Blood Wedding

LOOKING FORWARD!

The following is the opening

section of the next novel in the exciting

Trailsman series from Signet:

THE TRAILSMAN #261

Desert Death Trap

Nevada Territory, Summer 1861—

Deceit, danger, and death at every turn.

Over a low rise to the east appeared a young maiden, running as if her life depended on it. Long raven hair streamed behind her as she swiftly descended a game trail. She moved with the natural grace of an antelope, a comparison heightened by the buckskin dress that clung to her lithe form.

Skye Fargo was about to saddle up after a good night’s sleep when he spotted her. He watched with keen interest, enticed by the flash of her shapely legs. She was so intent on running, she didn’t spot his camp, hidden in the brush less than a stone’s throw from the bottom of the rise.

The reason for her flight became plain when three men sprinted over the top of the hill.

Fargo’s lake-blue eyes narrowed. The trio were also on foot, which in itself was remarkable. No one in their right mind tried to cross the high desert country between the Great Salt Lake and the Cascades without a horse. Even more peculiar was that one of her pursuers was white, the other red, and the third black. “What the hell?” he wondered aloud.

The white pursuer wore just about the silliest outfit Fargo ever saw, a two-piece affair that resembled bright red longjohns. Bushy sideburns and a thick mustache framed his pale face. His gait was as odd as his appearance; he loped in long, stiff-legged motion, attended by the windmill pumping of broomstick arms.

Next was a husky Indian more sensibly attired in a breechclout and knee-high moccasins. Fargo couldn’t be completely sure at that distance, but it sure looked to him that the warrior was an Apache. Which was preposterous—Apache territory was many leagues to the south.

Last came the black man. A strapping specimen, he had on a pair of faded jeans and a floppy brown hat that hid half his ruggedly chiseled face. He didn’t seem to be exerting himself all that hard yet he had no trouble keeping up with the others.

The maiden looked back, saw them, and ran faster.

Fargo didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t about to stand there and let the men catch her. Experience told him they had to be up to no good. The maiden dashed past his camp without a sideways glance. Dropping his bed-roll, Fargo turned toward his horse. The Ovaro was twenty yards away, slaking its thirst at a small spring. He intended to mount up but a quick look showed the three men were already near the bottom of the rise.

Impulsively, Fargo hurtled from the scrub brush. He thought it would be easy to intercept the three before they overtook their quarry. But he gave them too little credit. Once on flat ground, they had doubled their speed.

Fargo was in excellent condition, his sinews hardened to iron by a life in the wild, his stamina second to none. He settled into a long stride, the jangle of his spurs a constant reminder that he might have been better off using the Ovaro.

It pushed Fargo to his limit but bit by bit he narrowed the gap. Soon he was only thirty yards behind. Then twenty. Then ten. He could see beads of sweat on the back of the black’s neck when, alerted by the sound of his spurs, the man suddenly glanced over a shoulder. Seconds later the Apache did the same. Last to hear, the gaudily garbed white man twisted around.

“Hold it right there!” Fargo bellowed. He was almost on top of them and about to palm his Colt when he realized, to his considerable amazement, all three were unarmed. But they were far from defenseless. The black man whirled and cocked a fist the size of a sledgehammer. Only Fargo’s razor-sharp reflexes spared him from having his jaw broken.

“Mr. Samuels, no!” the white man bawled, but the big black man paid no mind.

Fargo dodged a second blow, and a third. He landed a solid jab to the gut that would usually double a man over, but Samuels merely grunted. Whirling to dodge a flurry of jabs, he glimpsed the Apache, standing aloof. The white’s mouth was agape. At least they weren’t lending a hand.

Samuels was nothing if not determined. He waded in again, his fists flying.

It as all Fargo could do to keep from having his head knocked off. He blocked, ducked, then delivered an upper-cut that jarred the bigger man onto his heels. In the blink of an eye Fargo had his Colt out and leveled. “Enough!” he barked, thumbing back the hammer. “Simmer down or you’ll eat lead.”

Undaunted, Samuels raised his arms again but the jasper in the red longjohns grabbed his wrist.

“Be sensible, my good fellow! Let’s get to the bottom of this before you resume pummeling him.” He had a British accent as thick as jam. To Fargo he said, “I demand to know the meaning of this unjustified assault, sir.”

“Unjustified?” Fargo replied.

“What else would you call it?” Samuels angrily growled. “You had no call to come rushin’ up on us like you did.”

Fargo nodded at the maiden, who had stopped and turned about sixty feet ahead. “We’ll let the girl you were after be the judge of that.” He beckoned, and after a few seconds of hesitation she jogged toward them.

“Do you know Morning Star?” the Englishman inquired. “Is this some unfathomable lark on her part?”

The Apache had folded his muscular arms across his broad chest and showed no inclination to join in the talk.

Samuels, though, shook a calloused fist. “If this throws us off the pace, I’ll report you to the officials! And take it out of your hide, to boot.”

Fargo never like being threatened. “You’re welcome to try.”

“You talk mighty big when you’re holdin’ a six-shooter,” the black man snapped. “Why don’t you holster it and we’ll see just how tough you really are.”

