Nevada Nemesis Read online

  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

  Teaser chapter

  FARGO’S INSTINCTS FLARED

  Once again a shadow flitted from boulder to boulder along the west rim, pacing him.

  Fargo gave chase; whoever it was might pose a threat. His quarry wore a baggy brown shirt and pants and a brown hat that blended into the terrain, but Fargo would be damned if he would lose sight of him. The stallion swiftly gained.

  Vaulting from the saddle, Fargo broke into a run. He was close enough to hear the rasp of the other’s labored breaths and the thap-thap-thap of the other’s shoes smacking the hard ground. Fargo poured on a last spurt of speed and slammed the Colt against the man’s side.

  Knocked off balance, the skulker careened against a boulder, cried out, and sprawled forward. His hat went flying.

  Fargo cocked the Colt and pressed it against the back of the man’s head. “Stay right where you are.”

  The man froze.

  “Who are you and what are you up to?”

  In a voice as melodious as music, the lurker replied, “Granny told me to hide until you were gone.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Gripping her by the shoulder, Fargo rolled her over. “You’re female.”

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2004

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in St. Louis Sinners, the two hundred seventy-first volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-16613-0

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  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 blistered land that would one day be Nevada, 1871—Where the dead told no tales and the living wished they were no more.

  1

  The big man in buckskins caught up with the wagon train a week after he struck its trail. From a rise, Skye Fargo watched the nine wagons plod southwest across the alkali flats like so many canvas-backed turtles. A thick cloud of dust moved with them, shimmering in the heat haze.

  Nevada Territory was like that. Hot and dusty and sparse on vegetation. An iron land, unrelenting and cruel, home to the hardiest of animals and some of the cruelest of men. It was no place for pilgrims bound for the promised land of milk and honey. Yet there they were.

  Fargo’s lake-blue eyes narrowed. He had spotted two outriders well ahead of the wagons. They were the only ones on horseback. Gigging his Ovaro down the slope, he matched their snail’s pace. It would be dark in a couple of hours. That was when he would make their acquaintance.

  Both Fargo and the Ovaro were caked with dust. His white hat was brown with it. He inhaled it when he breathed and tasted it when he swallowed. He wryly reflected that if dust ever became valuable, the few folks living in Nevada would be downright rich.

  In the distance reared one of the more than thirty mountain ranges that slashed the territory from north to south. It didn’t have an official name yet, to the best of Fargo’s knowledge, although the old-timers sometimes referred to it as the Blood Red Range, after the crimson snow plants that pushed through the snow in the forests at the higher elevations.

  A few prospectors had searched its peaks over the years but none ever struck it rich. The Northern Paiutes and the Western Shoshones both roamed the region. They were on peaceful terms with whites at the moment, although the army had received a recent report of a band of young Paiutes making trouble.

  The piercing cry of a hawk drew Fargo’s gaze to the sky. Other than lizards and snakes and rabbits, wildlife was scarce. He had heard coyotes yipping the night before. But he had not seen any sign of bears, wolves, or deer since leaving the vicinity of the Snake River.

  Fargo figured he was far enough back that he would go unnoticed by the emigrants. Then a shout arose from the last wagon and was relayed up the line. Soon the pair of outriders were galloping to intercept him. As they came up he studied them from under his hat brim, and he did not like what he saw.

  The rider on the right was as stout as a barrel and as greasy as bear fat. A Remington was strapped around his waist, and the hilt of a knife jutted from the top of his right boot.

  The rider on the left was a runt with a chin that jutted like a lance tip and a nose shaped like a fish-hook. He wore a Smith and Wesson. On his head was a raccoon hat that had seen better days.

  Neither had taken a bath in a month of Sundays. They were filthy, their clothes were filthy, their saddles were filthy. They reined up twenty feet away and the stout one raised his hand. “Hold it right there, mister.”

  Fargo kept riding slowly toward them. He had the reins in his left hand and his right hand on his hip, inches from his Colt.

  “Didn’t you hear Swink?” the runt bar
ked. “He told you to halt and you’d damned well better listen.”

  Fargo did not say anything. Nor did he stop. He focused on their gun hands, waiting for a telltale twitch or the jerk of an elbow.

  Swink reined his horse so it was directly in the Ovaro’s path. “By God, you’ll do as we say. Ain’t that right, Raskum?”

