The Trailsman #393: Six-Gun Inferno - Softcover

Sharpe, Jon

Softcover

ISBN 10: 045146804X ISBN 13: 9780451468048

Publisher: Berkley, 2014

Synopsis

Somebody’s going to burn...

In the Nevada desert town of Inferno, salt and water have become more valuable than gold. The citizens are just short of dying, and local strongman Crillian doesn’t care—he expects them to fork over big bucks for the essentials of life. But the Trailsman aims to make Crillian pay—with salt, water, and blood...

About this title

About the Author

Jon Sharpe is the author of the long-running Trailsman western series, featuring the adventures of tracker Skye Fargo.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

HEAVEN-SENT

Bubaker said, “You’re not fixing to leave Inferno anytime today, are you?”

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—the sunbaked desert of southwestern Nevada, where a bullet to the brain is the least of a man’s worries.

1

The rider was a red-hot coal, his lungs a furnace. When he breathed, he swore he inhaled fire. The desert country of Nevada Territory was no place to be in the hottest month of the summer.

Skye Fargo drew rein and squinted from under his hat brim at the blazing source of his discomfort. “Where’s a cloud when you need one?” he grumbled at the clear blue sky.

Fargo reached for his canteen but thought better of it. There was barely a third left and he had a lot of miles to cover.

A big man, broad at the shoulders, he wore buckskins and a white hat so coated with dust it looked to be brown. A well-worn Colt hung at his waist; a red bandanna added color to his neck. He swallowed, or tried to, and grimaced at how dry his throat had become. “The next time I say I want to take a shortcut,” he said to his horse, “kick me.”

The Ovaro twitched an ear. Head hung low, lathered with sweat, the stallion needed water more than Fargo did. Fargo patted its neck and said, “We’ll get you a drink soon, big fella.”

Or so Fargo hoped. The truth was, he’d decided to cut across a section of desert he’d never been through before, and now here he was, miles from anywhere, in the middle of an expanse of sand dunes and flats where the earth had been baked dry of life.

Fargo gigged the Ovaro into motion. He tried not to dwell on the last three creek beds they’d come across. The creeks ran with water only in the winter. Now they were as dry as his mouth.

The stallion plodded on.

Fargo bowed his head and closed his eyes. He imagined being in a saloon in the cool of an evening with a saucy dove on his lap and a bottle of Monongahela at his elbow. The woman was running her fingers through his hair and whispering the naughty things she’d like to do with him, but then a harsh voice intruded on his daydream.

“Where do you reckon you’re goin’, mister?”

Fargo snapped his head up and drew rein. “What the hell?”

There were two of them. Hard cases with six-shooters on their hips and suspicion in their eyes. Behind them were two horses. Neither the men nor their animals showed any sign of being withered by the sun.

“Can’t you read?” the same man said, pointing.

Fargo looked, and blinked. “I must be sunstruck.”

Someone had planted a sign. In painted letters it read INFERNO SALT LICK. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

“Move along, mister,” the second curly wolf said. “We won’t tell you twice.”

“My horse can use some water. There must be some hereabouts.”

The first man stuck his thumbs in his gun belt. He wore a high-crowned hat and a vest that could use a cleaning. “Maybe there is and maybe there ain’t. Turn that nag and light a shuck.”

“I asked nice,” Fargo said.

The second man gestured at hills to the north. “You see yonder? That’s the lick. There’s a spring. But Mr. Crillian, who runs things, doesn’t let anybody take a drink except him and those who work for him.”

“Which would be us,” the first man said.

“If you want water,” the second man said, and gestured to the east, “Inferno is about five miles thataway.”

“Inferno?”

The man in the high-crowned hat snickered. “You have no notion of where you are, do you, buckskin?”

“Daniel Boone here must be lost, Clell,” the second man joked.

“Dumb as a stump, Willy,” Clell said.

They laughed.

Fargo’s gaze fell on their horses, and on what was hanging from their saddle horns. “How much for one of your canteens?”

“They ain’t for sale,” Clell said. “Mosey on, or else.”

“I’ll pay you twenty dollars for one,” Fargo offered.

“You don’t listen too good, mister,” Willy said. “You’re not gettin’ any water. You’re on private property, and you’ve been told to scat.”

“So scat,” Clell said.

Fargo sighed. He looked at the blue sky and at the two guards and at the Ovaro, wearily hanging its head. Before the men could guess his intent, he swung down and took a step to one side, his hand brushing his holster. “Thirty-one dollars, but that’s all I have.”

Clell and Willy couldn’t seem to believe their eyes.

“What does it take to get through that thick skull of yours?” Clell said.

