The Trailsman (Giant): Desert Duel

Book 0: Trailsman

by Jon Sharpe

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Fargo chases down a Celestial star.

After going bust in a San Francisco Fargo poker game, Fargo is desperate for cash.  So when a Chinese gentleman offers him a thousand dollars to find the man's missing daughter, Fargo reluctantly agrees. But his search quickly turns into something much more.
 
Other Chinese have been disappearing—and a trail of tears and terror leads Fargo all the way to the wastelands of Death Valley, where the monstrous Tobias Cain has transformed the desert landscape into an oasis fed by a secret water source and an unlimited supply of Chinese slave labor. Now, Fargo is going to take Cain and his entire vile operation down, and turn the desert paradise into bloody perdition…

Release date: February 6, 2007

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 288

Sample

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

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

DEAD MAN

Rifles and pistols banged. Slugs sizzled in the night air. It did not occur to Fargo until later that while the slugs came close, the shots were either wide or high. The men shooting at them were deliberately missing.

A gully opened almost under the noses of their mounts. Fargo went down the incline in a spray of dirt and rocks. At the bottom he hauled on the reins and was out of the saddle before the Ovaro came to a stop. Shucking the Henry from the saddle scabbard, he scrambled to the top.

Cain’s men were sweeping toward the gully from all sides. In their eagerness they were careless.

Fargo shoved the Colt into his holster and tucked the Henry’s hardwood stock to his shoulder. He fired three times as rapidly as he could work the lever. Riders to the north, west, and east toppled. The rest were quick to scatter and seek cover.

Gravel crunched as May Ling hunkered by Fargo. Her hand found his arm and lightly squeezed. “Thank you for trying.”

“We’re not caught yet,” Fargo said, but he was not fooling anyone, least of all himself.

SIGNET
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, February 2007

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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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eISBN : 978-1-101-00756-3

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.

The inferno known as Death Valley, 1861—
where the air burns the lungs,
the women sizzle, and hot lead flies fast and furious.

1

The sun baked the land and the rider. It scorched the air so the rider felt as if his lungs were on fire. That was normal for the Panamint Mountains in the middle of July. The mountains bordered Death Valley. During the summer, nowhere on the continent was hotter.

Skye Fargo would rather be somewhere cooler, but this was where his quest had brought him. A big, broad-shouldered man with piercing lake blue eyes, he pushed his hat back on his head and ran a buckskin sleeve across his perspiring brow. Strapped to his waist was a Colt. Snug in his saddle scabbard nestled a Henry repeater. The Ovaro he rode snorted as he drew rein and stared down at a settlement that had not been there the last time he passed through this neck of the country.

Calling it a settlement was a stretch. Fargo counted nine buildings. The biggest was a saloon. Beside it stood a frame house in need of paint. Past the house were eight shacks barely bigger than outhouses. At first glance he thought they were sheds, but then he saw figures going in and coming out of several of them.

Fargo clucked to the Ovaro. If people wanted to live in a place with no more room than a closet, that was their business. His business was to earn the thousand dollars he had been paid by a certain well-to-do individual in San Francisco.

The Ovaro’s hooves clattered on the rocky trail. It was no surprise the sound carried to the buildings below. Nor was it a surprise when four men came out of the saloon and stared up at him. Three went back in. The fourth leaned against a post and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt to make it appear as if he had nothing better to do, but Fargo wasn’t fooled. Only an idiot stood outside in that heat without a damn good reason.

Fargo lowered his hand to his holster and loosened his Colt. The information he unearthed in San Francisco, the information that brought him here, had warned he was riding into trouble. He had not known what form the trouble would take, or exactly when and where it would show itself.

Not that it mattered. Fargo would do what he was being paid to do, and if anyone tried to stop him, he had no qualms about doing whatever it took to get the job done. That was part of why he had been hired.

Fargo pulled his hat brim low over his eyes to ward off the glare of the sun. The brush was a tinderbox. All it would take was a moment’s carelessness to set the whole mountain range ablaze. He was reminded of that because the man leaning against the post was rolling a cigarette.

A crude sign on the saloon let the world know it was called THE WHISKEE MILL. In smaller scrawl was the tidbit THE LAST WATARING HOLE UNTIL DEAF VALLEY WET YOUR THROTE WHILE YOUR STILL BREETHING.

