Terror trackdown, p.1
Terror Trackdown, page 1
EATER OF THE PACK
Fargo spun.
The three remaining wolves had ringed the Ovaro. Snarling and snapping, they leaped at its legs and its belly.
Rearing, the stallion flailed with its heavy hooves and there was the sharp crack of splintering bones. The Ovaro kicked out with its back legs and sent another wolf tumbling.
The third wolf had crouched and waited for its chance. Now it saw it. With a powerful bound, it sprang at the Ovaro’s unprotected throat. . . .
SIGNET
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The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Bowie’s Knife, the three hundred eighty-first volume in this series.
Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2013
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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
ISBN 978-1-101-60592-9
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.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Excerpt from TRAILSMAN #383
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.
1861, just over the Divide—someone makes the mistake of stealing a certain Ovaro.
1
The wolves came out of the timber at a run.
Skye Fargo wasn’t expecting trouble. He had crossed the Divide over Berthoud Pass and was winding down Clear Creek Canyon toward the Fraser River. Lower down were the foothills and the distant city of Denver.
The only things on his mind were whiskey, cards and women, not necessarily in that order. A big man, wide at the shoulders and slim at the hips, he wore buckskins, boots and a high-crowned hat, along with a red bandanna and a Colt that had seen a lot of use. He was looking forward to a week without a care in the world. He planned to spend it indulging in what some would call wild shenanigans and others would brand downright sinful. He aimed to get lucky, get drunk and get laid, and again, not necessarily in that order.
The army’s campaign against a band of Modocs had taken a lot out of him. The renegades proved hard to find, and once found, proved that they were serious about fighting the white man to the last warrior.
Now Fargo had time to himself, and he couldn’t wait to taste the treats that gave his life spice.
When the three wolves broke out of pines about two hundred yards to the south, Fargo wasn’t alarmed. Wolves hardly ever went after people. They didn’t attack horses often, either.
At first sight he figured they were after deer or some other game. But then he saw that they weren’t paralleling the tree line. They were coming straight toward him. They were coming fast, too.
Bodies low to the ground, ears back, their tails straight, they flew toward him and the Ovaro in a beeline that left no doubt as to their purpose.
“What the hell?” Fargo blurted. He thought about jerking his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard, but why bother? The Ovaro had a big enough lead that it could outrun them. Jabbing his spurs, he brought the stallion to a gallop.
They were on a flat stretch but soon he came to a slope and had to slow. Glancing back, he saw that the wolves were still about a hundred and eighty yards away, give or take a few. He flew down the slope to another flat and used his spurs.
It wasn’t half a minute later that he glanced back again and realized he had miscalculated. The wolves weren’t directly behind him; they were closing at an angle. Already they’d cut the distance to a hundred and fifty yards and now they were coming on even faster.
“Damn.” Fargo urged the Ovaro to its peak and realized something else.
The stallion was tired. They’d been on the go for a lot of days, from sunrise to sunset, pushing hard over some of the most rugged country on the continent.
Still, Fargo had unbounded confidence in his mount. It had saved his hash more times than he could count. Its stamina was exceptional. Even tired, it should be able to leave the wolves breathing its dust.
But when Fargo looked over his shoulder yet again, the wolves were another twenty to thirty yards nearer. They were big and in their prime and over short distances they could bring down a moose or an elk.
Or a horse.
His jaw muscles twitching in anger, Fargo rode as if the Ovaro’s life depended on it. Which it did.
They’d been through too much together. Some folks might deem it silly but he regarded the stallion as more of a pard than an animal. It was a friend, and he’d be damned if he’d let anything happen to it.
Another slope loomed. This one was steeper and littered with boulders, forcing Fargo to slow even more. At the bottom he snapped his head around and genuine worry blossomed.
The wolves weren’t more than a hundred yards away.
“Son of a bitch.”
Fargo began to think about making a stand. Find a spot he could defend and resort to the Henry. If he picked off the fastest wolf, the rest might scatter.
He’d tangled with wolves before. Most were spooked by the sound of gunfire.
That gave him an idea. Drawing his Colt, he shifted in the saddle. He doubted he’d hit them but he fired two swift shots anyway, hoping the blasts would bring them to a stop or cause them to veer away.
