The Trailsman #398

Book 398: Trailsman

by Jon Sharpe

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Is this the end of the Trailsman?

Skye Fargo comes across a massacred Army unit in the Arizona wild, and everyone immediately assumes it was the Apaches. But when he investigates, he finds something even more frightening—a savage pack of feminine felons out for blood and money. But he isn’t about to let any of these wild women get away—not without the Trailsman putting them flat on their backs....

Release date: December 2, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 176

Sample

NEVER STOP A GOOD FIGHT.

SIGNET

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.

1860, Arizona—where blood flows more freely than water, and death waits for the unwary.

1

Skye Fargo was a few miles out of Fort Bowie when he heard shots, a flurry of fifteen to twenty and then a few more, and then more.

Drawing rein, Fargo rose in the stirrups. A big man, broad of shoulder, he wore buckskins and a hat caked with the dust from the past week of long hours in the saddle. He placed his right hand on his Colt and cocked his head to listen.

A stillness gripped the arid Arizona countryside.

Fargo was passing through a range of low mountains. Boulders were more common than trees, and grass was sparse. The ground was parched for water as it always was in the summer. There wasn’t a splash of green anywhere.

Fargo’s lake blue eyes narrowed. A lot of gunshots nearly always meant trouble. A hunter seldom fired that many. That he was in the heart of Apache country—Chiricahua, to be exact—added to his unease.

With a tap of his spurs, Fargo rode on. The Ovaro pricked its ears, which told him the stallion heard something he didn’t. Thanks to the twists and bends of the poor excuse for a road, he couldn’t see more than a few hundred yards ahead.

Fargo held to a slow walk. He never took chances when Apaches might be involved. In his estimation they were about the deadliest warriors on the continent, and crafty as anything. He recollected hearing about the time some whites came on a horse picketed in the open and they rode up, thinking someone had left it there, only to have Apaches sprout out of the ground in ambush. The whites were lucky any of them survived.

Fargo rose in the stirrups again. He thought he’d heard a cry, of pain, maybe. It wasn’t repeated, and he continued on with the hairs at the nape of his neck prickling.

It was a quarter of a mile before he rounded yet another bend and came on a straight stretch. At that point steep slopes pressed on the road from both sides. Anyone passing along the road would be a sitting duck for riflemen hidden above.

And that appeared to be exactly what had happened.

Fargo counted seven bodies. All wore uniforms. Three horses were down, as well. At first he thought it was a patrol out of the fort. But as he cautiously advanced, he spied a wagon on its side, in the brush at the side of the road. It had overturned when the driver tried to escape, was his guess.

The attack wasn’t so much an ambush as a slaughter.

Drawing his Colt, Fargo scanned the slopes but saw no sign of the attackers. They were likely well away by now.

The first body he came on was a private. A boy, really, with a freckled face, and a bullet hole smack in the middle of his forehead.

Next were two soldiers sprawled close together.

Fargo noticed that one had a hole on the right side of his head. The other had been shot in the left temple.

The soldiers hadn’t stood a prayer, not with enemies on both sides.

Close by, someone groaned.

Drawing rein, Fargo swung down. He moved toward where he believed the sound came from and saw a pair of boots and then legs sticking out of brown grass.

The man was on his back, his hat off, a hand pressed to a scarlet stain on his shirt, his face contorted in pain. Another groan escaped him.

Quickly, Fargo knelt. Only then did he notice the insignia on the uniform. “Major?” he said, touching the officer’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

The officer’s eyelids fluttered. He gazed blankly about, as if unsure of where he was, then focused on Fargo and seemed to come to his senses. “Who?” he gasped.

Fargo told him, adding, “I’m a scout. On my way to the fort.”

“Massacred us,” the major said with great effort. “Cut us down like dogs.” He took a deep breath. “My men?”

“I haven’t checked them all yet but you appear to be the only one still breathing.” And it wouldn’t be for long, Fargo reflected. “Who attacked you? How many were there?”

“Didn’t see . . . anyone,” the major got out, and quaked.

That sounded like Apaches to Fargo.

The major moved a finger, touching his chest. “I’m Major Waxler. Paymaster. This was my detail.”

Fargo glanced at the overturned wagon. “Paymaster?” he repeated. “How much is in the wagon?”

Waxler had to try twice to answer. “Thirty thousand dollars. Most in silver and gold coins.”

“I’ll fetch you some water,” Fargo said, and went to rise to get his canteen.

“No.” The major grabbed Fargo’s wrist. “Check on the others first. Please.”

