The Trailsman #388 Read Online Free Page B

both men equally dangerous. If Fargo does decide to stir things up, he’s the type who will want information first. That means he’ll have to return to the location of the blast.”
    â€œWe’ll toss out the net,” Ulrick said. “If he hangs around here long enough, we’ll send him over the mountains, all right.”
    â€œNo better men for the job,” Perry said. “But your remark about his being a newspaper hero, Deuce, has set me thinking. We don’t just need to eliminate him—we need to do it quickly before he possibly gets the word out to the wrong authorities. Meaning that perhaps I had better take out some insurance.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThis very day I’m going to send a messenger rider up to Taos.”
    Ulrick’s face suddenly paled and he sat up straighter. “You mean Mankiller?”
    â€œYes, Mankiller. In fact, his handler is already down here in a strategic location. I made sure of that when Mr. Wins-lowe explained the importance of this assignment.”
    â€œBut you know how Mankiller can be, boss.”
    â€œI do indeed, Deuce. That’s why I’m sending for him.”

4
    Skye Fargo had carefully pondered the bizarre situation with the deliberate rerouting of the Rio Grande, studying all of its vexing facets.
    He could simply follow Santiago Valdez’s advice and put
la
frontera
far behind him. After all, a myriad of powerful robber barons were already raping the frontier to amass personal fortunes in gold, silver, timber and land, and Fargo knew that no one was going to stop their greedy onslaught—not when the barons had the politicians in their hip pockets.
    But this crime had been personalized when those three thugs—obviously on someone’s payroll—had tried to snuff his wick. And although Fargo was not possessed of do-gooder instincts, neither could he just ignore the importance of the astounding land grab he had witnessed. One man stealing land from another man was a private feud. But one man stealing land from an entire country, and altering an international border to do so was dangerously provocative in a region that was already a tinderbox of tension, ill will and resentment.
    Reluctantly, Fargo concluded that he would have to make a report to Colonel Josiah Evans, commander of Fort Union in the Department of New Mexico. Evans had hired Fargo, earlier that year, as a contract scout for a mapping expedition into the Sangre de Cristo range of the Rockies.
    The two men had not exactly hit it off, Evans being a rule-book commander who considered Fargo too undisciplined and disrespectful of authority. But Fargo considered Evans honest and upright and perhaps likely to follow through forcefully when he learned what had happened.
    That meant Fargo had to act on his resolve to study that blast site up close. But after the attack on him and Santiago Valdez, he decided to wait a day. He spent that night in a cold camp on the Mexican side of the border just north of the sleepy pueblo of El Porvenir.
    He rolled out of his blanket just before sunrise and ate a spartan meal of hardtack soaked in coffee. He had grained and watered the Ovaro the night before, and Fargo rode out as the bloodred sun was breaking over the eastern flats.
    The country surrounding him was hot, dry and dusty, dotted with ocotillo and greasewood and the occasional oddly twisted Joshua tree. But magnificent purple mountain ranges were visible on the far horizons. Fargo favored desolate, open terrain like this—visibility was excellent and a man who remained vigilant could see anyone approaching well beyond rifle range.
    And Fargo did remain vigilant. Ruthless Mexican bandit gangs crisscrossed the borderland, and they would murder a man for his boots much less a fine stallion like the Ovaro. More importantly, Fargo had a healthy respect for the trio that attacked him and Valdez yesterday. A moment’s carelessness around them, and