The Trailsman #391

Book 391: Trailsman

by Jon Sharpe

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns; Horror

Synopsis

Death waits in the dark...

In the wilds of Arkansas swamp country, someone—or something—is on a killing spree. And the only things left behind are the victim’s heads. Fargo would rather just pass through and not get too involved. But there are some acts of savagery that cannot be ignored. And the Trailsman is about to face off against a killer unlike any he’s ever met....

Release date: May 6, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 176

Sample

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 Arkansas swamp country—and the winds of war are in the air.

1

The thunderstorm threatened to catch Skye Fargo in the open. He’d hoped to reach the inn he was bound for before it broke but the front moved too swiftly. The afternoon sky was dark with roiling clouds. Shrieking wind bent the trees and the already humid air was heavy with the promise of the rain to come.

Fargo needed to seek cover. Arkansas storms could be gully washers. He wasn’t partial to the notion of having his hat and buckskins soaked clean through. So when he came to a bend and spied a smaller trail leading off into the woods, he reined into it, thinking it might take him to a settler’s cabin where he could ask to be put up until the storm passed. Some home cooking wouldn’t hurt, either. He had money in his poke to pay for a meal.

The wind keened louder and the trees whipped in a frenzy. In the distance thunder rumbled.

Fargo went around a bend and drew rein in mild surprise. He’d found a cabin, all right, but it had seen better days. Half the roof had buckled, the front door lay on the ground, and vines hung over the window. Still, it was shelter. Dismounting, he held firm to the reins and led the Ovaro around to the side where an overhang jutted four or five feet. It would protect the stallion from the worst of the rain. Patting the Ovaro’s neck, he said, “This will have to do, big fella.”

The Ovaro stamped a hoof. It wasn’t skittish like some horses were with thunder and lightning, unless the storm was severe.

Fargo tied the reins, shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, and went around to the front doorway and peered in. There was a dank odor. Warily entering, he kicked the wall to test how sturdy it was. Then, squatting, he faced the doorway and placed the Henry across his lap.

Fargo’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day. There was pemmican in his saddlebags. He should have helped himself to a few pieces but now it would have to wait.

With a tremendous thunderclap, Nature unleashed her elemental fury. A deluge fell, rain so heavy that Fargo couldn’t see three feet, the drops so large that they struck the ground like hail. He heard the Ovaro whinny and glanced through a gap in the wall. The stallion had its head high and its ears pricked but it wasn’t trying to break free.

The downpour continued. Lightning seared the firmament again and again. A particularly vivid bolt seemed to light up the entire sky and lent an eerie glow to the falling rain. The glow faded, but before it did, Fargo could have sworn he saw something silhouetted against the backdrop of the trees, something on two legs, and huge.

Fargo’s first thought was that it must be a bear. There weren’t any grizzlies in Arkansas but there were plenty of black bears and some of them grew to considerable size. It might be seeking shelter from the rain, too.

Fargo rose and levered a round into the Henry’s chamber. The last thing he wanted was to tangle with a bruin. He waited but nothing appeared. He was about convinced he must have imagined it when another bolt turned the rain into a shimmering waterfall, and there, barely a long stride from the doorway, stood the great hulking figure he had seen before.

Involuntarily, Fargo’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t make much out. It was a man—that was certain—taller than he was and twice as wide across the shoulders. A man wearing a hooded affair that draped practically to his knees. In the flash from the lightning, the man’s entire body seemed to blaze with fire. Then the light faded, and Fargo cleared his throat and said, “Who’s there?”

There was no answer.

Fargo stepped to the doorway. Cold drops spattered his cheeks and brow as he hollered again, “Who’s there? You’re welcome to join me.” He said that even though part of him sensed an indefinable danger.

Again there was no reply.