Fargo nodded. He quickly went from trooper to trooper, confirming each was dead, and came to the wagon. The driver hung from the seat, the lower half of his face a ruin. Gripping a wheel, Fargo clambered up. The door had been flung wide. He peered in, and grunted. The wagon was empty.

Jumping down, Fargo returned to Waxler. The major’s eyes were closed. Hunkering, Fargo gripped his hand. “Major?”

Waxler looked at him. “My men?”

Fargo shook his head.

“The payroll?”

Fargo shook his head a second time. “Was it in a strongbox?”

“Bags,” the major wheezed.

Fargo frowned. That would have made it easier for whoever took the money. “I’ll get you that water now.”

“No need,” Major Waxler said. “I’m about done for.”

Fargo didn’t say anything. He refused to offer false hope.

The major gazed at the sky as if searching for something. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Ask the colonel at Fort Bowie to get word to my wife.”

“He’ll do that anyway,” Fargo said.

“I’ve only been married a short while,” Waxler said, and coughed. A drop of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I love her dearly.”

Fargo would rather hear about the attackers. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me about who ambushed you?”

“Geraldine will be crushed,” Waxler said as if he hadn’t heard. “She’s so taken by her new life. To have it nipped in the bud . . .” He coughed again and a second drop dribbled after the first.

“The men who ambushed you,” Fargo prompted.

“I told you,” Major Waxler said. “We never saw them. Except Private Etherage.” Waxler sucked in the deepest breath yet. “He was driving the wagon. Just before the shooting started, he looked up and cried a warning.” Waxler’s brow knit. “Now that I think about it, it was a strange.”

“How so?”

“His exact words were”—Waxler paused—“‘Look up there. Is that who . . .’”

“That’s all?” Fargo asked when the major didn’t go on.

“All,” Waxler said, barely above a whisper. His body seemed to fold in on itself. He looked at the sky once more, said softly, “Geraldine, I’m so sorry.” And breathed his last.

“Damn,” Fargo said. Rising, he debated. He hated to leave the bodies for the buzzards to get at but there weren’t enough horses left to carry all of the dead troopers. The smart thing was to hurry to the fort and let the commander know so a detail could be sent right out.

Stepping to the Ovaro, Fargo hooked his boot in the stirrup and forked leather. He was about to flick the reins when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, high up. Instantly, he palmed his Colt but saw no one. He waited, worried that the Apaches were still up there and had him in their sights. Yet if that was the case, they’d have shot him by now.

After a minute went by and nothing happened, Fargo brought the stallion to a fast walk. To go faster in that blistering heat would exhaust the Ovaro before they got there.

Fargo holstered his Colt and thought of the dead troopers. As bad as the slaughter had been, he’d seen a lot worse. At least the paymaster and his men hadn’t been mutilated. Or been taken alive and carved on.

Fargo was one of the few who didn’t entirely blame the Apaches for the state of grisly affairs. Decades ago, Mexico had placed a bounty on Apache scalps, and scalp hunters from both sides of the border had killed scores of Apache women and children for the few miserable coins on their hair. Sometimes the scalp hunters killed friendly Indians from other tribes and claimed the scalps were Apache.

Then there was that incident some years back where a trader had invited a peaceful band of Apaches to a feast. Once the Apaches were gathered around the food, the trader and his men opened up on them with rifles and a cannon.

Was it any wonder, Fargo reflected, that the Apaches killed every white and Mexican they came across?

The thud of the Ovaro’s hooves was the only sound in all that vast emptiness.

By his reckoning Fargo had less than a mile to go when he crested a hill.

Someone was coming toward him.

Drawing rein, Fargo sat rooted in amazement.

It was a slim woman on a sorrel. She was dressed all in pink, including a pink hat, with a pink parasol held aloft to shield her from the worst of the sun.

The woman spotted him and straightened but kept on coming. As she neared, Fargo saw that the pink hat had a pink feather. Placing his hands on his saddle horn, he said in greeting, “Howdy, ma’am.”

The woman didn’t answer.

As she came up she regarded him coldly. Her eyes were the russet brown of acorns, the long hair that cascaded past her shoulders the same color. She had an oval face, wide across the brow and pointed at the chin, and nice lips.

“Hold on, there,” Fargo said.

She did no such thing. It was apparent she intended to ride on by without speaking.

Fargo wheeled the Ovaro to block her way. “Didn’t you hear me, lady?”

The woman in pink scowled and drew rein. She still didn’t say a word.

“You don’t want to go that way,” Fargo said.

All she did was stare.

“There are Apaches yonder,” Fargo said, pointing back the way he came. “I’m trying to save your hide.” He figured she would finally say something, maybe thank him for stopping her.

