High Plains Massacre

The man slashed at Fargo's throat and he jerked back and slammed his boot against the man's knee. The small man stayed on his feet. Dropping into a crouch, he snarled with an accent, “Bastard. We will stop you before you can begin.”

Fargo had no time to wonder what he meant. The man came at him slashing and thrusting. Fargo dodged, twisted, sidestepped. Then a quick flick of the other's blade cut his left sleeve and the biceps underneath. The cut wasn't deep but it drew blood.

Fargo boiled with fury. Springing out of reach, he tucked at the knees and slid his hand into his right boot, molding his palm to the hilt of his Arkansas toothpick. As the small man lunged, he streaked the toothpick to meet the other's blade. Steel rang on steel.

Now it was the small man who sprang back. “This is taking too long, big man,” he growled with that accent of his. “The soldiers could come.” And just like that, he whirled to run off.

Fargo wasn't about to let him. He leaped to put himself between the man and the tent opening but forgot about the chair he had kicked. He was reminded when his legs became entangled and he crashed to the ground.

The last glimpse he had of his would-be killer was of the man's wiry frame dashing out the flap.

SIGNET

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, September 2013

The first chapter of this book previously appeared in
Terror Trackdown
, the three hundred eighty-second volume in this series.

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-1-101-62136-3

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.

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.

Skye Fargo wasn't expecting anyone to try to kill him.

Fargo had sat in on a poker game at Paddy's, a tent saloon within shouting distance of Fort Laramie. The Irishman who ran it believed that one day soon a town would spring up and he would build a real saloon and make money hand over fist.

Fargo liked Paddy Welch. Paddy was one of the few men breathing who could down as much liquor as he could and not keel over from whiskey poisoning.

Fargo had just been dealt two queens and two tens and asked for a card and been given another queen. Lady Luck was riding on his shoulder. Now all he had to do was play it smart and build up the pot.

Then two things happened.

The first was a hand that tapped Fargo on the shoulder as someone cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Are you Skye Fargo, the scout?”

About to refill his glass, Fargo turned his head.

A young lieutenant in a clean uniform stood ramrod straight as if on parade, awaiting his answer.

“No,” Fargo said.

“You answer the description I was given by Colonel Jennings. He said to look for a big man in buckskins, with a beard and blue eyes.”

“Jennings, you say? Never met the man.” Fargo filled his glass and set the bottle down.

“How peculiar.” The lieutenant shifted his weight from one polished boot to the other and gnawed on his bottom lip. He had no chin to speak of and a pale complexion, and for a soldier, looked about as intimidating as a kitten. “Do you know this Fargo, then? Could you point him out to me?”

“Never met the man.”

The other players were staring. One, in particular, had his mouth wide in surprise. As well he should, since Bear River Tom had been a friend of Fargo's for years. “Well, tits,” he said, and laughed.

The lieutenant blinked. “Did you just call me tits, mister?”

“He calls everything tits,” Fargo said. “They're all he ever thinks about. If he could, he'd eat them for breakfast.”

“Would I ever,” Bear River Tom agreed, with a vigorous bob of his chin. “Smeared with honey. Or maybe peaches and cream.”

The lieutenant wasn't amused. “I don't know how tits got into this. I'm here on official business. And who might you be, anyhow? You wear buckskins. You're not Fargo, are you?”

“Do I have blue eyes?” Bear River Tom said, and opened his brown eyes as wide as they would open. “Am I so handsome that ladies rip their clothes off and throw themselves at my feet?”

“No,” the lieutenant said. “Don't take this personal, but you're sort of ugly.”

Fargo had just tilted his glass to his lips and burst out laughing and coughing.

“Tits and cream,” Bear River Tom said, and introduced himself. “Who are you, green boy? And why are you interrupting our game?”

The youngster gave a slight bow. “Lieutenant Archibald Wright, at your service. I'm not that green, I'll have you know. I've been on the frontier two months now.”

“Two whole months,” Bear River Tom said.

“Colonel Jennings would very much like to talk to this Fargo character,” Lieutenant Wright said, “and he tasked me with finding him.”

“Don't you hate being tasked?” Bear River Tom said.

“Have you any idea where I can find him?”

“He was planning to light a shuck for Denver,” Fargo said.

Wright cocked his head. “I thought you just said you've never met the man.”

“I heard it from the barkeep.”

“Oh. Colonel Jennings will be terribly disappointed. The matter is most urgent.”

Fargo's curiosity was piqued and he asked, “What is it about, anyhow?”

“You won't believe me if I told you,” Lieutenant Wright said. “It sounds preposterous.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I'm afraid the information is confidential.”

“You can trust us, boy,” Bear River Tom said. “I can keep my mouth shut except around tits.”

“Must you mention them with every breath?” Lieutenant Wright shook his head. “I'd better keep searching in case this Fargo hasn't left yet. The colonel was most insistent.” He gave another sort of bow and marched stiffly off.

“What that boy needs,” Bear River Tom said, “is a night with a handful of tits. It'd take a lot of that starch out of him.”

