Death Devil (9781101559666)

Table of Contents

 

 

Fargo had heard enough. No one paid any attention to him as he climbed down. Belinda and the farmer were arguing. He slowly drew his Colt and cocked it and fired a shot into the ground. At the blast everyone jumped and looked at him.

“What the hell?” Dogood blurted.

“Who's he?” Harold asked. “What's he doin' here?”

Fargo pointed the Colt at him. “I'm the hombre who is going to put a slug into you if you don't move.”

“What?” Harold said.

“I brought the doc all this way to see your girl. She's going in whether you like it or not.”

“Here now,” Harold blustered. “You can't threaten a man on his own property.”

Fargo cocked the Colt and at the click the farmer tensed.

“In case you haven't heard, it's a free country. I can threaten you anywhere I want.”

SIGNET

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

 

First Printing, January 2012

 

The first chapter of this book previously appeared in
Range War
, the three hundred sixty-second volume in this series.

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2012
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ISBN : 978-1-101-55966-6

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 was deep in the Ozark Mountains. He was riding along a dirt road enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and the light breeze that stirred the oaks and spruce when out of nowhere trouble kicked him in the teeth.

A big man, wide of shoulder and slim at the hips, Fargo wore buckskins. They were stock-in-trade for scouts, and Fargo was one of the best. Around his throat was a red bandanna, in a holster on his hip a Colt. The stock of a Henry poked from the saddle scabbard.

The Ovaro under him was often called a pinto by those who couldn't tell the difference. A splendid stallion, Fargo had ridden it for years.

Hoofprints pockmarked the dust of the road. The ruts of wagons ran deeper.

Fargo was cutting through the mountains to reach Fort McHenry. He was to report for a scouting job.

There were no Indians in the Ozarks; they had been pushed out by whites. Outlaws were few and far between. For once Fargo could relax.

That changed when the big man came to a junction and drew rein. He was sitting there watching a pair of red-tailed hawks pinwheel high in the vault of blue when the pounding of hooves and the clatter of wagon wheels drew his gaze to the south.

A black buggy came thundering around a bend, a stanhope with a closed back, the horse galloping hell-bent for leather. A woman was in the seat, staring blankly ahead, the reins slack in her hands.

Fargo caught only a glimpse of her. To him she appeared to be in shock. He reckoned the horse was a runaway and she couldn't control it. So no sooner did the buggy whip past than he reined in pursuit and used his spurs.

The Ovaro was well rested, and swift. Fargo would have caught up to the buggy quickly if not for the road's twists and bends. A straight stretch opened, and he swept past the buggy and came alongside the horse pulling it. The sorrel was lathered and straining and almost seemed to welcome the reins being grabbed and being made to come to a stop.

As soon as the buggy was still, Fargo reined around and politely asked, “Are you all right, ma'am?”

Right away two things struck him. First, the woman was uncommonly gorgeous. Her eyes were as green as grass, her lips a ruby red. She had lustrous brown hair that fell in a mane past her shoulders. Her calico dress swelled at the bosom and along her thighs.

The second thing that struck him was that she was mad as a riled hornet.

“What in God's name do you think you are doing?” she snapped.

“Saving you,” Fargo said, and gave her his best smile. It had no effect.

“From what, you simpleton?”

“Hey now,” Fargo said. “It looked like your horse had run away on you and—” She didn't let him get any further.

“For your information, I am perfectly fine. And Julius Caesar was doing what he's supposed to do.”

“Good God,” Fargo said. “Who names their horse that?”

“I have no time for this. I have no time for you. Out of my way. Your pinto is in front of my wheel.”

“He's not a pinto . . .” Fargo began, and again she cut him off.

“You are a lunkhead. A handsome lunkhead, I'll grant you, but a lunkhead nonetheless. Now out of my way.”

And with that she flicked her whip at the Ovaro. Fargo had no chance to deflect it or rein aside. By sheer happenstance, the snapper at the end of the whip caught the stallion dangerously near the eye, and the Ovaro did what most any horse would do under similar circumstances—startled and in pain, it reared and whinnied. In rearing, the Ovaro slammed against the sorrel, and the sorrel, too, did what most any horse would do: it nickered and bolted.

The woman cried out and tried to grab the reins but they slipped over the seat and out of her grasp.

“Son of a bitch,” Fargo blurted, tucking into the saddle to keep from sliding off. The Ovaro came down on all fours and he bent and patted its neck to calm it, saying, “Easy, boy. Everything's all right.”

The buggy raced around the last bend with the woman hollering, “Stop, Julius! Stop!”

Fargo had half a mind to ride on. It was her fault her horse had run off. Instead he reined after her and once again resorted to his spurs. The buggy had a good lead and the sorrel was flying. He'd catch sight of it only to have it disappear around another turn. Once he spied the woman looking back at him. She appeared to be even madder, which in itself was remarkable. Most women would be terrified. A lot of men, too.

Another bend, and the sorrel went into it much too fast.

The wheels on the right side rose a foot and a half off the ground. For several harrowing seconds Fargo thought the buggy was going to go over but the wheels crashed down again. The buggy commenced to sway wildly, the rear slewing back and forth. He heard the woman bawl for Julius to stop. He got the impression that the sorrel was, in fact, slowing, when the tail end of the buggy whipped more violently than ever and it went over.

The woman screamed.

Oblivious, the sorrel galloped another forty feet, dragging the buggy after it, until Fargo again came alongside and brought the animal to a standstill. Reining around, he vaulted off the stallion. He was worried he'd find the woman with her neck broken or her ribs staved in but she was alive and well and clinging for dear life.

“Here,” Fargo said, offering his hand. “Are you all right, ma'am?”