Instead, she closed her parasol, raised her right arm, and pointed a derringer at his head.

2

Skye Fargo froze in his saddle. At that range the woman could hardly miss.

“Move your horse and let me pass,” she demanded.

“Didn’t you hear me about the Apaches?”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“You should be, lady,” Fargo said. “They’ll kill you as quick as they’ll kill a man. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and one of them will take you for his own.” Although as Fargo well knew, Apache warriors generally held white women in low regard because they were too soft to adapt to the Apache way of life.

“I won’t tell you again,” the woman said. “If you think I won’t shoot, you’re mistaken. I’ve squeezed the trigger on stupid bastards before.”

“I’m stupid for trying to help you?”

“So you claim,” the woman said. “But if there’s one thing I know about men, you’re all a pack of liars.” She paused, then added, “Almost all of you, anyhow.”

Fargo felt his temper rise. “Lady, a few miles back a paymaster and his men were wiped out and—” He got no further.

The woman’s eyes widened. She uttered a loud gasp, and before he could guess her intent, she reined sharply to the side of the road to get past him, slapped her legs against her sorrel, and broke into a gallop.

Fargo went after her. He had no idea why she was behaving so strangely. By rights, he should let her get herself killed since she wouldn’t listen to reason. Instead, he swore and used his spurs.

Her tresses flying, the lovely figure in pink was riding like a madwoman. She still had the derringer in her hand; it gleamed now and then in the bright sun.

Fargo kept her in sight but didn’t try to overtake her. For one thing, the Ovaro was tired, and for another, while the woman had lost her head, he hadn’t lost his, and he’d like to keep it that way. One of them should keep their eyes peeled for Apaches.

After about a mile and a half the sorrel began to flag, as Fargo reckoned would happen. As hot as it was, about two miles was the limit for a horse at a gallop. The woman should stop and let hers rest a while but she showed no inclination to do so.

Fargo swore some more. Some people had only a thimbleful of brains, if that. He held to a trot, refusing to exhaust the Ovaro because of her stupidity.

Another half a mile and the sorrel was plainly winded. It had slowed, even though the woman was hitting it with her parasol and smacking her legs.

It wouldn’t be long now, Fargo told himself.

It wasn’t. The lathered sorrel came to a halt. Head down, nostrils flaring, it wheezed like a bellows.

The woman in pink was jerking on the reins and saying anxiously, “Get along, there! Get along!” when Fargo came up. Shifting in her saddle, she pointed the derringer. “You again.”

“I have a soft spot for idiots.”

“I told you to stay away. I don’t need your help.”

“It’s not you I’m thinking of,” Fargo said, and nodded at the sorrel. “It’s your animal. You pushed too hard. It’s about wore out.”

The woman glanced at the Ovaro. “Yours isn’t, I see.”

“I’m not as dumb as you.”

Her features hardened and she wagged the derringer. “Get down.”

“What?” Fargo said in surprise.

“You heard me. I’m taking your horse and going on.”

“They call that horse stealing,” Fargo said. “In these parts men get hung for it.”

“I’m not a man, and under the circumstances anyone would understand.” She wagged the derringer more forcibly. “Get down, I say. Don’t make me shoot you.”

“You’re making a mistake, lady,” Fargo said. “The last person who stole my horse, I shot to pieces.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work. Now dismount, damn you.”

Fargo felt his jaw muscles twitch. There was a limit to how much he would abide. Wrapping his reins around his saddle horn, he began to swing his leg up and over.

The woman, taking it for granted he was going to do as she wanted, looked off down the road.

Fargo exploded into motion. Pushing off the saddle, he slammed into her, his arm going around her waist even as he grabbed her wrist to prevent her from shooting him. The impact knocked her from her saddle, and they tumbled to the ground. She managed to twist as they fell, and they both came down hard on their sides. Where most women might have screamed or clawed at him, she grunted, then tried to ram her knee between his legs.

Fargo took the blow on his thigh. Rolling, he straddled her, or tried to. She struggled fiercely, bucking like a mustang. Her free arm flashed, and she punched him on the chin. Grabbing her wrist, he pressed both her arms to the ground. “Calm down, damn you.”

She did no such thing. Hissing in fury, she slammed a knee into his back close enough to his spine to send pain clear up to his neck.

Fargo tried one last time. “I won’t tell you again.”

She didn’t listen. Arching her body, she sought to throw him off, and when she couldn’t, she tried to sink her teeth into his wrist to free her gun hand.

Fargo had taken all he was going to. Balling his fist, he slugged her, almost as hard as he’d hit a man. Her head snapped back and her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t pass out. Quickly, he wrested the derringer from her grasp, and stood. “It’s over, lady. Now behave yourself.”

