Apache Ambush

Fargo was so engrossed in the battle that he nearly lost his own skin. The crunch of a moccasin on loose pebbles was his only warning. He twisted just as a lone warrior launched himself at him. Fargo started to bring up the Henry but he was catapulted free of the stirrups by a battering ram. Or that was how it felt when the Apache’s shoulder caught him in the belly. A knife slashed at his throat. That it missed was not through any effort on his part.

Fargo crashed onto his side and the Henry went skittering. He had the presence of mind to roll and came up in a crouch.

The Mimbres was on him with pantherlike swiftness. The knife streaked out.

Fargo ducked, shifted, dodged.

Hissing in battled anger, the Apache stabbed low. It was a feint. Quick as thought, he arced the blade high, slashing at Fargo’s throat.

It was a common trick. A trick Fargo has used. A trick he countered by blocking the blow with his forearm while simultaneously burying his toothpick to the hilt in the warrior’s neck. He went for the jugular and he opened it wide.

Spouting scarlet, the Apache skipped backward. He managed only a half dozen steps when his legs buckled and he folded, disbelief writ large on his swarthy features. He tried to speak but all that came out was blood. The spark of life that animated his eyes faded, and he was dead before he was prone.

Fargo had no time to waste. He grabbed the Henry and swung back on the Ovaro.

The battle was reaching its climax. Most of Grind’s hired killers were down.

So were a dozen Apaches.

As Fargo looked on, Jefferson Grind and Fraco broke out of the melee and fled.

Maybe it was the fact they had lost all sense of direction in the fight, or maybe they chose the only way open, or maybe it was simple fear on Grind’s part if not on Fraco’s, but the pair did not head west, as they had been doing. They galloped madly back the way they had come.

Toward the bend.

Toward Fargo.

They had not noticed him yet. Both were staring back at the Mimbres. No doubt they figured the Apaches would give chase but the warriors were gathering up their wounded and dead and did not come after them.

Wedging the stock to his shoulder, Fargo sighted on Jefferson Grind’s sternum. He held his fire, letting them get closer. He wanted to be sure.

Fraco was the first to turn and spot Fargo and the Ovaro. He yelled a warning while at the same time reining sharply to the north.

Jefferson Grind whipped around so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap. He brought up his rifle.

Fargo’s trigger finger curled. The Henry bucked once, bucked twice, bucked a third time, and the would-be freight king toppled to the ground and was no more.

Forty yards out, Fraco looked back and smirked, confident he would make good his escape. It would take an exceptional marksman to hit him, bent low as he was, and reining right and left.

Fargo put a slug smack in the center of the smirk.

That evening the freighters were in fine spirits.

Fargo was filling his tin cup with steaming coffee when three lovelies joined him.

‘‘You didn’t think we were done with you, did you?’’ Cleopatra asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

‘‘I hoped not,’’ Skye Fargo said.

‘‘When you finish that coffee, how about if we go on that walk you promised me?’’

Fargo set down the cup. ‘‘Why wait?’’ He took her hand and they walked toward a gap between the wagons.

‘‘Tomorrow night it will be Mavis’s turn,’’ Cleo said. ‘‘And the night after that, Myrtle wants you again.’’ She grinned and swatted him on the backside. ‘‘I hope you are up to it.’’

‘‘I am always up for it,’’ Fargo told her.

They passed the wagons and were alone in the dark. Cleopatra halted and faced him. ‘‘Show me.’’

LOOKING FORWARD!

The following is the opening

section from the next novel in the exciting

Trailsmanseries from Signet:

THE TRAILSMAN #323

WYOMING DEATH TRAP

Wyoming Territory, 1861—

sometimes you don’t know who to trust and you

find yourself trapped in a deadly game.

Something was wrong.

Skye Fargo came through the narrow mountain pass and looked below to the stage station sprawled across a small, rocky stretch of land. On a fine sunny morning in Wyoming, a stage pulled up in front of the place, there should have been some sign of activity. Even the horses in the rope corral seemed strangely still and quiet. The few scattered outbuildings cast deep morning shadows.