Fargo glanced at the Ovaro to be sure it was still there. He faced the doorway as a sound wafted out of the storm, a ululating howl that rose from a low pitch to a high wail. Goose bumps erupted as he realized it must have come from the throat of the man he had just seen and not from any animal. Taking a step back, he leveled the Henry. He half expected the apparition to charge out of the downpour but the howl faded and nothing happened.

Fargo stayed standing a long while. Finally he eased down cross-legged and tried to make sense of the giant shape and the eerie cry. He was amid low hills at the edge of bayou country. The locals were a mix of backwoodsmen and denizens of the deep swamps. Poor folks, mostly. They weren’t always friendly to strangers but by and large they were hospitable enough.

They weren’t known for howling in rainstorms.

Maybe the man was drunk. He recollected that time in Denver when he’d had so much whiskey that when he walked a dove to her boardinghouse, he’d howled at the moon to amuse her.

He listened for another but the rain and the thunder went on unbroken. For over an hour the tempest lashed the earth. At last the rain slackened and the thunder faded and the darkness brightened to gray.

Fargo stayed put until no drops fell. Stepping outside, he admired the wet world the storm had left in its wake: the glistening leaves and dripping limbs, the sheen on the grass, the blue pools and here and there a tiny rivulet.

Going to the overhang, Fargo was about to unwrap the Ovaro’s reins when he drew up short. Etched in the dirt were a pair of tracks. Footprints, easily the largest he’d ever seen. He placed his own boot next to one and whistled. The other was at least four inches longer and half again as wide. The man was a giant. Fargo was glad he hadn’t tried to take the stallion.

Set to climb on, Fargo froze a second time. Squatting, he examined the tracks more carefully. Instead of the rounded edge of a boot or shoe at the front of each, there were five slight indentations. They looked, for all the world, like claw marks. But he was absolutely certain the figure had been a man.

“What the hell?” Fargo said out loud. Scratching his chin, he looked about for more prints.

There were only the two under the overhang. The rest had been obliterated by the storm.

Puzzled, Fargo shoved the Henry into the scabbard, forked leather, and resumed his journey. He had a few miles to go to the inn. It had taken him two days more to reach Arkansas than the army counted on but he’d had a far piece to come.

He reached the main trail and reined to the south, thinking of the meal he would treat himself to. Beefsteak with all the trimmings sounded nice. And a gallon of coffee to wash the food down.

The next moment his empty belly became the least of his concerns.

For there, lying in the middle of the trail, was a human head.

2

In hostile country west of the Mississippi River it was rare but not unusual to come on atrocities. A family of homesteaders, butchered. Emigrants with a wagon train, wiped out. But this was Arkansas. There were no hostiles. Outlaws, yes, but none that Fargo heard of went around chopping off heads.

Drawing rein, Fargo stared in disbelief. The head was that of a young man with sandy hair and beard and with eyes almost as blue as Fargo’s own. Ragged strips of flesh told Fargo the head hadn’t been chopped off. It had been ripped from the neck with incredible brute strength.

Then Fargo noticed something else. Something that gave him a start and made him place his hand on his Colt.

The head was dry.

It had been placed there after the storm.

With a flick of his wrist, Fargo drew. He scanned the vegetation to the right and left of the trail but saw no one.

Scuttling clouds still filled much of the sky and the woods were in shadow. The man—or thing—that did this could be anywhere.

Dismounting, Fargo debated. He could kick the head into the brush or bury it. Except that the local law would want to know of the murder, and to see the grisly find for themselves.

Fargo wasn’t about to carry it. He decided to wrap it in a blanket. Untying his bedroll, he was hunkering to unroll it when the undergrowth moved more than the fading wind would cause.

Gliding to an oak, Fargo crouched. “Who’s there?” he called out. “I know someone is.”

No one replied.

Fargo had no intention of going in after them. As wet as everything was, the killer could stalk him silently. Wet twigs didn’t snap like dry ones. Wet grass didn’t crunch underfoot.

Time crawled.

Fargo held himself still, waiting for the other man to give himself away. When he had to, he could be as patient as an Apache. He’d outwait whoever it was. They were bound to make a mistake eventually.

