Terror Trackdown, page 15
The blast was loud.
Reloading, Fargo listened to the yips of the Apaches and the death rattle of a guest. He turned to go and then turned back and went through Trayburn’s pockets. The roll of bills he found was thick enough to choke a goat.
Fargo was grinning when he swung on the Ovaro. He reined to the west and thought of Denver with its painted ladies and some of the best whiskey anywhere and poker games that never ended. “And a stall for you, big fella, with oats and a rubdown every day.”
As if he understood, the stallion broke into a trot.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
TRAILSMAN #383
HIGH PLAINS MASSACRE
1861, the Black Hills—where the rumor of gold results in a river of blood.
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 their 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.
Jon Sharpe, Terror Trackdown