Fargo drew rein and leaned on his saddle horn. “That’s some sign. Whoever wrote it must win a lot of spelling bees.”

The man rolling the cigarette squinted up at the sign, then at Fargo. He had a mop of brown hair, a weak chin covered with stubble, and eyes that glittered like a weasel’s. His clothes were store-bought and had seen better days. The Remington strapped to his hip was new, though. “If you have a complaint, take it up with Pardee. He runs the place.”

Six horses were at the hitch rail. Fargo kneed the Ovaro over and stiffly dismounted. Arching his back, he scanned the dusty street. “Not much to this gob of spit, is there?”

The man allowed himself a chuckle. “No, there sure ain’t, friend. Which is why strangers in these parts are scarce. What might be your business?”

“I’m not your friend and my business is my own.” Fargo looped the reins around the rail, shucked the Henry from the scabbard, and stepped onto the porch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man stiffen in resentment, then relax.

“I guess I had that coming. It doesn’t do to pry into other folks’ affairs.” The man smiled, showing teeth nearly the same shade of yellow as the sun. “I’m Hank, by the way. What might your handle be?”

“I’ve plumb forgot,” Fargo said.

The saloon door was propped open with a broom. Fargo strolled in and stopped just over the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The place reeked of liquor and less savory odors. To the right was the bar, such as it was; a long plank had been placed atop stacked barrels. To the left were tables. Only one was occupied, by three men playing cards.

A sausage-shaped bartender in a dirty apron leaned on the plank, his knuckles as big as ham’s knuckles. “What can I get for you, mister?”

“Coffin varnish,” Fargo said. “And it better not be watered down.” He set the Henry on the plank with a loud thunk and turned, resting his elbows on the plank. The three at the table were studying him but trying not to be obvious about it.

Hank ambled in and over to their table. Bending, he whispered a few words to a beanpole with a beaked nose and a long, skinny neck. The human turkey buzzard wore a flat-brimmed black hat and a black vest.

“Hell, mister,” the bartender was saying as he turned to a shelf crammed with bottles. “This isn’t the big city. I don’t go in for those kinds of tricks. You pay your money, you get what you pay for.”

“I take it you must be Pardee?” Fargo said, accepting a bottle and a glass that could use cleaning.

The bartender smiled and nodded. “That I would. And who might you be?”

Fargo ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Why in God’s name did you open a saloon in this godforsaken place? You must not want many customers.”

Pardee snorted good-naturedly. “Oh, I get more than you might think. As for the why, let’s just say I was made an offer that—” He suddenly stopped.

Fargo did not need to turn his head to know that the two-legged turkey buzzard had come over. Hat brims were handy for more than blocking the sun. He could peer out from under his without being noticed. The turkey buzzard was staring at him as if he were a bug that needed squashing. Without turning Fargo asked, “Do you want something, you peckerwood?”

The turkey buzzard blinked in disbelief. “What did you just call me?”

“Are you hard of hearing as well as ugly?” Fargo filled the glass.

Pardee had stepped back and was trying to shrink into the wall. “Here, now. You can’t come waltzing in and insult people,” he said without much conviction.

“It’s the epidemic,” Fargo said.

The turkey buzzard and Pardee swapped puzzled looks, and Pardee said, “What in hell are you talking about, mister?”

“The epidemic of nosiness,” Fargo explained, and faced the buzzard. “You were about to ask who I am and what I’m doing here. I’ll tell you the same thing I told your friend Hank.” He took a long sip of whiskey, using his left hand, and savored the burning sensation before saying, “It’s none of your damn business.”

The turkey buzzard was red in the face, and not from the heat. His left hand drifted close to a Smith and Wesson, worn butt forward for a cross draw. “I don’t think I like you much.”

“Who gives a damn?” Fargo snapped. “Go bother someone else before I take you over my knee.”

The buzzard took a step back. “That’s enough guff. Do you have any idea who I work for?”

Pardee thrust his hands out. “Hold on! There won’t be any blood-spilling, Krast. It took me a whole day to clean up the last mess you made.”

“I’m not the one on the prod,” Krast growled. “It’s this lunkhead who needs to learn some manners.”

Moving so fast he was a blur, Fargo drew his Colt and slammed the barrel against Krast’s temple. He had the Colt back in its holster before Krass melted like so much wax. Raising the glass, Fargo took another sip, smacked his lips in appreciation, and remarked, “You’re right. This is damn good whiskey.”