Suddenly Fargo sensed that he wasn’t alone. Every instinct he possessed warned that someone had crept up behind him. He began to whirl and glimpsed—something—out of the corner of his eye.

And then the back of his skull caved in.

•   •   •

Consciousness returned slowly in fitful spikes of feeling that filled him with pain and then drowned him in waves of darkness. Each spike lasted longer, until, with a gasp and a jolt, he opened his eyes and sat up. He shouldn’t have. Agony was the only way to describe his head. He raised a hand and discovered a knot. That, and his hair matted by dried blood.

Fargo realized that if whoever struck him had done so any harder, he wouldn’t be breathing. He had been lucky. Nausea struck, and he doubled over and breathed deeply until the sickening sensation stopped.

Only then did he remember the head.

It was still there, in the middle of the trail. Only now it wore a hat. His hat, once white but now brown from so much use.

“Son of a bitch,” Fargo exclaimed. Whoever slugged him had done it just to put his hat on the severed head? That was plain loco. It was the sort of senseless prank a child might play.

Fargo snatched his hat, swiped at some blood, and placed it back on. It made his head hurt worse.

“Thanks for the warning,” he said to the Ovaro. It was a wonder the stallion hadn’t been taken. Most highwaymen wouldn’t pass up a fine mount. Then again, most highwaymen didn’t rip heads off.

Fargo wasted no more time. He wrapped the head in a blanket, cut whangs from his sleeves to fashion a long cord, and wrapped the cord around the bundle so the head wouldn’t fall out. Since the head wouldn’t fit in a saddlebag, he hung it from his saddle horn.

As he stepped into the stirrups, his instincts screamed another warning. Unseen eyes were on him. He looked but saw only forest.

His head pounding, he lightly tapped his spurs to the Ovaro. The squish of hooves, the slap of mud drowned out any other sounds. He came to a bend and slowed to look back.

Off in the trees a huge form flitted. It was there and it was gone, so fleeting that had he blinked, he’d have missed it. Like before, he couldn’t make out much other than the thing was immense.

“I owe you, you son of a bitch,” Fargo said.

Was he hearing things, or did it answer in a low grunt?

Fargo rode on. He became aware of being shadowed. He never saw anyone but he could sense a presence. The shadow’s woodcraft was superb. Whoever it was could move like a ghost. The shadowing went on for miles.

If not for the menace, Fargo would have enjoyed himself. The Arkansas woods were lush with life. Songbirds warbled, a jay squawked, a cardinal lent a splash of red to the green.

His shadow finally left him. As if it wanted him to know, it made a lot of noise moving off. And then something occurred that made Fargo wonder if he was wrong about it being a man.

The thing roared.

3

Fargo had never been to the Havenpeak Inn. The name gave the impression it must be on a mountain but the inn sat on a hill. A high hill by Arkansas standards, but at two hundred feet it was a bump compared to the Rockies.

The inn was built in colonial times by a shipping magnate who wanted a quiet place to get away. It drew so many visitors that a small hamlet, called Haven, sprang up at the bottom of the hill.

That was all the background the army had given Fargo, and now here he was, near the end of his long ride from Fort Laramie.

Fargo hadn’t liked being asked to deliver a pouch. He was a scout, not a dispatch rider, but the army needed someone they were confident could get through to General Canton. He had no idea what was in the pouch. The colonel at Fort Laramie hinted it had something to do with the rumor that a war between the North and the South might break out sometime soon.

All Fargo wanted was to deliver it and head back.

Havenpeak was an impressive stone-and-lumber edifice. A gravel road wound up it past outbuildings and shacks and a stable. It seemed strange to see well-dressed patrons casually strolling about the well-maintained gardens in the middle of the Arkansas wilderness.

Fargo drew rein at the stable and dismounted. He would love nothing better than to take the dispatch pouch and his saddlebags and go wash up but first things first.

