Silver Mountain Slaughter 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

  Chapter 21

  DEAD AS DEAD

  Stubbins lay on the floor with the rat droppings, dead as a fried carp. Fargo kicked him to make certain, then kicked him again to make absolutely certain, and only then did he holster his weapon.

  When he turned the body over, he found that his first bullet had gone straight through Stubbins’ heart, and the second had gone through his belly.

  He gave the body another kick, then grabbed the corpse’s arm and dragged it outside through the tunnel. One more to toss on the pile.

  He did, and after he did, he glared at the corpse, saying, ‘‘Now stay dead this time, or else!’’

  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 2008

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Seminole Showdown,

  the three hundred twenty-fifth volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008

  eISBN : 978-0-451-22562-7

  All rights reserved

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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.

  Arizona, 1861—in the heat of the desert,

  amid the cacti and the sagebrush,

  only one thing burns hotter than the sun above—

  the Trailsman’s fury.

  1

  Winter in the high country had been hard, about as hard as the Trailsman could remember. He’d spent the better part of it high up in the California Rockies in an old trapper’s cabin. When he wasn’t huddled against the bone-numbing cold and its accompanying biting wind, he’d split most of his time between gathering what wood he could find that was fit to feed his fire, and trying to persuade his horse, the Ovaro, not to climb directly into it to keep warm.

  At winter’s end, the tall man and his trusty black-and-white paint stallion had emerged relatively safe and sound, if a little on the gaunt side, and had headed southeast: a path that took them down toward the Arizona Territory and its promise of sunshine and warmth.

  Well, he was sure as hell reaping that promise now, he thought in exasperation as he rode the flat, desolate stretch of desert between Phoenix and Tucson. It had been eighty degrees when he woke at just past dawn, and now, at midmorning, he was sweating up a storm and cursing his buckskins. He would have been smarter to make himself a buckskin loincloth!

  Suddenly, he reined the Ovaro to a halt, slithered down out of the saddle, and began to tug off his shirt. When it finally loosed its damp hold on his skin and he peeled it off, overhead, the breeze tickling his skin felt like a miracle.

  ‘‘Better,’’ he hissed between clenched teeth as he cinched his shirt across the back of his saddle, then secured it with the tie-down latigos.

  He knew it was stupid to ride without a shirt this time of year, but right at the moment, the pain of a future sunburn was nothing compared to the here-and-now hellish steam bath of riding inside that leather shirt.

  He swung up onto the Ovaro and nudged the stud into a slow jog, the breeze tickling his long-suffering skin. Yes, he thought, much better.

  And then he noticed it.

  Just a dot on the horizon, a dot growing larger and separating into tiny black figures as he drew nearer. Bandidos? Pilgrims? A million possibilities tumbled through his mind as he rode closer. Not hostile Indians, he decided early on. At least, as soon as it became apparent that one of the objects ahead was a buckboard, which was definitely not an Apache affectation.

  But something about the rig—and the folks traveling with it—seemed somehow wrong. For one thing, the fellow in the driver’s seat wore a tall stovepipe hat with a turkey feather sprouting from its hatband. He also wore a bright yellow vest, the sort in which you might expect to see some New Orleans cardsharp attired. But not an Arizona pilgrim, or a miner, or a cattle or horse rancher. It was the wrong sort of picture.

  Beside the odd duck driving the team sat what looked like a young girl. Maybe twenty or so, Fargo thought. But that was probably just wishful thinking. It had been a few months since he’d set his eyes on a girl worth looking at.

  ‘‘Don’t start
getting yourself bothered,’’ he muttered so that only the Ovaro heard. ‘‘She’s probably some old Hopi squaw.’’

  Still, he pushed the Ovaro into a speedier jog.

  Although it seemed forever, he caught up with them in no time, and the rig’s driver didn’t seem surprised to see him. ‘‘Took you a while,’’ the old man said, turning slightly in his seat. Protruding from the outlandish hat was a scant series of long white wisps that the Trailsman hadn’t seen from afar, and the man seemed to have only a quarter of his original complement of teeth. Those that remained were stained by tobacco.

  The girl didn’t look at either one of them. She just kept the same posture she’d held since he first made her out—slumped forward, eyes on her hands in her lap. He couldn’t see her face, but he took some comfort in the fact that her hands didn’t look old and gnarled.

  Fargo turned his attention back to the wagon’s driver. ‘‘You a pilgrim?’’ he asked, more as an excuse to keep pace with the rig than out of any real curiosity.