Pardee was gaping at the slumped form on the floor. Hank and the two cardplayers were equally dumbfounded.

“I don’t suppose I can get a bite to eat?” Fargo asked.

Sputtering, Pardee found his voice. He pointed a thick finger at Krast. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

“Yes or no?”

With a visible effort, Pardee pulled his gaze from Krast. “Sure. I can fix you some eggs and bacon. Or a steak, if you like. Beef, not venison.”

“A thick slab so rare it bleeds? With potatoes? And bread and butter?” Fargo’s mouth watered at the prospect. He had not had a decent meal since leaving San Francisco. On the trail he had made do with rabbit and squirrel and the jerky and pemmican in his saddlebags.

“I’ll even throw in corn and peas,” Pardee offered.

“You have all that?” Fargo was surprised. Cattle were at a premium this far from ranch country, and vegetables did not grow in so arid a region.

“That, and more,” Pardee said enigmatically. He started toward a door at the back but abruptly stopped.

Hank and the other two were converging on Fargo, their hands hovering near their hardware.

“Mister, you just made the biggest damned mistake of your life,” Hank announced. “Our boss won’t take kindly to you beating on Krast.”

“Is that so?” Fargo could not tell them that he was doing what he had to in order to earn the thousand dollars he was being paid. He could not tell them he had ridden in to Whiskey Mill with a plan already worked out. “That’s a scary proposition, if ever I heard one.”

“Poke fun all you want,” Hank glowered, “but you won’t be so smug when Tobias Cain is through with you.”

“Who?”

“Tobias Cain.” Hank said it in the same way a minister might mention the Almighty. “He’s a big man in these parts. Before long, he’ll be one of the biggest hombres in all of California.”

“Never heard of him,” Fargo lied. Because he had, in San Francisco, a few words from a dying man, the words that led him to Whiskey Mill.

“Not yet, maybe, but you will if you live long enough,” Hank said. “Everyone will hear of Tobias Cain before long.”

Fargo polished off the glass in a single gulp, let out a sigh, and set the glass on the plank. “If your boss wants to talk to me, you know where to find me.” Snatching up the Henry, he took the glass and the bottle and shouldered past Hank and the other two and over to a corner table. They did not try to stop him. For the time being they were content to glare. Then, at a nod from Hank, the other pair looped arms under Krast and carried him out.

“Enjoy your meal,” was Hank’s parting shot. “It may be your last.”

Fargo placed the Henry on the table. So far, everything was going as he wanted it to go. He refilled the glass and leaned back. Pardee had disappeared into the back of the saloon. About to treat himself to another swallow of red-eye, Fargo instinctively swooped his right hand to his Colt when a shadow filled the front doorway. But it wasn’t Hank or one of the other hard cases.

It was a woman. An Oriental woman. Judging by her wrinkles and her gray hair, she was in her fifties, maybe her sixties. Instead of a dress she had on a long jacket or shirt and a pair of pants, with sandals. She calmly scanned the room. Then, with her small hands clasped in front of her, she came toward the corner in a sort of mincing shuffle. Bowing, she said in heavily accented English, “So sorry, please. Pardee here?” Her “sorry” came out as “solly,” her “please” as “pwease.”

“He’s in the back,” Fargo informed her. Lady Luck had smiled on him and he aimed to take advantage of it. As the woman began to turn, he said, “Don’t go yet. What is your name?”

“Wen Po, honorable sir.”

Again the woman went to go, but Fargo wasn’t done. “Where do you come from, Wen Po?”

“I live Whiskey Mill.”

“Here?” Fargo said. Then he remembered the small shacks. “Are there other Chinese hereabouts?”

“So sorry,” Wen Po said. “What be hereabouts?”

“In the settlement. In Whiskey Mill.”

“Some, yes. Others—” Wen Po did not finish.

Pardee was stalking toward them with a scowl on his face and his fists clenched. “Damn your yellow hide. What are you doing? I’ve told you before not to come in here without my say-so.”

Wen Po bowed halfway to the floor. “Sorry, honorable sir. Need help. Lu Wei, she be ill.”

Taking hold of the old woman, Pardee roughly propelled her toward the front door. “I’ll check on her when I’m done with my customer. Don’t you ever set foot in here again without permission, Wen Po. You hear me? Not if you know what’s good for you.”

Fargo spoke up. “My meal can wait if someone is sick.”