  “It sure is,” the runt echoed.

  The Ovaro was only a few feet from Swink’s sorrel when Fargo drew rein. “Move,” he said.

  Swink and Raskum looked at one another and Swink responded, “Is your brain sunbaked? You’re not going anywhere until you tell us who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “We’re the pilots for those prairie schooners yonder,” Raskum added, “and we don’t want you near them.”

  Fargo leaned on his saddle horn. He had worked as a pilot on occasion, and he knew many of the professional pilots who made their livings guiding wagon trains from Independence, Missouri to Oregon Country or California. He had never seen these two before. “I’m not contagious.”

  “Huh?” Raskum said. “What the hell does a disease have to do with anything? We don’t care if you’ve got the measles.”

  “He means there’s no reason for us to keep him from going near the others,” Swink explained.

  “We don’t need a reason,” Raskum said. “We’re the pilots. We can do whatever we damn well feel like.”

  Fargo reined to the right and started to go around them. For a few moments they were speechless with surprise, then both reined their mounts and came up on either side of his pinto stallion.

  “Mister, you must have rocks between your ears,” Raskum snapped. “If you don’t stop that nag right this second, I’m liable to wallop you over the head with the butt of my pistol.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Fargo said. His Colt was in his hand before either could think to stop him. He slammed the butt against Raskum’s temple and the runt keeled from the saddle like a whiskey-soaked drunk and struck the ground with a thud. Spinning the Colt, Fargo pointed it at Swink. “Your turn. Unless you’re more reasonable than your pard.”

  Swink’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down like a walnut on a wind-tossed branch. “Me? Hell. Reasonable is my middle name. If you want to join us a spell, go right ahead. But you can’t blame us for being cautious. It’s our job to make sure those people don’t come to harm.”

  Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster. “You boys should pick a new line of work. You’re not much good at this one.” He rode on.

  Swink quickly caught up. “You’re mighty slick on the draw, stranger. Mighty slick. I never saw your hand move. Not many men are that fast. I don’t suppose you’re someone I might have heard of?”

  Fargo changed the subject. “Are you just going to leave your friend back there?”

  “Hell, I’ve wanted to thump him on the head a few times myself to stop him from flappin’ his gums. He can jabber rings around a tree.”

  “One of those,” Fargo said to keep him talking. The pair matched the description he had been given but they were only the first link in the chain.

  “Sometimes we can’t be too choosy about who we partner up with,” Swink commented. “And Raskum has his good points. He makes the best coffee this side of St. Louis, and he doesn’t snore.” Swink paused. “Do you have a handle or would that be prying?”

  “I have a handle and it would be prying.”

  “Fair enough. Never let it be said I can’t take a hint.” He took the hint for all of ten seconds. “What are you doing in these parts? There isn’t a town within hundreds of miles.”

  “I had to leave Salt Lake in a hurry,” Fargo said. Which wasn’t true. But he could hardly admit the real reason he was there.

  Swink grinned. “I savvy. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. I’ve ridden a few high lines in my time and I know what it’s like to have the law breathin’ down your neck.”

  “And now you’re a wagon train pilot?” Fargo tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  “Heh. Let’s just say things aren’t always what we think they are and let it go at that.” Swink looked back. Raskum was still serving as a fly stool. “Damn. I hope he ain’t dead. I don’t want to take these lunkheads the rest of the way by my lonesome.”

  The wagons had come to a stop. Men, women, and children were leaning from their seats or peering from the back of the wagons. A curly-mopped girl of seven or eight smiled and waved in greeting.

  The drivers of the first two prairie schooners had climbed down and were waiting with rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms. One was almost as broad-shouldered as Fargo and wore clothes typical of a farmer: overalls, homespun shirt, and a short-brimmed hat. He was close to forty, his arms thick with muscle. The second driver wasn’t more than twenty. Lean and gangly, he also bore the stamp of a tiller of the soil. A corncob pipe jutted from his shirt pocket.

  The bigger man started right in. “Mr. Swink, who is this stranger and why have you brought him among us after what he did to Mr. Raskum?”

  Fargo answered before Swink could. “He doesn’t have any say in the matter. I do what I want when I want.”

  “Now see here.” The big farmer gripped his Sharps in both brawny hands. “I’m the leader here, and I do have a say in things.”

