Julienne arched her back and her mouth parted. Incredulity widened her other eye; then she oozed to the ground and lay quaking before she subsided and was still.
“Damn,” Fargo said.
Tom Clyborn had been stabbed in the lungs. He lingered two days in a bed at the hunting lodge attended by a doctor from Hannibal. His last words, Samantha told Fargo, were a question. “All I ever wanted in life was to be rich. Was that too much to ask?” He had laughed bitterly, and died.
Roland’s arm was in a sling. Broken in two places, the doctor said. He was battered and bandaged and would be a long while healing but he would live.
The sheriff took Theodore Pickleman into custody. The lawyer had tried to run off after Fargo shot Jacques but Sam snatched up a rock and beaned him with it.
As for the chest that cost so many their lives, Fargo went to the creek the next day with a shovel and Samantha and began poking around the willow trees that lined the near bank.
“Why the willows?”
“Don’t you remember what Pickleman told us your father said to him?” Fargo reminded her. It had stuck in his craw and he finally figured out why.
“Something about whoever found the chest wouldn’t have any cause to weep—” Sam stopped. “A weeping willow! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I could be wrong.”
He wasn’t. The earth near the sixth willow they came to had recently been disturbed. Fargo dug down a few inches and there it was: a small wooden chest with a folded sheet of paper inside. He let Sam take the paper out. She unfolded it, and frowned.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“This cost me three brothers and a sister.” Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll have the last laugh on Father, though. I’m sharing everything equally with Roland.”
“Good for you.”
Sam shook herself. Grinning, she put her hand on his. “There’s something I’d like to share with you if you don’t mind coming up to my bedroom. Are you interested, kind sir?”
“What do you think?” Fargo laughed and smacked her on the fanny.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
THE TRAILSMAN #341 SIERRA SIX-GUNS
California, 1859—A storm is coming to Kill Creek.
Skye Fargo liked the Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were miles high. They were remote. Lush forest covered the lower slopes, snow capped the high peaks.
Unlike back East, where much of the wildlife had been killed off to fill supper pots, animal life was everywhere. Ponderous grizzlies were on perpetual prowl, tawny mountain lions glided through shadowed woodlands, hungry wolves roved in packs. Elk, deer, mountain sheep, and a host of smaller creatures were the prey the predators fed on.
On a sunny autumn morning, Fargo drew rein on a switch-back on a mountain no white man had ever set foot on and breathed deep of the crisp air.
A big man, he wore buckskins and a white hat brown with dust. A red bandanna around his neck had seen a lot of use. So had the Colt on his hip and the Arkansas toothpick snug in an ankle sheath. His eyes were as blue as a small lake below. His beard was neatly trimmed.
Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He was on his way to San Francisco and had decided to spend a week or so alone in the high country. He liked to do that every now and then. It reminded him of why he enjoyed the wild places so much.
Fargo loved to roam where no one had gone before. Where most men kept their gaze on the ground and the next step they were about to take, his gaze was always on the far horizon. He had to see what lay over it.
A game trail made the descent easy. A lot of creatures came to the lake daily to slake their thirst.
Fargo was almost to the bottom when he spied two does. They jerked their heads up but they weren’t looking at him. They stared intently at a thicket that bordered the shore. Suddenly wheeling, they bounded off, their tails erect.
Fargo wondered what had spooked them. It could be just about anything. Deer were easily frightened. Still, to be safe, he reined up and watched the thicket. A minute went by and nothing appeared so he clucked to the Ovaro and rode to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle, and he stretched. He had been in the saddle since sunup.
Sinking to one knee, Fargo dipped a hand in the lake. The water was cold and clear. He sipped and smacked his lips. “How about you, big fella?”
As if the stallion understood, it lowered its muzzle.
“Not too much now.” Fargo had a habit of talking to the stallion as if it were a person. Often, it was his only companion for days at a time.
The stallion went on drinking.
High in the sky a bald eagle soared. In the forest a squirrel scampered from limb to limb. Out on the lake a fish broke the surface. The day was peaceful and perfect, exactly as Fargo liked them.
Then the Ovaro raised its head and pricked its ears and nickered.
Fargo looked, and froze.
A dog had come out of the thicket. A huge dog, almost four feet high at the front shoulders and bulky enough to weigh upwards of two hundred pounds. It had a blunt face with a broad jaw and a thick barrel of a body. Its color was somewhere between brown and gray. At the moment it was standing still, its dark eyes fixed intently on him.
“Hell,” Fargo said. Where there was a dog there were bound to be people and he had hoped to fight shy of them for a spell.
The dog took a step and growled.
Fargo smiled and gestured. “I’m friendly, boy. You’d be wise to be the same.” Out of habit he placed his hand on his Colt. He wasn’t worried. If the dog came at him he could drop it before it covered half the distance.
From behind him came the crack of a twig.
Fargo glanced over his shoulder.
Another dog, the same breed and about the same size, had emerged from the woods. Its hackles were raised and its lips were drawn back. Its teeth looked to be wickedly sharp.
“Damn.” Fargo didn’t like this. He stepped to the Ovaro and snagged the reins and was about to slip his boot into the stirrups when a sound caused him to whirl.
A third dog wasn’t more than ten feet away. Its huge head held low, it crouched.
“Down boy.” Fargo scanned the shore for sign of the owner but saw no one.He quickly mounted. He figured to get out of there before the dogs decided to attack.
The nearest dog moved to a point between the stallion and the woods, blocking his way.
“Son of a bitch.” Fargo was trying to recollect where he had seen dogs like these before. Then it came to him—Saint Louis, some time back. Mastiffs, they were called. He seemed to recall they were bred in England or some such place, but he could be mistaken.
The dog to the right and the dog to the left moved slowly toward him.
“Go away, damn you.” It occurred to Fargo that if they rushed him he might drop one or two but not all three, and all it would take was one to bring the Ovaro down. He didn’t dare risk that. Suddenly reining toward the lake, he used his spurs.
The stallion reacted superbly, as it nearly always did. It took a long bound and plunged into the water.
Fargo bent forward and hiked his boots out of the stirrups. The Ovaro would swim to the other side and he would be on his way, no worse for the bother. He chuckled, pleased at how he had outwitted the dogs, confident they wouldn’t come after him. He shifted in the saddle to be sure.