“Now, now, Mr. Samuels,” the Englishman cautioned. “Violence is the last resort of the feebleminded.”

“Are you callin’ me stupid? Just because you’re some high-falutin’ lord muck-a-muck doesn’t give you the right to insult folks.”

“I am an earl, not a lord,” the Englishman curtly replied. “I wish you would bother to remember that.” Facing Fargo, he gave a slight bow. “Earl Desmond Sherwood, at your service. I trust you will overlook Mr. Samuels’s tantrum. He has them with distressing frequency.”

Samuels opened his mouth to say something but fell silent at the arrival of the gorgeous maiden with the lustrous black hair. She also had an effect on Sherwood and the Apache. The former drew himself up to his full height and smoothed his thin patch of russet hair. The latter ran his gaze up and down her shapely figure like a hungry man who craved a feast.

Fargo touched his hat brim. Up close he could tell she was a Crow, which was as strange as everything else. The Crows lived a week’s ride or better to the east. “Do you savvy English?”

“I speak your tongue quite well, thank you,” Morning Star said, her enunciation superb. “Why did you attack these men?”

“I saw they were after you and figured I’d lend a hand.” Fargo drank in the beauty of her smooth complexion, dazzling dark eyes, and teeth as white as the purest snow.

“You thought they meant to harm me?” Morning Star regarded him with heightened interest. “That was noble of you. But your help was not needed. They pose no threat. They would not risk being disqualified.”

“Hear that, did you, mister?” Samuels rasped. “You made a jackass of yourself for nothing. We’re practicing, is all.”

Thoroughly confused, Fargo lowered his Colt. “For what?”

Desmond Sherwood took it on himself to answer. “Why, the great race, of course. The First Annual Nugget Chamber of Commerce Test of Endurance in the Art of Footracing. With a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.”

A couple of years ago a rich vein of silver had been discovered down near the California border, and ever since prospectors and others hoping to get rich quick had been scouring the mountains and deserts for more. Whenever a new strike was made, a new settlement immediately sprang up. Nugget, as Fargo recollected hearing, was one of the latest in a long string.

“They’ve been vigorously promoting the event for four or five months now,” Sherwood related.

This was the first Fargo had heard of it. He twirled the Colt into his holster. “My mistake.”

“And that’s it?” Samuels prodded. “You pull a damned hogleg on us and expect there won’t be any hard feelings.”

“Forgive and forget, what?” Desmond Sherwood said. “It was a simple misunderstanding. I’m satisfied.” He smiled at Fargo. “Perhaps you should give some thought to attending the festivities. Head due east and you can’t miss the town.” Squinting up at the sun, he declared, “We’re wasting valuable training time, lady and gentlemen. Shall we press on?”

And just like that, the four of them resumed running, Morning Star once again in the lead. As they departed Fargo noticed the most remarkable fact of all. Even though the ground was littered with countless stones that could cut flesh to ribbons, she was barefoot.

Fargo turned and hiked back to the spring. The notion of paying Nugget a visit appealed to him. He had been on the go for over a week, traveling from San Francisco to Cheyenne. A day or two of cards, whiskey and women, not necessarily in that order, were just what he needed.

By the middle of the morning the temperature had climbed into the nineties. Fargo pulled his hat brim low against the harsh glare of the sun and held the pinto to a walk. The air landscape baked under the sun’s onslaught, fit for lizards, snakes and scorpions, and little else.

Fargo shifted in the saddle. Morning Star and the others had long since vanished into the haze. He shook his head and clucked to the Ovaro. Anyone who went running around in that heat had to be loco, ten thousand dollars or not. He wouldn’t do it for twice that much.

Their tracks were as plain as the buckle on Fargo’s belt. All he had to do was backtrack to their starting point. What he found was yet another surprise in a day chock full of them so far.

Nugget was no sleepy mining camp. It had buildings and hitch rails and water troughs, its streets crowded even in the heat of day. Banners had been strung, and somewhere a piano was playing.

A festive air held sway. Everyone Fargo passed on his way in either smiled or cheerfully bid him welcome. As he drew rein and started to slide down, a portly man in a suit and bowler barreled toward him with a pudgy hand thrust out.

“Greetings, stranger! Welcome to our grand celebration. I’m Mayor Jonathan Quinby.” The mayor had the grip of a soggy sponge.

“What is it you’re celebrating, exactly?” Fargo asked. “The footrace?”

“Heard about that, did you?” Quinby hooked his thumbs in his vest. “But the race is only a small part of the overall proceedings.” He had droopy jowels that quivered as he spoke, and cheeks worthy of a chipmunk. “I take it you haven’t kept up with news, then?”

“I’ve been on the trail awhile.”

“Ah. Well, surely you’ve heard about the creation of the Nevada Territory? Not that long ago President Lincoln appointed a territorial governor. And Nugget has been officially recognized as a town.” Mayor Quinby puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow. “We’re celebrating with two full weeks of frolic and fun. The footrace is the highlight but by no means the only activity planned.”

Fargo scanned the streaming currents of contented humanity. “Everyone sure seems to be having a good time.”