A stableman in an outfit that looked more fitting for winter wear than summer came up the aisle and bowed his head. “Sir, I’ll see to your horse if you don’t mind.”

“Who’s in charge here?” Fargo asked.

“Sir?”

“The inn,” Fargo clarified. “Who runs it?”

“Mr. Lafferty owns it but he’s hardly ever here. Mr. Hoffstedder, the manager, is the gentleman to see.”

“I’d be obliged if you’d fetch him.”

The stableman hesitated. “I don’t mind doing so, sir. I don’t mind at all. But you see, Mr. Hoffstedder doesn’t like to be disturbed unless it’s important. Are you sure someone else can’t help you?”

Fargo took the bundle off his saddle horn, set it down, and opened the blanket enough for the stableman to see what it contained. “What do you think? Is this important enough?”

The whites of the stableman’s eyes showed as he took a step back and exclaimed, “Land sakes! Another one! I’ll fetch Mr. Hoffstedder right quick.”

“Don’t tell him why.”

“Sir?”

“Just say I’d like to see him,” Fargo said. The army wanted him to avoid attracting attention, as the colonel put it, to keep his mission secret from “the other side.”

“Very well, sir.”

While he waited, Fargo stripped the Ovaro, placed his saddle and saddle blanket in the tack room, and put the stallion in a stall. He was feeding it oats when the stableman hurried in with another man puffing behind him.

“This is Mr. Hoffstedder, sir.”

The manager wasn’t much over five feet tall and nearly as wide. He had on a knee-length coat and a top hat and carried a cane with a brass knob. “I trust this is important. My man, Eli, here, informs me that you insisted on seeing me and that it’s urgent but he wouldn’t say why.”

Fargo unwrapped his bundle a second time.

Hoffstedder paled and took a step back, his hand rising to his throat. “God in heaven. Is there no end?”

“To what?” Fargo asked.

“To these killings,” Hoffstedder replied without taking his eyes off the grisly find. “To the horror of murder after murder.” He extended his cane and touched the head and it rolled over, facing him. “My word! I know that fellow. It’s Jerrod Wilkes. His family has lived here a good many years.”

“Who would want to kill him?”

Instead of answering, Hoffstedder wheeled and lumbered from the stable as fast as his feet could take him. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back with the sheriff in no time,” he said over his shoulder.

Fargo wouldn’t have thought there was a lawman within a hundred miles. “Sheriff?” he said to Eli.

“Yes, sir. Sheriff Ashley. He came from the county seat about two months ago because of the first killing and he’s been staying down to Haven ever since.”

“How many dead have they found?”

The whites of Eli’s eyes were showing once more. “It’s only ever the heads, sir. Never a body to go with them.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Like that,” Eli said, with a bob of his chin. “Seven so far, I do believe. They always show up in the strangest places. The first was found in the middle of a street in Haven. The second was jammed on a rake in front of the general store. Another one was placed on the steps of the church.” Eli lowered his voice. “Folks says as how there’s a haunt on the loose. They call it the Night Terror.”

“A ghost that rips off heads?” Fargo said, and couldn’t resist a grin.

“Something is doing it, sir,” Eli said. “And if it’s not a spook, then you tell me what goes around ripping off heads?”

Fargo thought of the giant figure in the rain. “Has anyone ever seen this spook of yours?”

“A few folks,” Eli said. “They say it’s real big and moves like a ghost and vanishes into thin air.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Fargo said.

“Then there’re the tracks,” Eli went on. “Folks have been whispering they ain’t entirely human.”

“I’ve seen a few,” Fargo said, “and they were strange.”

“There you go, sir,” Eli said. He looked around and lowered his voice. “Although there’re also those as say it’s not no spook but a monster.”

“Oh brother,” Fargo said.

“They say it comes out of the swamp at night to tear off heads and then goes back into the swamp to sleep the days away.”

“It’s nice to know they have it figured out.”