“Can we go five minutes without hearing about tits?” Fargo said.

Bear River Tom grinned and opened his mouth to say something. Suddenly his eyes grew wide again.

Fargo glanced over his shoulder, thinking that the young lieutenant was coming back. Instead, a much smaller man was coming at him with a knife poised to thrust.

“Look out, hoss!” Bear River Tom bellowed.

Fargo was already in motion. He heaved upright and twisted even as the man with the knife lunged. The blade missed his chest by a hair.

He was still holding his glass and he dashed the whiskey in the would-be killer's face. The man backpedaled, wiping at his eyes with a sleeve.

Letting go of the glass, Fargo kicked his chair at the man's legs. It caught him across the shins, eliciting a howl of pain and anger.

Fargo was sure he'd never seen the man before. He wouldn't forget someone who had an eye patch over his left eye and bore a large scar on his right cheek. The man's clothes consisted of common woolens and boots and a small cap.

Fargo pegged him as a river rat, but what was a river rat doing so far from a river? That was a minor puzzle compared to the important question: Why in hell was the man trying to kill him?

Fargo wanted him alive, which was why he didn't resort to his Colt. Taking a quick bound, he gripped the man's wrist and drove his other fist into the man's scarred cheek. For most that would be enough to bring them down. Fargo wasn't puny. But all the small man did was give his head a shake, hiss like a struck snake, and wrench his arm free.

The other players, momentarily riveted in astonishment, now scrambled to get elsewhere.

Except for Bear River Tom, who whooped, “Give him hell, Skye!”

Fargo ignored his friend and focused on staying alive. The man slashed at his throat and he jerked back and slammed his boot against the man's knee.

The small man stayed on his feet. Dropping into a crouch, he snarled with an accent, “Bastard. We will stop you before you can begin.”

Fargo had no time to wonder what he meant. The man came at him slashing and thrusting. Fargo dodged, twisted, sidestepped. Then a quick flick of the other's blade cut his left sleeve and the biceps underneath. The cut wasn't deep but it drew blood.

Fargo boiled with fury. Springing out of reach, he tucked at the knees and slid his hand into his right boot, molding his palm to the hilt of his Arkansas toothpick. As the small man lunged, he streaked the toothpick to meet the other's blade. Steel rang on steel.

Now it was the small man who sprang back. “This is taking too long, big man,” he growled with that accent of his. “The soldiers could come.” And just like that, he whirled to run off.

Fargo wasn't about to let him. He leaped to put himself between the man and the tent opening but forgot about the chair he had kicked. He was reminded when his legs became entangled and he crashed to the ground.

The last glimpse he had of his would-be killer was of the man's wiry frame dashing out the flap.

“Son of a bitch.” Fargo kicked the chair, heaved to his feet, and gave chase. He burst into daylight and glanced both ways.

The collection of cabins and tents that some folks claimed would one day become a town covered about seven acres. Many were so close together, they practically touched. The man with the eye patch could have darted into any one of half a dozen gaps.

Fargo ran to the nearest but there was no sign of his attacker.

“Did you lose him, pard?”

Bear River Tom and some others were emerging from the tent saloon.

“I reckon so,” Fargo said in disgust.

“Who was he? Why was he trying to stick you?”

“Beats the hell out of me.” Bending, Fargo slid the toothpick into its ankle sheath, making sure it was snug.

“Maybe he has a hate for handsome devils,” Bear River Tom joked. “Him with that patch and that scar.”

“You're not funny.” Fargo examined the cut in his arm. It would heal readily enough but it stung like the dickens.

“He almost had you.”

“Don't remind me.”

It was then that someone cleared his throat and the voice of young Lieutenant Wright said from behind them, “Perhaps you can explain to me why Bear River Tom called you ‘Skye'?”

Fargo turned. “You must not have heard right.”

“I heard him as clear as anything,” Wright said testily. “Play me for a fool once, shame on you. Play me for a fool twice, shame on me.”

“Gosh,” Bear River Tom said, “you're a poet.”

“Stay out of this, you lump,” Lieutenant Wright said, and jabbed a finger at Fargo. “You lied to me, sir. You
are
Skye Fargo, are you not?”

“I cannot tell a lie,” Fargo said.

“I'm not amused by your antics. I assume you pretended not to be you so I wouldn't interfere with your poker game.”

“That's good assuming,” Bear River Tom said. “And why am I a lump?”

Lieutenant Wright ignored him. “As I've already explained, Mr. Fargo, Colonel Jennings sent me to find you. His exact words were that I'm to bring you to him whether you want to come or not.”

“Hold on a minute,” Fargo said. “At least let me finish the hand I was playing before that son of a bitch jumped me.” He was thinking of his full house.

“Uh, pard,” Bear River Tom said. “When you dropped your cards they landed face up on the table. We all saw what you had.” He grinned. “I'm folding.”

“Me too,” another player said.

A third nodded.

“Serves you right for lying to me,” Lieutenant Wright said. “Liars never prosper, or haven't you heard?”

“Isn't he adorable?” Bear River Tom said.

“Well, hell,” Fargo said.