Blood Wedding

There’d been times when Fargo hadn’t shared her confidence, but he figured he’d done what Jed would have wanted. And he’d done what he wanted. He couldn’t let his friend be murdered and just walk away.

“I guess you’ll be leaving now,” Molly said.

She was right. Fargo didn’t have anything to tie him to the farmers now.

“I’ll head out tomorrow,” he said. “After Angel’s funeral.”

“And you’re sure there’s no way we could make a farmer of you?” Molly asked.

Abby looked at her suspiciously and asked, “Have you been thinking about farming, Fargo?”

“Not a whole lot,” Fargo said. “I’ve been thinking more about mountains with snow on the tops, and some country where there aren’t a lot of farms all jammed up together.”

Lem laughed. “I wouldn’t say we’re all jammed together here, Fargo. Plenty of room for another farm. Lots more of them, to tell the truth.”

“It may look that way to you. Not to me, though.”

“Well,” Molly said, getting another suspicious look from Abby, “if you’re ever back this way, Fargo, stop in and visit for a while.”

Fargo never knew where he might be the next week or the next month, but he knew how way led on to way, and he didn’t think he’d ever find himself in this part of the country again, at least not for a long time.

“I’ll be sure and do that,” he said.

LOOKING FORWARD!

The following is the opening

section of the next novel in the exciting

Trailsmanseries from Signet:

THE TRAILSMAN #261

Desert Death Trap

Nevada Territory, Summer 1861—

Deceit, danger, and death at every turn.

Over a low rise to the east appeared a young maiden, running as if her life depended on it. Long raven hair streamed behind her as she swiftly descended a game trail. She moved with the natural grace of an antelope, a comparison heightened by the buckskin dress that clung to her lithe form.

Skye Fargo was about to saddle up after a good night’s sleep when he spotted her. He watched with keen interest, enticed by the flash of her shapely legs. She was so intent on running, she didn’t spot his camp, hidden in the brush less than a stone’s throw from the bottom of the rise.

The reason for her flight became plain when three men sprinted over the top of the hill.

Fargo’s lake-blue eyes narrowed. The trio were also on foot, which in itself was remarkable. No one in their right mind tried to cross the high desert country between the Great Salt Lake and the Cascades without a horse. Even more peculiar was that one of her pursuers was white, the other red, and the third black. “What the hell?” he wondered aloud.

The white pursuer wore just about the silliest outfit Fargo ever saw, a two-piece affair that resembled bright red longjohns. Bushy sideburns and a thick mustache framed his pale face. His gait was as odd as his appearance; he loped in long, stiff-legged motion, attended by the windmill pumping of broomstick arms.

Next was a husky Indian more sensibly attired in a breechclout and knee-high moccasins. Fargo couldn’t be completely sure at that distance, but it sure looked to him that the warrior was an Apache. Which was preposterous—Apache territory was many leagues to the south.

Last came the black man. A strapping specimen, he had on a pair of faded jeans and a floppy brown hat that hid half his ruggedly chiseled face. He didn’t seem to be exerting himself all that hard yet he had no trouble keeping up with the others.

The maiden looked back, saw them, and ran faster.

Fargo didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t about to stand there and let the men catch her. Experience told him they had to be up to no good. The maiden dashed past his camp without a sideways glance. Dropping his bed-roll, Fargo turned toward his horse. The Ovaro was twenty yards away, slaking its thirst at a small spring. He intended to mount up but a quick look showed the three men were already near the bottom of the rise.

Impulsively, Fargo hurtled from the scrub brush. He thought it would be easy to intercept the three before they overtook their quarry. But he gave them too little credit. Once on flat ground, they had doubled their speed.

Fargo was in excellent condition, his sinews hardened to iron by a life in the wild, his stamina second to none. He settled into a long stride, the jangle of his spurs a constant reminder that he might have been better off using the Ovaro.

It pushed Fargo to his limit but bit by bit he narrowed the gap. Soon he was only thirty yards behind. Then twenty. Then ten. He could see beads of sweat on the back of the black’s neck when, alerted by the sound of his spurs, the man suddenly glanced over a shoulder. Seconds later the Apache did the same. Last to hear, the gaudily garbed white man twisted around.