Idaho Gold Fever

LOOKING FORWARD!

The following is the opening

section from the next novel in the exciting

Trailsman series from Signet:

THE TRAILSMAN #328 TEXAS TRIGGERS

The hard land of the Pecos, 1861—where the Apache reigned, and the unwary paid for their follies in pain and blood.

The sun was killing him.

It hung at its zenith, a blazing yellow furnace. For weeks now, west Texas had been scorched by relentless heat. The land baked, the vegetation withered, the wild-life suffered. It was the worst summer anyone could remember in the desert country west of the Pecos River.

That included Skye Fargo. He had been through Texas before, plenty of times, and he had never experienced heat like this. Heat so hot, his skin felt as if it were on fire. With each breath, he inhaled flame into his lungs. Squinting up at the cause, Fargo summed up his sentiments with a single, bitter “Damn.”

His horse was suffering, too. The Ovaro was as good a mount as a man could ask for. It had stamina to spare, but the merciless heat had boiled its strength away to where the stallion plodded along with its head hung low, so weary and worn that Fargo had commenced to worry. Which was why he was walking and leading the stallion by the reins.

Any man stranded afoot in that country had one foot in the grave. Any man except an Apache.

The Mescaleros had roamed that region since anyone could remember. Tempered by the forge of adversity, they prowled in search of prey. The heat didn’t affect their iron constitutions. And, too, they knew all the secret water holes and tanks. They thrived where most whites would perish.

Most, but not all. The harsh land of cactus, mesquite and limestone rock was home to scattered settlers. Isolated valleys amid the maze of canyons and plateaus where pockets of green against the backdrop of brown. But not this summer. Now most of those green valleys were as brown as everything else.

It was just Fargo’s luck to be passing through after delivering a dispatch to Fort Davis. He was on his own, and headed for cooler climes. The sun, though, was doing its best to roast him and the Ovaro alive, and it was close to succeeding.

Fargo stopped and gazed out over the bleak, blistered landscape. He licked his cracked lips. Or tried to. His mouth was as dry as the rest of him, and he had no spit to spare. He glanced back at the Ovaro. “Hold on, boy. I’ll find us water if it’s the last thing I do.”

It might well be.

Broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, Skye Fargo was all muscle and whipcord. He wore buckskins and boots and a white hat made brown by dust. Around his neck was a splash of color: a red bandanna. At his hip hung a Colt. In an ankle sheath inside his boot was an Arkansas toothpick. From the saddle jutted the stock of a Henry rifle.

At first glance, Fargo looked no different from most frontiersmen. But he had more experience in the wild than any ten of them put together. In his travels he had been most everywhere, seen most everything. He’d lived with Indians and knew their ways. In short, if any white could make it through that country, Fargo could.

Or so he thought when he started out. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Fargo tried to swallow, and couldn’t. He ran a hand across his hot brow and was surprised at how little sweat there was. He had little moisture left in him. His body was a cloth wrung dry, and unless he found water, and found it soon, his bleached bones would join the many skeletons that already littered the desert.

Fargo had to force his legs to move. A bad sign, that. His body was giving out. The steely sinews that had served him in such good stead had turned traitor and would not do as he wanted unless he lashed them with the whip of his will.

The Ovaro went a short way and abruptly stopped.

Fargo tugged on the reins to keep the pinto moving but it didn’t respond. He turned, and saw that it had its head up and its ears pricked, and it was staring fixedly to one side. He looked and saw nothing but boulders and dirt and a few brown bushes and tufts of brown grass.

“There’s nothing there. Come on.” Fargo gave another tug and the Ovaro plodded after him, but it kept staring and its nostrils flared.

Belatedly, Fargo’s heat-dulled mind realized that something was out there. Or, more likely, someone. No animal would be abroad in that heat. And since there wasn’t another white within miles, so far as Fargo knew, that left the last ones Fargo wanted to meet up with.

That left the Mescalero Apaches.

Fargo was in no shape for a fight. Alert now, he watched from under his hat brim but saw nothing to account for the Ovaro’s interest. He was about convinced the stallion was mistaken when a hint of movement sent a tingle of alarm down his spine.

