Trailsman #360 : Texas Lead Slingers (9781101544860) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Teaser chapter

  No other series packs this much heat!

  THE NAME GAME

  At the blast Ranson cried out and staggered. Colliding with the wall, he clutched his stomach. Blood pumped between his splayed fingers. He looked down, aghast, and said breathlessly, “No.”

  Fargo leveled the Colt. “I want a name.”

  Ranson oozed to the ground, his legs too weak to support him. “What?” he said, still staring at the wound and the blood.

  “The name of whoever hired you and your pard, and why they want me dead.”

  “Bastard,” Ranson said.

  “The name or I’ll shoot you again.”

  Ranson had dropped the Starr. He saw it and gritted his teeth and lunged.

  Fargo kicked it away.

  “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” Ranson hissed. Shutting his eyes, he groaned.

  “The name.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You first.” Fargo extended the Colt and thumbed back at the hammer. . . .

  SIGNET

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2011

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in Platte River Gauntlet, the three hundred fifty-ninth volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2011

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54486-0

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  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 Gulf Coast of Texas, 1861—

  where a high-stakes poker tournament

  leads to deceit and death.

  1

  The two men latched on to Skye Fargo when he stopped at the saloon. He’d been on the trail for three days and wanted to wash the dust down before he went out to the mansion. Over a dozen of the top poker players in the country had been invited to take part in Senator Deerforth’s annual high-stakes game, and he was on the list.

  The sun had set and lights were coming on the length of Deerforth’s main street. Named after the man who invited him, the Gulf town was booming. Silver was the reason; the largest deposit in south Texas.

  The bar was three deep.

  Fargo shouldered through and pounded on it to get the barkeep’s attention. He hankered after a bottle but settled for a glass. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his buckskin shirt, he sauntered back out and was unwrapping the Ovaro’s reins from the hitch rail when he became aware of a pair of hard-eyed men leaning against the wall. Their clothes marked them as sailors.

  Fargo didn’t think much of it and led the stallion down Main Street. When he glanced back the two men were following him. They tried not to be obvious but they might as well wear signs.

  He didn’t know what to make of it.

  The next junction was Cutter Street. He turned right. Cutter ran down to the docks. A schooner was raising sail. Other ships were at anchor, some being loaded, others unloaded.

  Fargo made for a broad patch of shadow cast by a clipper. A lantern glowed on board but no one was moving about. Letting the reins drop, he crouched and circled to a stack of crates.

  The pair stopped about thirty feet away and gazed out to sea. The taller scratched under
an arm and sniffed his fingers. The other fingered the hilt of a knife. They kept glancing at the Ovaro.

  “What’s he doing, Ranson?” asked the man with the knife. He had a chin that came to a point, and buckteeth.

  “I can’t tell much,” the tall man replied. “I can see the horse but I can’t see him.”

  “Do we do it or not?”

  “We took half in advance, Jules.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  Ranson slid a dagger from his left sleeve. “We have to be careful. He’s supposed to be tough.”

  “Tough, hell,” Jules said. “You distract him and I’ll earn us the rest.”

  “Nice of him to come to the docks,” Ranson said. “Not many around at this time of day to notice.”

  “Damned nice,” Jules agreed.

  They moved toward the Ovaro.

  By then Fargo had his Colt in his hand. He glided from behind the crates and smashed the barrel against Jules’s head, pulping Jules’s ear and felling him like a shot hog.

  Ranson spun, his dagger glinting in the starlight. “What the hell,” he blurted.

  Fargo leveled his six-gun and thumbed back the hammer. “I wouldn’t,” he warned. “Not unless you want your brains splattered all over your pard.”

  Ranson straightened and dropped his dagger. “If this is a robbery we don’t have much money, mister.”

  “Who paid you to kill me?”

  “I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about,” Ranson said.

  “I heard you.”

  “You didn’t hear us say nothing about killing. And since when is talk against the law, anyhow?”

  “Do you see a badge?” Fargo said.

  “If you were you might have some excuse for this but since you’re not, you must be a footpad.”

  “The bluff won’t wash.”

  “Then take us to the marshal and we’ll see what he has to say.”

  Fargo had no proof the pair were plotting to assassinate him. It’d be their word against his.

  “Well?” Ranson prodded.

  Fargo could shoot them but one was unconscious and the other was unarmed.

  “Are you going to stand there pointing that thing at me all night?”

  “No,” Fargo said, and slammed the Colt against Ranson’s temple. The tall sailor joined his companion in a sprawled heap.

  Twirling the Colt into his holster, Fargo climbed on the Ovaro. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake letting those two live.

  Time would tell.

  2

  Senator Marion Deerforth was one of the richest men in the state, what with the family’s shipping concerns and their plantation. He’d entered politics young and risen to prominence, and was well respected. His annual poker game brought in the cream of the professional fraternity.

  Deerforth always reminded Fargo of a butterball. The man had three chins and folds of fat not even tailored suits could hide; he jiggled when he walked.

  “Skye Fargo, as I live and breathe!” Deerforth exclaimed as he came down the marble steps. His hair was as white as snow, his face seamed with lines. “How are you doin’, son?” he asked in his distinct drawl, and clapped Fargo on the arms. “I never know if you’ll be able to make these poker shindys of mine.”

  “I try not to miss them,” Fargo replied. They were more than poker games. It was a week of whiskey and women, and who could ask for more?

  “You’re the last to show,” Senator Deerforth informed him. “Midnight is the deadline. You cut it close, as usual.”

  “I had a far piece to come,” Fargo told him. Clear from the Green River country.