No such luck. The three lupine killers came on as determinedly as ever.
Fargo swore more colorfully. He’d gone from being angry to outright mad.
Here he was, minding his own business, and these jackass wolves had taken it into their heads that he and the Ovaro would make a fine feast.
He shoved the Colt into his holster and concentrated on riding.
The next time he glanced back the wolves were only seventy-five yards back.
Fargo needed to find a spot soon. He was at a narrow point in the valley, with forest to the north and the south. Trying to reach it would be pointless. Heavy timber would slow the Ovaro even more, and give the wolves the advantage of cover. He needed to fight them in the open.
Ahead was a flat area, maybe half an acre in extent. There were a few boulders but they were small and a few trees but they were far apart.
“There,” he said to himself.
On reaching it, Fargo hauled on the reins so sharply, the Ovaro slid to a stop on its haunches. He was out of the saddle before it stopped moving, yanking on the Henry as he swung down. He worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber, dropped to a knee and took deliberate aim at the foremost wolf.
By now the wolves were only forty yards away.
Fargo heard the Ovaro whinny and assumed it was because of the three wolves he was about to shoot. Then the stallion whinnied again and he risked a quick glance to find out why and his blood became ice in his veins.
Two more wolves were closing from the north.
It was a typical tactic. A pack split and converged on prey from two or more directions. And while the prey was focused on one group, the rest rushed in close enough for the kill.
Fargo was furious. He should have kept a lookout for more. He fixed a quick bead on the first wolf to the west and smoothly stroked the trigger. At the boom, the wolf went into a roll but was on its paws again in a twinkling and running strong.
Fargo worked the lever to fire again. Things had gone to hell and now it was do or die. He fired again and the first wolf’s legs buckled and slid to a stop and this time it didn’t rise.
Whirling, Fargo snapped a shot at the wolves to the north but he must have missed because the wolf he shot at didn’t slow or stumble.
This was bad. Four wolves, two thirty yards to the west and two about the same to the north. Grim ravagers, out to bring the Ovaro down no matter what. Odds were he couldn’t drop all four before the wolves were on them.
Fargo took a step back thinking that if he vaulted onto the stallion and rode like hell he still might be able to get away, but his left heel struck a rock he hadn’t noticed and before he could catch himself, he fell. He landed on his back and twisted to rise.
The wolves were so close, he could see the gleam of bloodlust in their eyes.
Snapping the Henry to his shoulder, Fargo fired. The wolf he shot at yelped and broke stride but didn’t go down. He worked the lever and fired again and now there were only three but three was more than enough, and the three had reached them.
Another whinny shattered the air as Fargo jacked the lever. He hadn’t quite worked it all the way when a hairy form slammed into him with the impact of an avalanche. The next moment he was flat on the ground with a wolf straddling him, and the only thing keeping the wolf’s slavering jaws from his throat was the Henry, which he had shoved against the wolf’s throat.
The Ovaro whinnied louder than ever.
Fargo could only imagine what was happening. The wolves would go for the stallion’s legs, and if they broke one, or got a good hold, they’d bring it down and go for its neck or its belly.
Fear lent him the strength to heave the wolf off even as fangs tore his sleeve and raked his forearm. Rising onto a knee, he shoved the muzzle at its face and sent a slug crashing through its skull.
Fargo spun.
The three remaining wolves had ringed the Ovaro. Snarling and snapping, they leaped at its legs and its belly.
Rearing, the stallion flailed with its heavy hooves and there was the sharp crack of splintering bones. The Ovaro kicked out with its back legs and sent another wolf tumbling.
The third wolf had crouched and waited for its chance. Now it saw it. With a powerful bound, it sprang at the Ovaro’s unprotected throat.
2
In pure reflex Fargo let go of the Henry and streaked his right hand to his Colt. He drew in less than the blink of an eye. He fanned the hammer, his hand lightning. His first shot impaled the wolf in midleap. His second cored it as it dropped. His third ripped into its skull below its eye and blew out most of its brains in an exit wound near its ear.
Shifting, Fargo went to shoot again but the last two had had enough. As silently as they’d attacked, they loped toward the woodland to the south, never once looking back.
Fargo shivered. It had been close. Too close. Reloading, he stood and stepped to the Ovaro. The stallion was quaking, too, and stamped a front hoof.