  The old man jutted a skeletal hand out toward him. ‘‘Franklin Q. Stubbins, at yer service.’’

  The Trailsman took it and gave it a shake. ‘‘Skye Fargo’s my name,’’ he said. ‘‘Most folks know me as the Trailsman.’’

  ‘‘I will, too, then,’’ said Franklin Q. Stubbins. He then broke out into a quick but loud bray of laughter. The girl beside him didn’t shift so much as half an inch.

  ‘‘What you doing out here in the nowheres, Mr. Stubbins?’’ Fargo asked. ‘‘You on your way to Tucson?’’

  Again, the old man broke out into that peculiar bray of laughter. ‘‘Mebbe, mebbe,’’ he replied. ‘‘We’ll see how the water holds out.’’

  The Trailsman’s brow wrinkled. Just what did the crazy old coot mean by that? He looked over at the girl again. She had cringed down into herself at Stubbins’ last comment, and Fargo was beginning to wonder how they had paired up. And if she was as crazy as Stubbins was. She’d have to be either crazy or desperate to share a buckboard seat with him all the way down to Tucson.

  So he simply nodded, as if the old man’s comment about the water made perfect sense to him, and asked, ‘‘Where do you and your daughter plan to bide? I’ve heard good things about the Wigwam Hotel.’’

  His little stab at finding out about the girl bore fruit sooner than he’d hoped, because Stubbins immediately replied, ‘‘Oh, she ain’t my daughter, no, not by a long shot. Been a few years since I had the itch so bad I’d scratch it with a squaw.’’ And then came that laugh again.

  ‘‘Not your wife, either?’’ Fargo asked.

  ‘‘Hell, no,’’ Stubbins said. And then he punched the girl in the arm hard enough to merely knock her from her perch. ‘‘Speak up, gal,’’ he said. ‘‘Tell the Trailsman here your name!’’

  Fargo had nearly jumped from his horse to the buckboard’s seat when Stubbins struck the girl, but she suddenly wheeled toward him and he forgot all his good intentions.

  She was striking. Her features bore the high cheekbones and faraway—but at the same time, intense—look of an Indian, yet her skin was not the copper or latigo color he’d expected. It was pale, almost milky, and blue eyes burned out of her face, burned him to his core.

  ‘‘I am Kathleen Dugan,’’ she said in a monotone, then turned her face from him once again.

  It was a good thing she had, as the shock of her had almost made him lose his seat. While he pulled himself together again, Stubbins added, ‘‘Her pa was from County Cork, and her ma was an Apache squaw. They was neighbors to me. Her ma died and her pa went broke, and he sold her into servitude. Got her papers right here.’’ He patted his vest pocket. ‘‘I’m havin’ me some financial wear and tear of late, and that’s why we’re headed for Tucson. Gonna try and sell her.’’

  Fargo barely let the last words come out of Stubbins’ mouth before he asked, far too eagerly, ‘‘How much?’’ He knew the Tucson he was used to was chock-full of rowdies and scofflaws who’d think nothing of buying the girl, then renting her out for a nickel an hour. Or worse. All that he wanted at this moment was to permanently sever the bond between Stubbins and the fair Kathleen Dugan. The girl wouldn’t even look at him for more than a second, and had said no more than four words to him in the entirety of their acquaintance. If you could call it that.

  Thoughtfully, Stubbins scratched his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘‘I’d hoped to get me a biddin’ war goin’,’’ he said. ‘‘Hoped to get enough to buy me a couple of weanling hogs and a calf. And some grain. And mayhap a fair saddle horse.’’ He kept on scratching his chin and gazed out over the horizon.

  Fargo felt himself reaching for his pocket. Well, dammit, there were some things a man just had to do.

  He opened his coin purse and rooted around for the two double eagles he had put away last fall, in case of dire emergency. This was one, all right.

  ‘‘Forty bucks,’’ he said, holding the money out so that Stubbins could see but not reach it. ‘‘Final offer.’’

  Stubbins hesitated and Fargo let him stew for a moment before he started to draw his hand back.

  ‘‘Hold on there, son!’’ Stubbins blurted out. ‘‘I’m thinkin’!’’

  Fargo let his hand drop to rest on his leg while the buckboard and the Ovaro moved them down through the desert. If the girl had any feelings about the transaction or her impending sale, she didn’t make them known. She hadn’t even looked at him, not once, save when she’d said her name at Stubbins’ command.

