The stallion reacted superbly, as it nearly always did. It took a long bound and plunged into the water.

  Fargo bent forward and hiked his boots out of the stirrups. The Ovaro would swim to the other side and he would be on his way, no worse for the bother. He chuckled, pleased at how he had outwitted the dogs, confident they wouldn’t come after him. He shifted in the saddle to be sure.

  All three mastiffs jumped in. The nearest surged swiftly after the Ovaro, swimming with powerful strokes, its head high, its teeth glistening in the sunlight.

  “Damn dumb dogs.” Fargo was growing mad. He’d tried to spare them, and now look. He drew his Colt and took aim but changed his mind and holstered it. So far, the Ovaro was holding its own. If he could stay ahead of them until he reached the other side, he could get away. The dogs might be fast but over a long distance the Ovaro’s stamina would win out.

  The bottom of Fargo’s pants was soaked. He would have to dry them and his boots and socks later. But at least his saddlebags and bedroll were mostly dry. The Henry in the saddle scabbard was getting wet and he would have to dry and clean it later, a chore he could do without.

  Fargo checked behind him. The nearest dog hadn’t gained any and the others had no chance in hell of catching him before he struck solid ground.

  Several ducks took noisy wing, frightened by the commotion.

  The dogs didn’t give up.

  Fargo wished he knew who their owner was. He’d pistol-whip the bastard for letting them run free. It made him wonder what anyone was doing there, so far from anywhere.

  The Ovaro swam smoothly, tirelessly.

  Fargo’s gaze drifted to the shore they were making for and a tingle of alarm rippled down his spine. “It can’t be.”

  A fourth dog had emerged from the forest and was pacing back and forth, waiting for them.

  “What is this, the whole litter?” Fargo grumbled. He reined the stallion to the right. The mastiff on the shore moved in the same direction. Fargo reined to the left. The dog moved to cut him off. Once again Fargo drew the Colt. He had nothing against dogs but he would be damned if he’d let them attack him. As soon as he was close enough, the beast on shore was dead.

  They were awful well trained, Fargo reflected, and was struck by a hunch. He scoured the vegetation and was about convinced his hunch must be wrong when a shadow detached itself from a tree. He couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if the figure was white or red but since Indians seldom had mastiffs he took it for granted it was a white man and hollered, “Call your damn dogs off!”

  The shadow didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me?” Fargo raised the Colt. “Call them off or you’ll bury them.”

  The figure stepped into the open.

  Fargo half wanted to pinch himself. “Lord Almighty,” he blurted in amazement.

  It was a woman. She couldn’t be much over twenty. Luxurious red hair cascaded over her slender shoulders, framing an oval face as lovely as any female’s ever born. Her clothes consisted of a homespun shirt and britches that might have been painted on. She had an hourglass shape and a full bosom, and was barefoot. One hand was on her shapely hip and in the other she held a six-gun that she now trained on Fargo. “You shoot any of my dogs, mister, and I’ll sure as blazes shoot you.”

  Fargo’s mouth moved of its own accord. “Then call them off, you idiot.”

  The girl’s face became as red as her hair. “You best keep away, you hear? We don’t cotton to strangers. It’s ours and ours alone.”

  “What is?”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to.” The redhead put two fingers to her mouth and let out with a piercing whistle. Immediately, the dog on the shore turned and trotted toward her.

  Fargo looked back. The dogs in the lake were veering toward her, as well.

  He turned toward the forest again—and she was nowhere to be seen. “What the hell?”

  Fargo was tempted to go after her himself but he had the Ovaro to think of. He continued on, and presently the stallion had solid ground under its hooves and was out of the lake and dripping wet.

  The three dogs bolted into the woods as soon as they were out of the water.

  “So much for them,” Fargo said in mild disgust for the inconvenience they had caused. He resumed his interrupted journey. When he reached the far end of the lake, he stopped and glanced back, seeking some sign of the girl and her pack. He wondered who she was. A homesteader, he reckoned, which meant a cabin must be nearby. It bothered him. He never expected to find another living soul this deep in the mountains.

  With a shrug, Fargo clucked to the stallion. He had never been in this particular part of the Sierra Nevadas before and he was eager to explore. A fir-covered slope brought him to a ridge. He stopped to look down at the lake and blinked in surprise.

  The girl and her dogs were staring up at him.

  Fargo smiled and waved. It might do to show her he could be as friendly as the next gent.

  The girl pointed up at him and said something to the dogs and all four bounded up the slope.

  Fargo couldn’t believe this was happening. It looked as if she had sent her pets after him. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he shouted, “What the hell are you doing? Call them back! Now!”

  The girl just stood and stared.

  Swearing lustily, Fargo hauled on the reins and used his spurs. He went down the far side of the ridge and came to a narrow valley.

  Bursting from the woods, he stuck to open ground and brought the stallion to a gallop. There was no way in hell the mastiffs could catch him now.

  Half a mile of hard riding brought Fargo to a bend. He thundered around it and abruptly drew rein, dumfounded by the unexpected sight that unfolded before him.

  To the north reared broken bluffs, a creek meandering along their base.

  To the south along the flank of the valley were over a score of buildings, most made from planks and a few from logs and the rest slapped together using whatever was handy. A single street dotted by several hitch rails and
a water trough ran the length of the town.

  “I’ll be damned.” Fargo had no inkling he was anywhere near civilization. So far as he knew, there shouldn’t be a town or settlement within a hundred miles.

  Hell, make that two hundred. He tapped his spurs and rode closer and the truth dawned.

  The street was thick with dust. One of the hitch rails was broken and the water trough was dry. The wear and tear of neglect showed on every building; roofs sagged, windows were broken, overhang posts had tilted or were cracked. Moved by the breeze, a single batwing on a saloon creaked noisily.

  It was a ghost town.

  Fargo rode to the near end of the street and drew rein. A small sign, faded but readable, told him the town’s name. “Kill Creek,” he said out loud. He rose in the stirrups and surveyed the creek and spotted a long-abandoned dredge. The dredge explained everything.

  Back in ’forty-nine gold was at Sutter’s Mill. A horde of people from all over the country and from all walks of life flocked to the California mountains hoping to strike it rich. That so few ever did didn’t deter them. Each thought they would be the one. Thousands more came to provide food and lodging and whatever else the gold seekers needed.

  Towns sprang up virtually overnight. All it took was for someone to find a nugget or two, or pan a poke’s worth. Word would spread like a prairie fire.

  Almost always, the new strikes were short-lived, and once there was no more gold to be had, the horde moved on to the next strike. In their wake they left abandoned towns and deserted camps.

  Kill Creek was one of those towns.

  That Fargo never heard of it didn’t surprise him. There were dozens just like it, forgotten and empty of everything save bugs and dust.

  He rode down the street until he came to the creaking batwing. It wouldn’t hurt to rest a spell. He was about to climb down when something squeaked and a rat came scuttling from between two of the buildings, ran out into the middle of the street, promptly wheeled, and ran back into the shadows again.