The woman rose onto her elbows and glared. “Give me that.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Fargo said. “I’m taking you to Fort Bowie whether you want to go or not.”

“Not a chance in hell,” she mimicked him, and kicked at his knee.

Fargo barely dodged. He was strongly temped to slug her again but settled for pointing her derringer at her. “That’s enough out of you.”

“You won’t shoot me,” she brazenly declared, sitting up. “Kill a woman and you’ll be hung.”

“Not when the woman is as loco as you.”

Ignoring him, she rose and swiped at dirt on her dress. “I’m going on with or without my derringer and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I can tie you over your saddle.”

She looked at him, and somehow Fargo had the sense that she was seeing him for the first time. Until now, she had been concerned only about whatever it was that had driven her to nearly ride her horse into the ground. “Look,” she said, “I realize you’re trying to help. I appreciate that. I truly do.”

“You have a hell of a way of showing it.”

To his surprise, she blushed. “It’s just that . . .” She didn’t finish.

“What?”

“I have to go on.”

“Damn, you’re stubborn.”

“Please,” she said, and there was no denying her plea was genuine. “Take me to where the paymaster and his men were attacked. Do that, and afterward I’ll gladly go with you to the fort.”

“Wait a minute.” Fargo glanced in the direction of the slaughter and then at the woman and then off toward Fort Bowie. “You were coming from the fort when I met you.”

“I was,” she said.

“You were riding to meet the detail?”

“I was,” she said again, and her voice broke slightly.

Insight dawned, and Fargo wanted to kick himself. “You’re married to one of the men.”

“I’m Major Waxler’s wife.”

“Then you must be Geraldine.”

She stiffened and suddenly stepped up and placed her hands on his chest, her eyes filling with tears. “You talked to him? He was alive when you found him?”

“For a little bit,” Fargo said, and felt a pang of regret at hitting her. “You were all he thought of at the end.”

Geraldine Waxler bowed her head and uttered a soft sob.

“I’m sorry,” Fargo said. He started to raise an arm to put it around her shoulders to comfort her, but she turned her back to him and went on sobbing. He moved off a short way to let her weep in peace.

In the distance a hawk soared high in the sky.

Fargo should have suspected the truth sooner. No one did what she’d done without good cause. He stared into the heat haze until he heard the rustle of her dress.

“I’m sorry.” Geraldine had wiped her face with a handkerchief and reclaimed her parasol.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’d still like to go see.”

“It’s not a pretty sight.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Geraldine said.

Fargo tried one last time. “They’ll bring the bodies back to the fort. You can see him then.”

“Please.”

Fargo looked into those wonderful eyes of hers, now twin pools of sorrow, and swore.

“Thank you,” Geraldine said.

“I didn’t say I would,” Fargo said, although he knew as well as she did that he’d given in.

“I’ll be quick about it. I promise.” Geraldine’s throat bobbed. “I just have to see him.”

“We’re talking Apaches,” Fargo reminded her.

“I’m well aware of the risk. And that it’s unfair of me to ask you to put your life in danger. Head for Fort Bowie and I’ll go on alone.”

“You want me to just ride off? What do you take me for?”

“A decent man.”

“Hell.” Fargo stepped to the sorrel and held out his hand to her. “Come on. I’ll give you a boost up. Let’s get this over with.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

Geraldine smiled in gratitude. “I just hope I don’t get you killed.”

“Makes two of us,” Fargo said.

3

Given their uncanny knack for finding anything dead to feed on, human or otherwise, Fargo wasn’t surprised to see over a dozen buzzards circling above the ambush site.

“Oh, Lord,” Geraldine Waxler exclaimed in horror. “Those are vultures.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fargo had his hand on his Colt. For all he knew, the attackers might be somewhere near.

“It will be ghastly, won’t it?”

“It won’t be pretty. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Geraldine grimly nodded. “I owe it to Hank.”

“He told me you were only married a short while.”

“Six months,” Geraldine said.

“That’s all?”

“Why do you sound surprised? Because I insist on seeing his body?” Geraldine didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s not how long someone is married that counts. It’s how deeply they love each other.”

Fargo didn’t have much experience in that regard. His dealings with women usually consisted of a tumble under the sheets, and off he went.

“I loved Hank with all my heart,” Geraldine went on. She let a few moments go by and said, “But listen to me. He’s not even buried and I talk about him as if he’s a thing of the past.”

“You’re young,” Fargo said to console her. “You’ll find someone else someday.”