“We want you gone, mister,” Willy said. “We want you gone now.”

“My horse needs water,” Fargo said again.

“Tough,” Willy said. “You can’t make us give you any, not if we don’t want to.”

“Which we don’t,” Clell said. “Your critter can keel over, for all I care. Climb back on and make yourself scarce.”

Fargo had no right to do what he was about to. But he was prickly where the Ovaro was concerned. Plus, he never could abide jackasses. “Either I pay you or I help myself. Your choice.”

“Try and you die,” Willy warned. “We’ll give you to the count of three and then we will by-God gun you if you’re not back on that animal of yours.” He paused, and when Fargo didn’t move, barked out, “One.”

“To hell with that,” Clell said. “You don’t need to count. I’ll settle his hash here and now.” So saying, he stabbed for his six-gun.

2

Fargo drew and fanned a single shot from the hip before Clell cleared leather. The slug slammed into Clell’s shoulder and spun him half around. Clell clutched himself and staggered, his revolver forgotten in the shock of being shot.

“You son of a bitch,” Willy said.

Fargo covered him. “Unbuckle your gun belt and let it drop.” He cocked his Colt as incentive.

Willy stared at the scarlet seeping between Clell’s fingers and hastily did as he’d been told. “You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life. Mr. Crillian won’t like this one bit.”

“Disarm your pard,” Fargo said. He was eager to check their canteens but he didn’t want a bullet in the back.

“We’ll be comin’ for you, mister,” Willy declared. “We’ll find you and we’ll bury you.”

Fargo pointed the Colt at Willy’s face. “Without the jabber, if you don’t mind, and even if you do.”

Muttering, Willy tossed Clell’s gun belt.

Clell was still conscious, but his jaw was clenched and he quaked like an aspen leaf. “I’ll kill you for this if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“Sure you will.” Sidling around them, Fargo stepped to a roan and slid the strap of the canteen over the saddle horn. He shook the canteen and smiled. It was half full. “Lie on the ground.”

“The hell I will,” Clell snarled.

“Either breathing or dead. Which will it be?”

Clell uttered a string of invectives, but he eased down with Willy’s help. The pair lay there and glowered.

Fargo lowered the hammer and holstered the Colt. Opening the canteen, he took off his hat, poured the water in, and held the hat to the Ovaro’s muzzle so the stallion could drink. “Here you go.”

The Ovaro practically sucked it down.

“I hope that horse is worth your hide, mister,” Willy said. “That’s what this will cost you.”

“Speaking of which,” Fargo said. He jammed his hat back on, dropped the empty canteen, and fished in a pocket for his poke. Fingering out twenty dollars, he flipped the coins so they landed next to Clell. “For the water.”

“We don’t want your damn money,” Clell spat.

“We want your blood,” Willy said.

Replacing his poke, Fargo forked leather. “This Inferno you mentioned—it’s a town, I take it?” A town he’d never heard of. Which wasn’t unusual. New ones sprang up all the time.

“Go to hell,” Willy said. “We’re not tellin’ you a thing.”

“Is everyone there as friendly as you two?”

“Go to hell twice over,” Willy said. “In the first place, we’re not from the damn town. We work for Mr. Crillian and stay at the lick. And in the second place, if you’re thinkin’ they’ll help you, they won’t. They don’t dare buck Mr. Crillian. He has them under his thumb.”

“Do tell,” Fargo said.

“He won’t take this lyin’ down,” Clell said. “As sure as you’re sittin’ there, he’ll send some of us after you.”

“I’ll tremble in my boots until then.”

Clell spewed another string of obscenities. He was so mad, his face was flushed red and his veins bulged.

Fargo touched his hat brim. “Nice meeting you,” he said, rubbing it in. Twisting, he made it a point to keep them in sight until he was out of rifle range. They didn’t try to pick him off, though. Willy was busy bandaging Clell.

Reluctantly, Fargo brought the Ovaro to a trot. The sooner they reached the town, the sooner the stallion could have more water.

A pockmarked road led him to it. There looked to be three dozen buildings or so. Few were more than one story.

At the town limits was another sign. INFERNO. POP. 78. The 78 had a black line through it and below it was 61.

Few folks were out and about. An elderly woman in a bonnet regarded him as she might a rabid coyote. Several men outside the general store scrutinized him as if he were a hostile come to scalp their loved ones. Faces peered at him from windows and doorways.

Everyone Fargo saw had a haggard aspect about them.

He drew rein at a trough that had a few inches of dirty water at the bottom. Climbing down, he was about to let the Ovaro dip its head when a gun hammer clicked.

“No, you don’t, stranger.”