“What do you think is doing it, sir?”

“An idiot.” Fargo’s stomach growled again, reminding him of how famished he was. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be in the inn.”

“But Mr. Hoffstedder told us to wait here.”

“He’s your boss, not mine.” Fargo adjusted the strap to the dispatch pouch, which was slanted across his chest.

“He’ll be powerful mad you didn’t listen.”

“I’m plumb scared.” Fargo draped his saddlebags over his shoulder, rested the Henry in the crook of an arm, and grinned. “Don’t let the Night Terror get you.”

“Oh, sir,” Eli said, but he grinned. “You’re the one who should worry. The Night Terror only kills white folks.”

“It had its chance and left my head on.”

Hoffstedder must have said something to others. Word was spreading and strollers from the garden were converging and people were coming out of the inn.

Over a dozen so far, including several women in gay dresses and hats and one with a parasol.

Fargo drew a lot of stares as he shouldered through them. His boots scuffed the marble steps and then he was in a cool foyer with hardwood walls and a polished floor and a grandfather clock ticking away. He didn’t cross to the front desk. Instead, he turned under a wide arch and took a seat at a table. Almost immediately a waiter appeared, bearing a menu.

“Don’t people eat around here?” Fargo said as he leaned the Henry against a chair. No one else was there.

The waiter, a gray-haired gent with rheumy eyes, gestured at tables with plates of half-eaten food. “Everyone has gone to see the head, sir.” He paused. “Do you know about them?”

“I’m learning.” Fargo said. He opened the menu and stabbed his finger at an entry. “Is the beef fresh?” He’d been to restaurants where they kept the meat hanging until it was green.

“Not as fresh as the catfish, sir. A swamper brings us a new catch each day. But I daresay the cook takes pride in her work and you’ll find the beef as tasty as any, sir.”

“No need for that,” Fargo said.

“For what, sir?”

“All that sirring.”

“There is a need, sir. If I don’t, Mr. Hoffstedder will fire me. He’s a stickler about his rules, and calling everybody sir is right at the top.”

“Bring a pot of coffee,” Fargo said, “and tell your cook to outdo herself.”

“An entire pot, sir? Very well.” The waiter bowed and walked off.

Fargo sat back, relaxing for the first time in days. As soon as he found General Canton and handed over the pouch, he’d head for the Rockies. Although, now that he thought about it, he should stick around a few days, to let the Ovaro rest.

The coffee came, piping hot and black, and after a couple of cups, Fargo felt the vinegar return to his veins. He was eagerly awaiting his steak when boots tramped and in walked Hoffstedder with a man wearing a badge.

The sheriff was short and lean and looked downright mean. He hadn’t shaved in days and his clothes were badly rumpled. He wore a Remington high on his hip and a belt knife, besides. He also wore a constant scowl.

Hoffstedder pointed at Fargo and the sheriff marched up to Fargo’s table and planted himself and announced, “I’m Sheriff Ashley.”

“Good for you,” Fargo said.

“That’s not how you should talk to me. I’m not a man you want to cross.”

“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.

“So that’s how it is,” Ashley said. “I’ve only just met you but I can’t say much for your attitude.”

“Same here.”

The lawman’s scowl deepened. “How about if I cut this short and arrest you?”

4

Skye Fargo placed his right hand on the edge of the table above his holster. “If I’d broken a law I might let you. Since I didn’t, you won’t.”

Sheriff Ashley stiffened. “You picked the wrong day to brace me,” he said, and his own hand started to move along his belt toward his six-shooter.

“Gentlemen, please!” Hoffstedder said, stepping between them. “You’re not roosters, for God’s sake. This isn’t a pecking contest.” He shook a finger at Ashley. “Your job is to find the Night Terror, not intimidate my guests.”

To Fargo’s surprise, Ashley let his hand drop to his side.

“You’re right. I’m letting it get to me. I’ve been at it so long, I’m not thinking straight.”

