Apache Vendetta by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe [Sharpe, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780451466013
Amazon: 0451466012
Barnesnoble: 0451466012
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2014-01-07T05:00:00+00:00

26

Fargo’s years on the frontier had attuned his ears to the sounds of danger. The click of a gun hammer, the twang of a bowstring, a barely audible growl. His reflexes were nearly always instantaneous. In this case, he threw himself flat even as he drew his Colt.

A gun boomed between two buildings and lead sizzled the space he had occupied.

Fargo fired at the muzzle flash, cocked the hammer, fired again.

A figure lurched into the open. The six-gun in its good hand spat flame and lead.

A slug kicked up dirt inches from Fargo’s face. He fired two swift shots, the impact jolting the figure onto its bootheels. A six-shooter thudded to the ground.

“You damned jackass,” Fargo said.

Nearly dead on his feet, Half-Pint took a last tottering step. His eyes rolled up into his head so only the whites showed and he sprawled onto his side and convulsed.

Fargo stood and walked over, reloading as he went.

Up and down the street, windows and doors were opening and people were yelling back and forth.

“You couldn’t let it drop, could you?” Fargo said.

Behind him someone replied, “No, he couldn’t.”

Fargo spun and leveled the Colt.

“Hold on, mister,” Jenks exclaimed, throwing his empty hands in the air. “I’m harmless.”

“You weren’t here to back his play?”

“Hell no.” Jenks came up and stared sorrowfully at his pard. “I spent half the night tryin’ to talk him out of it. He was no gun hand. He shouldn’t have tried to draw on you that first time and he sure as hell shouldn’t have tried this.”

“Some people never learn,” Fargo said.

“Ain’t it the truth.” Jenks sighed. “I finally fell asleep and woke when I heard him sneakin’ down the stairs of the boardin’house. I came after him but I was too late.”

“I’ll pay for his burial,” Fargo offered. Not that he wanted to.

“No need. Him and me were partners for goin’ on six years now.” Jenks looked at Fargo. “I suppose I should be mad at you but I’m not. You were only protectin’ yourself.” He gnawed his bottom lip, then said, “Half-Pint wanted me not to tell you but I reckon now it doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me what?”

“About those prospectors. Samuels and the others. They were arguin’ at one point, and me and Half-Pint were curious and listened to what they were sayin’.”

“And?”

“I heard one of them—Ostman, his handle was—say as how he was gettin’ shed of the rest and headin’ for Silver Creek.”

“I’m obliged.”

“Me, I’m goin’ back to Texas. For cowpokes, that’s as close to heaven as this life gets.”

Residents of San Lupe were appearing from all over, some bundled in bulky robes, others in various stages of undress. Fingers were pointed and whispers broke out.

Fargo decided to forget about breakfast. He was in the saddle and San Lupe was a cluster of shapes on the western horizon before the morning was an hour old.

It would take five days to reach Silver Creek. A wild boomtown, it was notorious for having more houses of ill repute than anywhere except Denver.

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