Arizona Renegades by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe [Sharpe, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Westerns
ISBN: 9780451197566
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1999-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

8

They were Apaches, mounted on mules. One had hold of the Ovaro’s reins and was angrily tugging while the other warrior slapped the stallion on the flank again and again. It did no good. The pinto balked, moving slower than a snail.

Skye Fargo could guess why the pair had gone after his mount. The Apaches intended to strand them afoot, then return with more warriors. He couldn’t allow that. Snapping the Henry to his shoulder, he sighted on the warrior who held the reins. The Apache looked back and suddenly swung on the far side of his mule, hanging by an elbow and an ankle. An old Comanche trick. But the trick had worked in Fargo’s favor in that the Apache had to let go of the reins to perform it.

The second warrior was still slapping the Ovaro. He glanced at his companion, saw what the other man had done, and twisted. When he spied Fargo, he swept up his rifle, a Sharps. He should have done as his friend did.

Fargo smoothly stroked the Henry’s trigger. The recoil pushed the stock into him, while forty yards distant the second Apache sprouted a new nostril. Flipped backward, the man tumbled. The mule stopped cold.

The first warrior had goaded his mount into running off. Part of his face jutted from under the mule’s belly, but Fargo didn’t fire. To bring down the man he must bring down the mule. And unlike some frontiersmen, he was loath to kill anything unless it was absolutely necessary. He disliked hunters who shot more game than they needed. Anyone who killed animals for the hell of it deserved to be shot themselves. He wasn’t like Gwen’s brothers, who picked off turkey buzzards for target practice.

Part of the reason had to do with the time Fargo had spent among the Sioux. They were mighty hunters, but they never slew to excess and they always used every part of whatever they killed. Buffalo alone provided dozens of everyday items, everything from mittens to soap.

Another reason had to do with a lesson Fargo’s widespread travels had taught him. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t witness one animal kill another. It might be a grizzly eating fish, a pack of wolves culling deer, a bird of prey swooping down on a rabbit or prairie dog, a snake swallowing a frog, or a bird devouring a worm. The daily parade of death made Fargo realize how precious life was. No creature, from the smallest to the largest, deserved to be senselessly slaughtered.

Now, Fargo lowered the Henry rather than shoot the mule. Inserting two fingers into his mouth, he whistled shrilly. Obediently, the stallion trotted toward him. As for the mule belonging to the dead man, it was more interested in grazing than in running off. Fargo smiled. The extra mount would come in handy.

Then a hard object gouged into the base of Fargo’s spine and he heard the click of a hammer. He didn’t need to look to know it was the Spencer, or who had scooped it up while he was preoccupied with the Apaches.

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