A gent with a tin star on his shirt had come out of a building with TOWN MARSHAL over the door. He had bristly eyebrows and a cleft chin, and he was pointing a shotgun. He also had the same worn-out look as the rest of them. From the way his clothes sagged, it appeared he had lost considerable weight recently.

“My horse needs it,” Fargo said.

“Afraid I can’t let you,” the lawman said. “I’m Marshal Bubaker. Who might you be?”

Fargo told him.

“Well, Mr. Fargo, it’s like this,” Bubaker said, moving to the other side of the trough. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a drought. The hottest damn summer anyone can recollect. It’s so bad, we have to ration our water.” He nodded at the dirty bit in the trough. “Even that sludge.”

“Look at my horse, damn it.”

“I can see he’s tuckered. Put him up at the stable. It’s ten dollars, but he’ll get oats and enough to drink.”

“Ten?” Fargo said. The amount was outrageous. It would leave him with a dollar to his name.

“Do you want your animal to have some water or not?”

Fargo frowned. “First Crillian’s roosters, now this.”

Marshal Bubaker stiffened. “Crillian, you say? What do you have to do with that vulture?”

“I had words with two of his men out near a salt lick.”

“And you’re still breathin’? If any of us from town goes anywhere near that place, they shoot on sight.”

“One of them won’t be doing any shooting for a spell,” Fargo said, and turned to go up the street.

“Hold on,” Marshal Bubaker said. “Why won’t he?”

“He went for his gun.”

“Well, now,” Bubaker said, “this hombre have a handle?”

“Clell.”

“I know him. He’s supposed to be slick with a six-shooter. Not the quickest Crillian has working for him, but still.” The lawman pursed his lips, then motioned at the trough. “Tell you what. Help yourself if you want.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Let’s just say I want us to get off on the right foot. You’re not fixing to leave Inferno anytime today, are you?”

“Not if I bed my horse for the night at your stable,” Fargo replied, and grinned. “I’ll want to get my ten dollars’ worth.”

“Good.” Bubaker smiled. “Very good. Tend to him, then, and I’ll look you up later so we can have us a talk.” He paused. “What is it you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Fargo would have thought it was obvious. “I scout, mostly.”

“Injun fighter?”

“Only when I’ve had to.”

“Even better. I can’t tell you how happy you’ve just made me.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t know it yet,” Marshal Bubaker said, “but you could be the answer to our prayers.”

3

The saloon was called the Sand Dune.

Several drinkers were at the bar and a couple of card games were under way. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare when Fargo walked in.

The barkeep weighed enough for two men, yet he, too, looked as if he had been ill recently. He polished a glass and brought it and a full bottle over. “Here you go, friend. On the house.”

About to reach for the bottle, Fargo stopped. “Are you drunk?”

The bartender chuckled. “I hardly touch the stuff, myself. No, Marshal Bubaker was in here and told me that anything you want is on the town.”

“Well, now,” Fargo said in amusement, “I should answer prayers more often.”

“How’s that again?”

“Nothing.” Fargo scooped up the glass and bottle and turned to find a table.

“Anything you want, anything at all”—the bartender wasn’t done—“all you have to do is ask.”

“Are you passing out free money too?”

The barman snorted.

Fargo took a step and had a thought. “What about doves?”

The bartender leaned on an elbow. “I have two who work for me but they don’t start until six. Can you wait that long? If you’re randy and have to have a poke right this minute, I can send for one, but she’s liable to gripe about having to work early and won’t be in the best of moods. You know how contrary females can be.”

“Six is fine.” Fargo picked a corner table. He filled his glass and was savoring his first sip when the batwings creaked and in came Marshal Bubaker with a pair of well-dressed townsmen.

Bubaker looked around, spotted him, and made a beeline. “Fargo, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hoffstedder, our mayor, and Mr. Parkinson, our banker.”

“I’m busy,” Fargo said.

“It’s important you talk to them,” the lawman said.

“I just got here. It can wait.”

Hoffstedder cleared his throat. He was on the scrawny side, with no more meat on him than a pencil. He also had the same worn-out look as the rest. “It’s quite urgent, I assure you.”

“Is everybody in town going to die in the next hour or so?”

“No. Of course not,” Hoffstedder said. “What a silly thing to ask.”

“Then it can wait.”

Parkinson stepped forward. “Perhaps I should mention that you could earn a lot of money if you take us up on our offer.” He had white hair and an air of self-importance.

“I’m not taking you up on anything for an hour,” Fargo said, and wagged his fingers at the batwings. “Shoo.”

“Show some respect,” Marshal Bubak...

Edition details

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2014
• ISBN 10: 045146804X
• ISBN 13: 9780451468048
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 176