Six-Gun Gallows Read Free

magnificent black-and-white pinto, the tall man’s buckskin clothing, and the brass-framed Henry rifle protruding from the man’s saddle scabbard.
    â€œI could be wrong,” he said, “but I think that jasper helping those Quakers is Skye Fargo.”
    â€œSo what? Whoever that is, he’s just one man.” Shanghai was a barrel-chested, rawboned man with long, greasy black hair tied in a knot between his shoulder blades. Unlike his boss, whose only visible weapon was a thin Spanish boot dagger, he wore a brace of pistols and a bowie knife.
    â€œNo,” Belloch corrected him. “If we’re not careful, he’s the rock we’ll all split on. That son of a bitch is death to the devil. But we’ll bide our time and soon Fargo will be worm fodder.”
    Two more men, Moss Harper and Jake Ketchum, had just joined Rafe and Shanghai in the gully. Both wore the cutaway holsters of professional gun-throwers.
    â€œHell, why wait at all?” demanded Moss. “Best way to cure a boil is to lance it. Me, Jake, and Shanghai can pop the bastard over right now.”
    Rafe’s thin lips twitched into a smile. “All three of you boys have a set on you, all right. That’s why I chose you over the rest as my field lieutenants. But even three good men won’t take down Skye Fargo—not on the open plains.”
    Moss grunted. He had thinning red hair, a crooked nose broken in two places, and a patch over his left eye, which had been shot out in the Mexican War. “Happens he’s so rough, how’s come he didn’t try to help them mealymouthed psalm singers when it would’ve mattered?”
    â€œMen like him, who live their entire lives on the frontier, don’t stay alive by tilting at windmills. But you can take this to the bank: He won’t ride away like it’s none of his business. It’s an account he means to settle.”
    â€œAll right,” Shanghai said. “You want I should catch up with the rest of our men? He can’t whip thirty at once.”
    â€œNo, it’s too risky.”
    â€œBoss, has your brain gone soft? We can catch him in fifteen minutes and shoot him to rag tatters.”
    Belloch lowered the glasses and looked at him. His hard, dark eyes pierced like a pair of bullets. “Evidently you lads don’t recognize the name Fargo. You might know him better as the Trailsman—that’s what some call him.”
    â€œThe Trailsman,” repeated Jake Ketchum, a wiry and small man with a mean little face like a terrier. A string of leathery human ears dangled from his rattlesnake-skin belt. “Yeah, I’ve heard some saloon gossip.”
    â€œIn his case it’s not gossip. He’s got more guts than a smoke-house, and he rides the fastest, strongest horse in the West. Our men’s horses are stale by now, they’d never catch him at a dead run. Even if they could get close, Fargo’s a dead shot with that Henry rifle of his. That’s—what?—sixteen accurate shots from a repeater. And they say he can knock the eyes out of a buzzard at two hundred yards.”
    Shanghai snorted. “Yeah, and oysters can walk upstairs, too. No offense, boss, but since when did you turn into a nervous Nellie who believes in Robin Hood? Sounds like this lanky bastard puts ice in your boots.”
    â€œNo man does that, Shanghai. But there’s a right way and a wrong way to go about killing a man like Skye Fargo. We’re going to do it the right way—and before he turns that mystery pouch over to the U.S. Army.”
    â€œPouch?” Shanghai repeated. “What’s in it?”
    â€œThat’s why I employed the adjective ‘mystery.’ Some old Quaker crone gave it to him. They’re all headed east now, probably to Sublette.”
    â€œMight be it’s nothing to do with us,” Moss suggested, adjusting his eye patch.
    Rafe shrugged. “Yes, maybe