He was being stalked.

Outwardly, Fargo stayed calm. He mustn’t let on that he knew. He kept on walking, his right arm at his side, his hand brushing his Colt. It would help if he had some idea how many were shadowing him but that was like counting ghosts. Fargo wondered why they hadn’t attacked yet. It could be they were waiting for the heat to weaken him even more. Or maybe there was a spot up ahead better fitted for an ambush.

Ordinarily, Fargo would have swung onto the Ovaro and used his spurs. But the stallion was in no shape for a hard ride. He doubted it would last half a mile without collapsing. And then the Apaches would have him.

Fargo racked his brain. His best bet was to lure them in close where he could drop them with his Colt. But Apaches weren’t stupid. They wouldn’t fall for whatever trick he tried unless it was convincing.

Then it hit him. The answer was in the sky above. He squinted up at the sun again, and made a show of running his sleeve across his face. He wanted the Apaches to think he was about done in. True, he was, but he still had a spark of vitality left, and that spark might save his hide.

Before him the country flattened. In the distance were some hills.

Fargo stopped and gazed idly about, then moved toward a large cactus. It offered hardly any shade but he plopped down in what shade there was and sat with his head hung and his shoulders slumped to the give the impression he just couldn’t go on.

Other than cactus, the spot Fargo had chosen was open. No one, not even a wily Apache, could get at him without him seeing. They might come in a rush but only after he collapsed. And that’s exactly what he did. He put his left hand under him as if he were so weak he could barely sit up. He stayed like that a while, then let his elbow bend and slowly sank onto his side. From where he lay he could see his back trail but not much to either side. He could see the Ovaro, though, and that was what counted.

For the longest while nothing happened.

The heat seeped into Fargo’s bones, into his very marrow. He began to feel sleepy and almost gave a toss of his head to shake the lethargy off. But that would give him away. Struggling to keep his senses sharp, he saw the Ovaro lift its head and stare to the north. Fargo shifted his gaze in that direction but his hat brim hid whatever was out there.

Fargo seldom felt so vulnerable, so exposed. He slowly shifted his cheek so he could see past the brim. All he saw were cactus. Yet the Ovaro was still staring.

Where were they? Fargo wondered. Apaches were masters at blending in. They could literally hide in plain sight. Once, years ago, he met an Apache scout who showed him how. They had been standing in open country, and the Apache had him turn his back and count to ten. When he turned around, the man was gone. Fargo had been stumped and called out to him, and the Apache, grinning, rose from behind a bush no bigger than a breadbasket where he had dug a shallow hole and covered himself, all in the blink of an eye.

Damned impressive, that little demonstration.

Fargo searched the vicinity but saw nothing. He looked so long and so hard that his eyes started to smart. He decided to watch the Ovaro instead, thinking the stallion would react once the warriors were close enough. It wasn’t staring to the north anymore. It was staring at something behind him.

Fargo’s skin crawled. At any moment he might get an arrow or a knife in the back. He was sorely tempted to roll over but if he did the warrior would melt away.

It was a nightmare, lying there waiting for something to happen. Fargo’s nerves jangled like a shriek of fire in a theater. The taut seconds stretched into a minute and the minute into two, and it was a wonder he didn’t snap and leap to his feet.

Then the Ovaro nickered and stamped a heavy hoof.

Fargo rolled over, drawing the Colt as he moved. It was safe to say the Apache a few feet away with a knife in hand was considerably surprised but he recovered quickly. The bronzed warrior sprang, the steel of his blade glinting in the sunlight.

Flat on his back, Fargo fanned the Colt twice. At that range he could hardly miss. Both slugs caught the Apache high in the chest and twisted him half around. Baring his teeth, he got a hand under him and levered forward, seeking to bury his knife with his dying breath. The tip was inches from Fargo when the warrior collapsed, sprawling forward on his belly so that his forearm ended up across Fargo. Pushing it off, Fargo heaved erect and spun, braced for an onslaught of war whoops and weapons.

There were no outcries. No other warriors appeared.