“It would help if you got some sleep,” Hoffstedder said. “When was the last time you had a good night’s rest?”

“Sleep?” Ashley said. “What’s that?”

Fargo pushed an empty chair out with his boot. “Why don’t you join me, Sheriff? I have plenty of coffee and you look like a man who could use some.”

Ashley hesitated, then sank down and tilted his hat back on his head. “This Night Terror has run me ragged.”

“If that’s all he’s done, count your blessings,” Fargo said. “He damn near killed me.”

Both the sheriff and Hoffstedder said “What?” at the same time.

Fargo told them about his run-in with the apparition in the rain and how he found the head.

“Good God, man,” Hoffstedder said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“What I want to know,” Sheriff Ashley said, “is why the Terror didn’t take your head?”

“Perhaps the thing is fussy,” Hoffstedder said.

“That’s just stupid,” Ashley replied.

“Or maybe it wanted him to be able to report finding Jerrod Wilkes’ head,” Hoffstedder said, unflustered. “It always seems to want the heads to be found.”

“No ‘seems’ about it,” Ashley said.

“Whoever this killer is,” Fargo interjected, “I owe him.”

“Or whatever,” Hoffstedder amended.

Sheriff Ashley swore. “Don’t start with that again. It’s a man. Not some spook or some monster.”

“You’re forgetting the tracks,” Hoffstedder said. “You heard Mr. Fargo, here. He told us the tracks he saw had claws.”

“I can’t explain that,” Ashley said, “yet.”

“No offense, but you can’t explain anything about this whole terrible business.”

“It’s not as if I’m not trying,” the lawman said.

Hoffstedder glanced out the front window and reacted as if he’d been jabbed with a knife. “My word. Look at all those gawkers. I’d better go close the stable until you’re ready to dispose of the head.” He hurried away.

Ashley caught the waiter’s attention and asked for a cup. He didn’t speak again until he had filled it and taken several long swallows. “I’m grateful.”

“Is it true the killing has been going on for two months?” Fargo said.

The sheriff nodded. “Seven good people murdered, and I’m no closer to catching the culprit than I was after the first.”

Fargo would have thought it should be easy. “How many men around here are as big as the one I saw?”

“That’s just it,” Ashley said. “No one is.”

“There has to be someone.”

“I figured the same,” Ashley said, “when I found the first tracks. I’ve asked everyone in Haven, all the folks living in the woods and the swamps, but no one has seen hide nor hair of a man as big as a bear.”

“Well, damn.”

“I’ve tried dogs but they only go as far as the swamp and lose the scent in the water.”

“So the part about the Terror coming out of the swamp is genuine?”

“That’s about the only part that is. The rest of it, that the thing is a haunt or a beast no one has ever seen before, has to be pure nonsense.”

“Has to be,” Fargo agreed, and noticed that the sheriff didn’t seem so sure. “But . . . ?”

“But if it’s a man, if it’s flesh and blood, it’s like no man I ever ran across,” Ashley said quietly. “It comes and goes with hardly anyone seeing it. The few times someone had caught a glimpse, it vanished in front of their eyes. And once, when I put dogs on it after finding a head, we chased it over ten miles at a pace that wore out the dogs but it was still going strong.”

“It?” Fargo said.

“Force of habit,” Ashley said. “Most everyone hereabouts calls the Night Terror ‘it’ and I find myself doing the same.”

“Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake and you’ll have him.”

“I hope to God you’re right.” Ashley coughed and looked out the window at the collection of curious souls. “Damn.” He drained his cup and stood. “I’d like to talk to you again sometime but right now I’d better go help Hoffstedder disperse the crowd and see to that head.”

“I’ll be here a couple of days,” Fargo mentioned. “If there’s anything else you need to ask about.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

The people out the window were growing animated. Two men raised their voices and were arguing. One poked the other and a fight was on the verge of breaking out when Sheriff Ashley waded in. He pushed the two men apart and barked commands and the rest began to move away