“I know,” Fargo said. “I know.” He twirled the Colt into his holster and ran his hand along the stallion’s neck. “God, I’d hate to lose you,” he admitted.
The woods swallowed the wolves.
Fargo stared at the bodies. Abrupt violence was the way of the wilds. He was used to it. But this had caught him off guard. It reminded him, as if he needed the reminder, that he must never, ever let down his guard. All it took was an instant’s carelessness and a man breathed dirt instead of air.
Reclaiming the Henry, Fargo refilled the tubular magazine and shoved the rifle into the saddle scabbard. He gave the Ovaro several affectionate pats, climbed back on and resumed his journey.
The Rockies were in their late-spring splendor. Ranks of pines were broken by phalanxes of oaks and stands of aspens. Cottonwoods thrived along the waterways, which flowed with runoff from the snow-crowned heights. The grass was green, not brown as it would be in the heat of summer, and wildflowers enjoyed their brief time in the sun.
From the eagles and hawks that soared the high currents to the deer and the bear that hid in the thickets and the squirrels and chipmunks that scampered and chattered, the wild things in all their diversity were abundant.
Ordinarily, Fargo would drink it in as a lush drank booze. But he was eager to reach Denver. The scenery was the last thing on his mind.
It would take days to get there, though, and the Ovaro was about done in. So he rode slow and stopped early each evening to give the stallion plenty of rest.
About the middle of a warm afternoon he spied smoke and reckoned it was a campfire. But when he crested a low ridge, lo and behold, in the valley below stood a cabin and a small barn with a corral. The soil had been tilled and two small children were playing with a dog.
Fargo almost went around. He had no interest in settlers. They irritated him, there were so many of them. At the rate people were streaming to the West from east of the Mississippi River, in another hundred years or so the land west of the Mississippi would be as populated as the land east of it. He hated the mere notion.
Then Fargo thought of the Ovaro, and how the settler might have oats, and he gigged the stallion toward the cabin.
The dog spotted him and barked. The kids looked and ran inside. A minute later out came two women. Both had rifles.
Fargo expected a man to come out but none did. A friendly smile on his face, he approached at a walk with his hands where they could plainly see them. They didn’t raise their rifles but they were suspicious and wary and ready to shoot. He drew rein and nodded at the kids peeking at him from the front door, then touched his hat brim. “Ladies,” he said.
They were enough alike to be sisters. Both had flaxen hair and green eyes. Both had oval faces with high cheekbones. Their dresses were simple homespun, their shoes scuffed from work. One looked to be five or six years older than the other and had more pounds on her. She was the one who took a step and demanded, “What do you want here, mister?”
“I was hoping to put my horse up for the night,” Fargo said. “I’d pay for the privilege. Pay for grain, too, if you have any.”
“We’re not a hotel.”
“Cassie,” the younger woman said quietly.
“Hush, Carrie. He’s a stranger.”
Fargo grinned. “Cassie and Carrie?”
“Our ma was fond of C names,” Carrie said. “Her own name was Constance.”
“I told you to hush,” Cassie said. To Fargo she said, “You can just mosey on.”
“Where’s the man of the place?” Fargo asked.
“He’s not here but we expect him back anytime,” Cassie said. “He’d say the same as me.”
“Usually I oblige a lady but my horse is plumb done in.” Fargo took his poke out, undid the tie string, dipped his fingers in and held up a double eagle. “You did hear me say I’m willing to pay.”
“My God, sis,” Carrie said, “that’s twenty dollars.”
Fargo knew that hardscrabble homesteaders like these barely scraped by. He was offering them more than they probably had to their name. “All I want is some feed for my horse. I’ll bed down wherever you say and stay out of your hair.”
Cassie hesitated. She clearly didn’t want to but she couldn’t take her eyes off the double eagle.
“Harold would say yes,” Carrie said. “You know he would.”
Cassie’s mouth became a slit. “Yes,” she reluctantly agreed. “I reckon he would.” She trained her rifle on Fargo. “But first we find out who you are, mister. For all I know, you could be an owlhoot.”
Fargo gave her his name. “I’m a scout.”
“How about you hand over your six-gun and that long gun I see poking out of your saddle and maybe I’ll consider it?”