  “Let’s get you settled in and you can join me for drinks in my study.”

  “My horse—” Fargo said, and gestured at the Ovaro.

  “My stable boys will take care of it as if it were my own.” Deerforth gave him a jovial poke. “You should know that by now.”

  They were almost to the front door when a female version of Deerforth bustled out to greet them. She was just as wide and had just as many chins. “Skye!” she squealed in delight. “You handsome devil, you.”

  “Virginia,” Fargo said.

  “I prefer Ginny.” She crushed him against her more-thanample bosom. “How many times must I tell you that?”

  “Now, now, my dear,” the senator said. “Quit throwin’ yourself at him.”

  “Be sensible,” Ginny scolded. “He’s young enough to be my son.”

  “Your grandson,” Senator Deerforth said, and she playfully clipped him on the shoulder with her fist.

  “True gentlemen never allude to a lady’s age,” Ginny scolded.

  “Who says I’m a gentleman?”

  “You’ll be one in my presence, or else.”

  Fargo chuckled. They were always bickering, good-natured jibes that rolled off their backs like water off a duck. “Who showed up this year?”

  “Lacey Mayhare,” Ginny said, and winked. “She’s been asking about you.”

  “Fine figure of a woman, that gal,” Senator Deerforth said. “Were I single I’d show an interest.”

  “Show an interest and you will be,” Ginny jousted. “Or dead, if I can find my derringer.”

  “Did you hear her?” Senator Deerforth said in mock dismay. “She wants my fortune for herself.”

  “Damn right I do,” Ginny said, “and while I’m still young enough to enjoy spending it.”

  “Fifty-three isn’t young, my dear.”

  “It sure as hell isn’t old, either.”

  Fargo hoped he had half her spunk when he was her age. He’d rather not end his days in a rocking chair, twiddling his thumbs and counting the minutes until they planted him.

  The parlor was as luxurious as Fargo remembered. A piano sat in a corner. The fireplace mantel was mahogany. Overhead, a chandelier sparkled. The people lounging and talking looked around as their hosts entered.

  “Damn, not Fargo,” said a handsome man in gambler garb. “I had my fingers crossed he wouldn’t make it so I’d have a chance at winning.” Smiling, he came over and offered his hand.

  “Vin Creed, be nice to my other guests,” Ginny chided.

  “Fargo and I are well acquainted,” Creed said as they shook. “If I have to lose to anyone, it might as well be him.”

  Beside Fargo a woman cleared her throat.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Fargo turned. Her voice was the sultriest in creation, a perfect fit for as fine a body as he’d ever come across.

  From her golden hair to the tips of her small feet, she was exquisite. Her eyes were bluer than his, her lips as red as strawberries. “Lacey.”

  “Hard to believe a whole year has gone by.”

  At her touch a tingle shot up Fargo’s arm. She always had that effect. Normally he wouldn’t mind but her beauty distracted him from his card playing, and she knew it.

  “I’m looking forward to taking more of your money.”

  Fargo winced. Last year he came to the tables with the entry fee of five thousand in his poke and left with forty-three dollars, mostly thanks to her. “You better not wear that perfume you did last time.”

  “You don’t like ladies who smell nice?” Lacey rejoined, and laughed.

  Senator Deerforth had his thumbs hooked in his vest and was rocking on his boot heels. “This year promises to be the best yet. We have twenty players, which brings the total pot to one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Vin Creed whistled. “I’d kill my own mother to win that much.” He grinned at Fargo. “Or anyone else.”

  3

  Another thing Fargo liked about his host was that Deerforth shared his fondness for liquor. The senator started each morning with whiskey in his coffee and the last thing he did before he went to bed each night was have a nightcap. It was rumored that Deerforth put down a bottle a day. Yet it never showed. Not once in the time Fargo had known him had he seen the senator drunk.

  And now Deerforth ushered him
to the liquor cabinet and said the words Fargo liked to hear.

  “Help yourself, my friend.”

  Fargo was glad to. He opened a bottle of Monongahela, filled a large glass, and savored a sip. As the warmth spread through his gut he casually asked, “Do you happen to know anyone who’d want me dead?”

  Deerforth studied him. “Are you implying someone tried to kill you?”

  “They had it in mind,” Fargo said, and briefly related his clash with Ranson and Jules.

  “That’s an outrage,” the senator declared. “I’ll fix their hash. I’ll contact Marshal Moleen and have them arrested.”

  “For what? Waving knives around?”

  “Damn it, man. You said that you heard them plotting to kill you.”

  “Can’t arrest a man for talking.” Fargo used Ranson’s own argument.

  “Why are you defending them? At least let me send Garvin and some men into town to find them and persuade them our climate isn’t to their liking.”

  “Garvin” was the name of the hulking slab of muscle who ran the plantation. “No,” Fargo said.

  “Give me a reason.”

  “I’d like to find out who sicced them on me, and why.”

  “Garvin can find out.”

  “I stomp my own snakes,” Fargo said, and treated himself to another swallow of liquid velvet.

  “Suit yourself. But I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “I do that a lot.”

  The senator put his hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Skye. I get so tired of the silly bastards I have to put up with every day. The whiners and complainers and those with their hands out.”

  “You sound tired of it all.”

  “I am.” Deerforth ran a hand over his white hair. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m getting on in years. I’m not going to run for reelection. I’m retiring at the end of this term.”

  “What will you do with yourself?”

  “Drive poor Ginny crazy.” Deerforth chuckled. “I don’t know. Write my memoirs. Fish. Hunt. Drink a little.”