rocked with the impact. His rifle drooped and he swayed. Fargo did not waste another shot. He threw himself flat yet again as the horse thundered by. Clifton’s body thudded to the ground.
Three conspirators remained. Fargo had three cartridges left in his Colt. He would rather have more, and went to reload.
“Rush him!” Arthur Draypool bawled, beside himself with fury. “All of us at once!”
“Don’t!” the judge yelled.
But Draypool and Garvey charged, firing on the fly. An invisible fist knocked Fargo’s hat from his head. Invisible fingers tugged at his left sleeve. Rising onto one knee, he shot Draypool squarely in the chest, then had to leap aside as Garvey nearly rode him down. Garvey twisted in the saddle and fired as Fargo fired, not once but twice. The bottom of Garvey’s jaw exploded and the overseer fell.
The Colt was empty. Fargo whirled, his hand flying to his belt. The
Judge Oliver Harding smiled. “Any last comments?”
Fargo was a statue.
“No? You gave a good accounting. I’ll give you that much. But it’s over. You’ve lost. As soon as I put an end to you, I’ll go after Lincoln.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The voice came from so near that both Fargo and Judge Harding gave a start. A familiar lanky frame came out of the shadows into the sunlight, as inviting a target as anyone could ask for.
“You!” Judge Harding exclaimed. “I didn’t think you would make it so easy.” He drew a bead on the presidential candidate.
Fargo had to act. Only a few feet away lay a fallen rifle. In a bound he reached it and swept it up. He fired without aiming, as much to rattle Harding as anything else. The judge shifted toward him. Both of their rifles boomed.
The judge missed.
Fargo did not.
Abraham Lincoln came over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am forever in your debt.”
“It’s not over,” Fargo said. “There’s a man named Mayfair I plan to visit. He’s part of the League.”
“Let the army deal with him,” Lincoln suggested. “I will have Captain Colter take him into custody. With the help of Providence, we will uncover the rest of their sinister organization.”
“Whatever you think is best.”
Abraham Lincoln smiled warmly and offered his hand. “Can I count on your vote come the election?”
Grinning, Fargo shook. “I don’t usually bother. But in your case I might make an exception.”
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section of the next novel in the exciting
THE TRAILSMAN #301 HIGH PLAINS GRIFTERS
Skye Fargo stood in the shadow beside his hotel room window, keeping a wary eye directed outside on the ramshackle livery barn at the far edge of town.
Since entering the Kansas Territory three days earlier, he had been followed by two young Southern Cheyenne bucks. Because most Plains Indians were partial to pinto horses, and Fargo rode a top-notch pinto stallion, it seemed likely they meant to boost his Ovaro.
Cheyennes, he knew, were not town fighters. Sneaking into a livery in broad daylight, however, to steal a white man’s mount would count as a great deed and earn them coup feathers. So Fargo had slid open the sash and had his brass-framed Henry rifle propped against the wall nearby. He had no intention to shoot for score, only to kick up plenty of dust and send the braves running.
Fargo wore fringed buckskins, some of the strings stiff with old blood. His crop-bearded face was tanned hickory-nut brown, and the startling, lake blue eyes had seen several lifetimes of danger and adventure. He cast a wide glance around the once-thriving town of Plum Creek.
“Boom to bust,” he muttered, amazed by the rapid change.
The last time the Trailsman, as some called Fargo, rode through Plum Creek, the place was fast and wide open. Seemed like everybody had money to throw at the birds. But he had watched plenty of boomtowns turn into ghost towns practically overnight, and clearly this berg would soon make the list. Last night a rough bunch of buffalo skinners had made enough ruckus to wake snakes. The hiders were gone now, and the sleepy little crossroads settlement seemed on the verge of blowing away like a tumbleweed.
There was still this hotel, though, Fargo reminded himself, even if it was the size of a packing crate. And even more surprising, a bank straight across the street. That was especially hard to believe—Fargo had played draw poker the night before with a few locals, and all but one had used hard-times tokens as markers, private coins issued by area merchants to combat the critical shortage of specie.
Again Fargo’s gaze cut to the livery, but the Ovaro was peacefully drinking from a water trough in the paddock. Fargo watched sparrow hawks circling in the empty sky. The only traffic in the wide, rutted main street was a despondent-looking farmer driving a manure wagon.
Until, that is, a fancy-fringed surrey came spinning around a corner near the bank.
Fargo whistled appreciatively when he’d gotten a good look at the driver. “Well, ain’t
The surrey pulled up in front of the bank in a boil of yellow dust. The Trailsman forgot about the two Cheyennes, dumbfounded at this vision of loveliness. The young woman on the spring seat was somewhere in her early twenties with lush, dark-blond hair pulled straight back under a silver tiara and caught up under a silk net on her nape. Hers was a face of angelic beauty except for full, sensuous lips.
Fargo had an excellent view, and with his window open he heard everything that transpired.
“Yoo-hoo, young man!” she called out in a voice like waltzing violins. “Yes, I mean you. Come here, please.”
A slight, puzzled frown wrinkled Fargo’s brow. Her accent, he guessed, was supposed to sound French and might fly in these parts. He’d heard better imitations, though.
A boy of about twelve years of age, a hornbook tucked under his arm, was just then passing along the raw- lumber boardwalk. At the woman’s musical hail, he turned to look at her and his jaw dropped open in astonishment. Like Fargo, he seemed mesmerized by the gay ostrich-feather boa draped loosely around slim white shoulders, and the way her tight stays thrust her breasts up provocatively.
“Yes, you,” she said again, laughing at his stupefaction. “I don’t bite!”
“Hell, a little biting might be tolerable,” Fargo muttered.
“Please run inside the bank,” she told the awed lad, taking a coin from her beaded reticule, “and tell them an invalid lady requires help outside.”
“Yes, muh-muh-ma’am!” the kid managed, staring at the coin she placed in his hand.
Invalid? Fargo’s eyes raked over her evidently healthy form. It was early September—dog days on the High Plains—and the still air felt hot as molten glass. Yet, the mysterious woman’s legs were wrapped in velvet traveling rugs.
Fargo’s vague suspicion of the beauty instantly deepened. He was familiar with the ways of grifters, and it