“And so should you, my friend, so should you!” Quinby always talked as if he were on the stump. “Many of our businesses are offering discount rates for the duration, and there’s free beer every evening from five until five-thirty courtesy of the chamber of commerce.”

“Your town will go broke before this is over.”

“I beg to differ, sir,” Quinby said earnestly. “Our coffers are swollen with revenue from the silver mines. Why, how else do you suppose we can afford a cash prize of ten thousand dollars to the winner of the footrace and two thousand to whoever comes in second?” He puffed out his chest even more. “It was my brainstorm, I’m proud to say. Races are all the rage in places like Denver and St. Louis. And there’s one down New Mexico way that annually draws thousands of spectators.”

Fargo had witnessed the New Mexico race a few years ago, and he agreed it was a crowd pleaser.

“Perhaps you would care to enter?”

“Me?” Fargo chuckled. “That’ll be the day.”

“Why not? The entry fee is only a dollar. And you certainly look fit enough. I daresay you might give the favorites a run for their money.” Quinby laughed at his little witticism.

“How many are running?”

“Fifty-seven. We hope to have sixty by race time the day after tomorrow. You can register at the Quinby Hotel or—”

“You own the hotel?”

“Just one of them. And one of the banks. And several other businesses. It’s safe to say no one has more clout in Nugget than I do. If I can be of any help to you in any regard, you have only to ask.” Doffing his bowler, Nugget’s leading citizen scampered off to greet someone else.

Fargo spied a group of ten or eleven Crows across the street. Relatives and friends of Morning Star, he reckoned. He decided to stretch his legs. There was the usual assortment of townspeople, prospectors, miners and gamblers, plus more than a few curly wolves. Hardened gunmen and the like, hovering like hawks looking for something to kill.

Although it wasn’t yet noon the saloons were open and doing a brisk business. Fargo pushed through batwing doors and shouldered through the noisy crowd to the bar. He paid for a bottle of whiskey, then searched in vain for an empty table. Venturing back out, he sat on a bench in the shade of the overhang, tipped the booze to his mouth and let it sear his insides. It was the real article, not the watered down excuse for coffin varnish some establishments served. Fargo smacked his lips in appreciation. About to take another swallow, he paused.

Two Apaches were coming up the boardwalk. Mimbres, unless he was mistaken, the same as the Apache runner he had encountered. They wore headbands, long-sleeved shirts and pants, over which they wore breechclouts—an Apache custom, as were their knee-high moccasins. One cradled a rifle, the other had a bow and quiver slung across his back. Both had big bone-handled knives on their hips.

Fargo had nothing against Apaches, nor against any other tribe, for that matter. He had lived with various Indians from time to time, and learned that just like whites, there were good ones and bad ones.

Pedestrians gave the duo a wide berth. No outright hostility was shown, just a wariness born of instinct. The warriors were like wolves among sheep, and the sheep knew it. Most of them, anyway. For as Fargo looked on, four toughs who had been lounging against the saloon straightened and planted themselves in the path of the Apaches.

“Lookee here!” declared a scrawny excuse for a gunman whose Remington had notches on the grips. “More mangy Injuns! It’s gettin’ so a fella can’t hardly turn around without trippin’ over one.”

“They’re worse than lice, Mitch,” commented a man with straw-colored hair. “What say we squish ’em just for the hell of it?”

A third hitched at his gunbelt. “Count me in, Harley. The only thing I like more than stompin’ redskins is spittin’ on their graves.”

The Appaches had halted and were waiting for the whites to move out of their way. Their faces betrayed neither fear nor worry.

Mitch spread his legs and placed his hands on his hips. “How about it, you red devils? Care to oblige me and my pards? We’ll buck you out so fast, your heads will spin.”

“Look at ’em!” Harley scoffed. “Standing there like bumps on a log. Hell, I bet they don’t understand a lick of English.” He poked the foremost warrior. “Come on! What does it take to rile you lunkheads?”

Passersby were stopping to stare. An elderly rider reined up and leaned on his saddle horn. No one seemed particularly eager to intervene.

Mitch drew his Remington and performed a fancy spin. “See this, redskins? I’ve got ten dollars that says I can draw and blow out your wicks before you so much as lift a finger.”

Harley laughed and poked the foremost warrior a second time. Again, neither Apache reacted. They might as well be sculpted from marble.

Fargo took another swig of whiskey. The goings-on had nothing to do with him. He was better off sitting there and minding his own business. Butting in would only land him in trouble he didn’t need. So why, then, did he hear himself say, “They’re not bothering anyone. Let them be.”

All four gunnies turned. Mitch and Harley swapped glances and sauntered toward him, side by side.

“What do we have here?” Mitch asked no one in particular.

“One of those good Samaritans the Bible-thumpers are always gabbin’ about.” Harley snickered. “How about if we show him what we think of his kind around these parts?”

Fargo treated himself to another long swallow, wiped his mouth with a sleeve, and commented without looking up, “Go play in the street before I forget how green you are.”

Harley bristled like a riled porcupine. “Mister, you’re about to lose half your teeth.” He hiked up his boot to kick.

“You first,” Fargo rejoined, and came up off the bench swifter than a striking rattler.