Fargo kept turning from side to side. Finally he admitted the obvious. The one he had shot was the only one. With the toe of his boot he rolled the dead warrior over. The dark eyes were open; they betrayed no shock or fear.

Fargo had no strength to bury him, and no desire to do it even if he had the strength. The man had tried to kill him. Let the buzzards and coyotes gorge. He replaced the spent cartridges, slid the Colt into his holster, and patted the Ovaro. “You saved my skin again. Now let’s see if I can save us from dying of thirst.”

The distant brown hills held little promise. The drought had dried up all the streams and it was doubtful he would find one flowing.

Fargo’s boots were so hot, it felt as if his feet were being cooked. But he refused to give up. It wasn’t in him. So long as he had breath he would resist oblivion with all that he was. He liked living too much. He liked to roam the wild places. He liked whiskey. He liked cards and women. He liked women a lot. An hour or two of passion reminded a man why it was good to be alive.

Fargo chuckled, but the sound that came from his parched throat was more like the rattle of seeds in a dry gourd. “God, I need water,” he rasped, and it hurt to speak.

The hills grew near. By late afternoon Fargo was among them. And as he had feared, it was more of the same. More endless dry. In all that vast inferno, the only living creatures were the Ovaro and him. Not a single bird was in the air. He had not seen a lizard or snake all day. The scrape of his boots and the thud of the Ovaro’s hooves were the only sounds.

Fargo’s chin drooped. His blood felt as if it were boiling in his veins. He would gladly find a patch of shade and rest, but he honestly didn’t know if he could get back up again.

The sun dipped toward the horizon. Once it set, the night would bring welcome relief. But without water it would be fleeting, at best.

His legs leaden, Fargo shuffled grimly on. He nearly lost his hold on the reins when the Ovaro unexpectedly stopped.

“What the hell?”

Turning, Fargo pulled but the Ovaro refused to move. Its head was up and it was staring straight ahead.

Thinking it was another Apache, Fargo spun, his hand dropping to his Colt. But it wasn’t a warrior out to do him in.

It was a cow.

Not a longhorn or a steer or a bull but an honest-to-God milk cow, calmly regarding him from fifty feet away while chewing its cud.

Fargo blinked, certain he must be seeing things. “You would think it would be a naked woman.”

The cow flicked its ears.

That was when Fargo noticed the tiny bell that dangled from a rawhide cord around its neck. Unless he missed his guess, the cow was a Jersey. He seemed to recollect that the breed got its start on an island of that name somewhere, long ago, but where he picked up that tidbit he had no idea. The kind of cow didn’t really matter. It shouldn’t be there. And yet it was.

“Pleased to meet you, madam.”

The cow went on chewing.

Fargo moved toward it, talking quietly. “Do you live around here? I’d like to meet whoever milks you and ask for some of your milk or some water.” Anything to slake his thrist.

Slowly turning, the cow lumbered off along the bottom of a hill. She was thick with flies, and a swish of her tail sent them buzzing.

Fargo followed. He couldn’t believe his luck. To have stumbled on a ranch in the middle of nowhere! Although now that he thought about it, he recollected there were a few hardy souls in those parts. Fools, a lot of folks called them, for daring to put down roots in the heart of Apache territory. No one in their right mind would do such a thing.

The cow was out of sight around the hill.

Anxious to catch up, Fargo stepped into the stirrups. “Sorry,” he said to the Ovaro. The stallion apparently smelled or sensed their salvation and needed no urging. It moved before he could tap his spurs. He half feared he would get to the other side of the hill and the cow wouldn’t be there, that it really was his overheated mind playing tricks on him.

Then a valley spread before him, a brown valley, a valley as dry as the hills and the desert. And there was the Jersey cow, moving out across a well-worn trail that led to the far end.

Fargo was so intent on the cow that he didn’t pay much attention to the hill they had just come around. He realized his mistake when he heard a metallic click. Instinctively, he threw himself from the saddle just as a rifle thundered. He landed on his shoulder and rolled onto his belly. Thinking he had several seconds to locate the shooter, he raised his head. But he was wrong. The rifle boomed again, and yet a third time, and miniature dirt geysers came straight toward his face.