  Fargo asked, ‘‘Can she say anything besides her name? You ain’t tryin’ to gyp me with a one-trick pony, are you?’’ In truth, he had sort of been hoping that she’d be a fair conversationalist, seeing as they were going to ride down to Tucson together.

  He figured to cut her free once they got there, but talking was the only thing he figured to be able to do with her till they made town. And that was another sixty miles or so.

  Suddenly, he was having conflicting thoughts about her, and her freedom, and without thinking, began to draw his money-holding hand back toward his pocket.

  Stubbins must have had great peripheral vision, because he suddenly snapped, ‘‘She can recite the whole Bible, almost. And I reckon forty dollars would do it, son.’’

  This time, the laugh that followed was less a bray than a cackle. It plucked at Fargo’s spine like icy fingers.

  It had about the same effect on the girl, because he saw her curl in on herself. Suddenly, he didn’t have any doubts anymore.

  Fargo, finding the transaction more and more distasteful with each passing second, once again held the coins out toward the old geezer, stopping an inch short of where the old man could grab them. Stubbins made a face and opened his mouth, but Fargo beat him to the punch. ‘‘You said she’s got transfer papers?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Sure, sure, she does,’’ Stubbins croaked, and dug a grimy sheet, folded several ways, from his pocket. He waved it at Fargo. ‘‘Got ’em right here.’’

  ‘‘Well, sign her over,’’ Fargo said, and leaned forward to let Stubbins take the money. He sat his horse while Stubbins dug out his pencil and made his mark on the tired sheet.

  Stubbins folded the paper back the way it had been while he said, ‘‘Get down, girl. You been bought.’’ As he handed the paper up to Fargo, the girl jackrabbited off the other side of the wagon and landed about ten feet away from the buckboard. She stood there, head bent toward the ground, her arms circling her torso, her hair hanging in her eyes.

  Fargo took the sheet and unfolded it, quickly scanning the spidery scrawl before he refolded it and stuck it into his back pocket. The girl was his. At least, on paper. She continued to stare at her feet.

  He had expected more. Maybe a thank-you.

  Stubbins tossed a ratty carpetbag to the ground, then clucked to his mule and continued on his way without another word to either of them, leaving Fargo and the girl to stare at each other. Or not. He was staring at her, but she was still focus
ed on her shoes, which he’d just noticed were grimy moccasins.

  He took her in. At least, as much as she was letting him see. She wore a faded red calico skirt that fell over long, slim legs and softly belled hips, and her blouse was white and very loose, in the Mexican peasant style.

  Stubbins and his rig had nearly disappeared from sight before Fargo had the presence of mind to say, ‘‘Miss? Miss, you want to climb up behind? It’s a long way to Tucson, and I don’t want you travelin’ on foot.’’

  Finally, she looked up at him, turned that beautiful face toward him. In a voice that was soft but devoid of expression, she said, ‘‘Screw you, white dog.’’

  Fargo didn’t know how to react, so he just stared at her as if someone from afar was remotely operating her mouth and voice. But she’d said it nonetheless and eventually he had to say the word that had balled up in his mouth. Which, unfortunately, was, ‘‘Huh?’’

  ‘‘You heard me,’’ came her reply.

  She wasn’t looking at him any longer, but he could guess her expression by the tone of her voice, which had grown decidedly more hostile since Stubbins had moved on down the road.

  By now, he and his rig were little more than a dark, smudgy speck in the sun-blasted distance.

  Fargo didn’t answer her, just kept on staring at Stubbins’ tiny, disappearing form to the south. But finally he said, ‘‘Get up,’’ and reined the Ovaro in front of her.

  She looked up at him, hate suddenly pasted across that beautiful, fair face, and grunted up an ugly sound.

  Fargo didn’t like the tone of it, not one bit, but he slid his boot from the stirrup and said, ‘‘Now.’’

  Apparently he said it sternly enough that it had effect, because suddenly she slipped up behind his saddle and planted her fanny firmly on the Ovaro’s croup.

  Fargo was about to welcome her aboard when, from behind him, came her words.

  ‘‘Well? Didn’t you want to take me someplace? Get on with it! Or are we just going to sit here all day?’’

  Jaw clenched, he gave the Ovaro a little knee, and as the horse moved them forward, muttered, ‘‘Buddy, the next time you see me wantin’ to do some good, or to do the right thing, just kick me right square in my bleedin’ backside.’’