Apache Ambush

PICK A FIGHT

Fargo did not much care for mistreating women and horses. A good horse, in his opinion, was more than an animal; it was a friend. To see a horse abused always rankled him. As for women, he was no knight in shining armor, but when one was being treated as Tilly was being treated, it made him want to stomp the prospector into the ground, preferably with a few teeth kicked in. So Fargo had plenty of motivation to do what he did next— namely, launch his fist from his hip and catch Stein flush on the jaw. For most that was enough. Fargo was big and he was rawhide tough. One punch would lay a man out as cold as ice.

But Stein had an iron jaw. Hitting it was like hitting an anvil. Stein staggered against another table and had to brace himself to stay on his feet, but he did not go down. Instead, shaking his head to clear it, he hefted his pick and straightened.

‘‘Mister, you just brought yourself a whole heap of trouble.’’

The Trailsman

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.

The Territory of New Mexico, 1861—

a hotbed of hate and greed.

1

Skye Fargo had a bad feeling about the place.

It was named Hot Springs. It was not much of anything except a few cabins and shacks and the inevitable saloon. Then there was the structure built over the hot springs, which reminded him of a Navajo hogan, only it was the size of a small hill.

Fargo wanted a drink and a meal he did not cook himself so he rode down the short dusty street to the hitch rail in front of the saloon and stiffly dismounted. He had been in the saddle since daybreak, and here it was almost sundown.

Tall and broad of shoulder, Fargo wore buckskins, a hat that had once been white but was now dust brown, and a red bandanna. Women were fond of his ruggedly handsome face. Men who had heard of him were wary of his fists and his Colt. Stretching, he sauntered into the saloon. After the harsh glare of the sun it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He paid no attention to the customers at the tables but walked right to the bar, smacked it loud enough to get the bartender to start in his direction, and demanded, ‘‘Whiskey.’’

If there was anything better for soothing a dry throat, Fargo had yet to find it. He drained his first glass at a gulp and motioned for more, then decided to hell with it and paid for the bottle. Taking it to a corner table, he sank down with a sigh and prepared to get pleasantly soused. He frowned when two pairs of boots came toward his table, and looked up to see who filled them.

The one on the right was short and thin and had eyes an owl would envy. He was dressed in a costly store-bought suit and his boots had been polished to a fine shine.

The one on the left was muscle, and a lot of it. Over six feet and over two hundred and fifty pounds, if Fargo was any judge. This one wore a well-used shirt and pants, and his boots were scuffed. The scars on his knuckles gave warning his hands were not ornaments.

‘‘Go away,’’ Fargo said.

Both men stopped and the owl blinked in surprise. ‘‘You have not heard what I have to say.’’

‘‘I don’t want to hear it.’’ Fargo set him straight. ‘‘Go away.’’

‘‘I am afraid I can’t,’’ the owl said. ‘‘I am Timothy P. Cranmeyer of the Cranmeyer Freight Company.’’

Fargo was amused. ‘‘You named your company after yourself?’’

‘‘A common enough practice,’’ Cranmeyer said amiably. ‘‘But that is neither here nor there. We need to talk.’’

‘‘No, we do not,’’ Fargo said as he filled his glass.

‘‘I cannot say I think much of your attitude. I am an important man in these parts.’’

Fargo snorted.

Cranmeyer colored, then jerked a thumb at the muscle next to him. ‘‘This is Mr. Krupp. He works for me. He is the captain of my freight train.’’

‘‘Good for him,’’ Fargo said, a bit testy now that the man would not take the hint.

The muscle spoke. ‘‘I make sure people show Mr. Cranmeyer the respect he deserves.’’

Fargo’s hand came up from under the table, holding his Colt. He set it on the table with a loud thunk. ‘‘Here is your respect, Cranmeyer. Take your pet bear and go annoy someone else.’’

Amazingly, Timothy P. Cranmeyer did no such thing. ‘‘You will hear me out whether you want to or not. It is in your own best interest.’’