“I don’t want anyone else.” Geraldine frowned. “And I might not look it but I’m pushing thirty. If you think that’s young, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“It’s not old,” Fargo said.

“In my profession it was.”

“What did you do?” Fargo asked, more to hold up his end of the conversation than anything.

“None of your damn business.”

Puzzled by the venom in her tone, Fargo glanced over and saw her stiffen. She was staring up ahead. He looked, thinking she had seen more buzzards feeding on the dead.

Three Apaches were standing near the overturned wagon, watching them approach. All wore headbands and moccasins, and cradled rifles.

Fargo drew rein. Geraldine, thankfully, did the same. He was about to unlimber his Colt when he realized the Apaches weren’t resorting to their rifles. The warriors just stood there, staring.

“It’s them!” Geraldine exclaimed. “The savages who killed my Hank. Do something.”

“Hold on,” Fargo said.

The Apaches showed no concern whatsoever. As casually as if they were on a Sunday stroll, they turned and went around the wagon.

Fargo waited for them to reappear at the other end or to see them climb the slope. But they did neither.

“What are you waiting for?” Geraldine demanded. “Go after them.”

“There are three of them and one of me.” Fargo wasn’t about to rush into their gun muzzles.

“We can’t let them get away.”

“We?” Fargo was looking for sign of more warriors.

“Damn you,” Geraldine spat, and the next moment her derringer was in her hand, and she jabbed her heels.

“Hell.” Fargo took off after her. He caught up just as she reached the wagon. Lunging, he grabbed her bridle but she was out the saddle before he could stop her, and darted around the wagon. “Don’t!” he cried, afraid he would hear the blast of gunfire and see her crumple to earth. But no shots rang out.

Vaulting down, Fargo ran after her.

Geraldine had stopped and was looking around in confusion. “There’s no one here. Where did they get to?”

Fargo was as amazed as she was, and shouldn’t be. He’d dealt with Apaches before. They were will-o’-the-wisps, masters at melting away as if they were never there.

“Where are they?” Geraldine said again. “I saw them as plain as anything.”

“We have to light a shuck,” Fargo urged. At any moment, those warriors might jump them.

“I’m not leaving until I’ve seen my husband.”

“If you’re trying to get us killed,” Fargo said, “you’re going about it the right way.”

“I told you not to come with me,” Geraldine said, wheeling and striding past him. “I could have done this myself.”

To get it over with, Fargo said, “Let me show you where he is.”

Apaches were notorious for their horse stealing so Fargo took the Ovaro and the sorrel along.

Geraldine appeared to be disappointed that she had no one to shoot. “All they did was stare at us.”

“You don’t know when you’re well off.” Fargo was growing annoyed by her thickheadedness.

“I just don’t understand. Apaches are bloodthirsty monsters. Everybody knows that. Yet they haven’t tried to kill us.”

“We stick around long enough, they might change their minds.”

“You’re not the least bit funny.”

“Who’s trying to be?” Fargo came to a halt.

“Why did you stop?”

Fargo pointed at the mortal remains of the late Major Henry Waxler. “Isn’t he why we’re here?”

Geraldine gasped and put a hand to her throat. Rushing over, she dropped to her knees. “Hank! Oh, Hank,” she cried, and buried her face in his shoulder.

One thing Fargo could say, the woman wasn’t squeamish. She didn’t seem to mind that the vultures had been at her beloved. One eye had been plucked out, and the major’s nose and a cheek were in strips and pieces.

Geraldine commenced to sob, deeply and bitterly.

All Fargo could do was wait her grief out. He stood guard, acutely aware that any moment might bring the crash of guns and the yip of war whoops. He was as mystified as Geraldine as to why the Apaches lit out like they did. It was out of character for them to slaughter the detail, then let a lone man and woman live.

Eventually, Geraldine’s sobs dwindled to groans and sniffles. Raising her head, she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am about cried out.”

“Then let’s fan the breeze.”

“I want to take Hank with us.”

“The soldiers at the fort will bring all the bodies back.” Fargo hankered to get out of there while they still could. He was sure unseen eyes were on them.

“When? Tomorrow? The day after?” Geraldine shook her head. “By then there won’t be much left. We take him with us or I don’t go.”

Once again Fargo’s temper flared. “It will slow us down.”

“Not if you put Hank over my horse and let me ride double with you.”

Fargo would just as soon throw her over her horse, but he gave in. The sooner they were under way, the better. In swift order he hoisted the major onto the sorrel, belly down, and ran rope under the sorrel, from Waxler’s wrists to his ankles, to keep the body from sliding off.

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The Trailsman #398

Jon Sharpe

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