  “No, you don’t.” Fargo swung down and walked to a water barrel on the second wagon. Without asking permission he opened it, lowered the dipper in, and treated himself to a swallow.

  “That’s my water,” the young farmer said.

  “Our water,” someone corrected him, and a young woman swung from the seat and put her hands on her hips and glared at Fargo. She had fine blond hair done up in a bun and blue eyes that flashed with anger. “And I’ll thank you, whoever you are, not to drink any without our permission.”

  Fargo took another swallow while admiring the swell of her bosom and the flair of her thighs. “The name is Flint.”

  “Well, Mr. Flint, you have some gall riding in here like this,” the woman declared. “If you’re not careful, we’ll send you packing.”

  “You’re welcome to try.” Fargo gazed the length of the wagon train. The little girl in the last wagon waved again. “You folks sure are off the beaten path.”

  “We’re taking a shortcut—,” the young man began, and was immediately hushed by the older one.

  “It’s unwise to confide our personal affairs, Jared. We want no part of Mr. Flint and bid him to move on.”

  “Do you have a name or should I just call you stupid?” Fargo asked.

  The big farmer drew himself up to his full height. “I’m Peter Sloane, of the Iowa Sloanes. Our family has been in this country since seventeen ninety-six. My grandfather came over from Belgium and was one of the first farmers in Appanoose County.”

  Fargo gave the dipper to the blonde. Her nostrils flared and she hefted it as if she were contemplating hitting him. “Maybe you should have stayed there. Where you’re headed, there’s no law and little water.”

  “Our pilots know every creek and water hole in these parts,” Sloane said. “As for the other, we have plenty of guns.” He patted his Sharps. “No hostiles or owl hoots would dare tangle with us.”

  Fargo could point out that their train was much too small for there to be any safety in their numbers. He could also point out that nearly every creek was dry at that time of the year and water holes were few and far between. But all he said was, “Some lessons are only learned the hard way.”

  “You’ll be moving on now that you’ve had a drink?” Swink asked hopefully.

  Fargo shook his head. “I’m going to keep these fine folks company a while.” He stepped to the Ovaro to climb back on and spotted Raskum galloping madly toward them.

  Peter Sloane’s cheeks had flushed and his knuckles grew white on the Sharps. “Now see here, Mr. Flint. We decide who can and can’t join us. It’s in the agreement each of us signed.”

  “I never signed it,” Fargo said, placing h
is right hand on his Colt and his left hand on his saddle.

  “Need I point out that you are only one man?” Sloane said smugly. “I daresay you will do as we want or suffer the consequences.”

  In a thundering cloud of dust Raskum drew rein and sprang to the ground. “You!” he roared at Fargo, glowering pure hate. “My head is splittin’ because of what you did!”

  “Look at the bright side,” Fargo said. “You’re still breathing.”

  Raskum’s hand hovered over his Smith and Wesson. “No one does that to me! Do you hear?”

  “You brought it on yourself.” Fargo glanced from the runt to Swink and back again. Swink showed no inclination to lend his friend a hand. “But if you want to die, I’ll oblige you.”

  Peter Sloane moved toward Raskum but stopped when Raskum shot him a savage glare. “I ask you to reconsider, pilot. This is no place for gunplay. Women and children are present.”

  “What do you know, you stupid potato planter?” Raskum spat. Any self-restraint he had was gone. “Out here a man has to stick up for himself or he’s branded no-account. This peckerwood put a welt on me the size of a hen’s egg and he has to answer for it.”

  Fargo had a decision to make. He would just as soon put a slug between Raskum’s ears and be done with it, but the army was counting on him. Lives were at stake. Not just those of Sloane and his people, but those of emigrants who might come along the Oregon Trail next month or next year or the year after. Raskum was still glaring at Peter Sloane, so he took a quick step and planted his boot in the runt’s groin.

  Gurgling and grunting, Raskum clutched himself and tottered. “You—you—you—,” he huffed.

  Fargo slugged him on the jaw and Raskum sprawled face first in the dust and didn’t move.

  The farmers were rooted in shock. Peter Sloane’s mouth opened and closed a few times but no words came out.

  Bending, Fargo relieved Raskum of the Smith and Wesson and tossed it to Swink. “Hold on to this. Your friend will live longer without it.”