The Trailsman #388 by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online

other.”
    Fargo snatched his hat off the plank bar. “Lady,” he assured her before he walked out, “there ain’t a
damn
thing around here that I understand.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Only a few hours after Fargo was in Tierra Seca being mysteriously warned by Rosario Velasquez, businessman’s agent Harlan Perry conferred with his employer in El Paso’s Del Norte Arms hotel.
    â€œThe initial steps at my end,” said mining kingpin Stanley Winslowe, “have gone quite well. The governor of Chihuahua was quite happy with the, ah, inducement I gave him.”
    â€œI trust it wasn’t a lump sum,” Perry said. “I’ve dealt with Torres before. He’s more or less reliable so long as the carrot is kept dangling in front of his nose. But he burned me once when I was ignorant enough to pay him everything in advance.”
    Winslowe chuckled. He was a portly, balding man with a gold-chain monocle and salt-and-pepper muttonchop whiskers. His elegant tailoring disguised a shabby morality.
    â€œDon’t worry, Harlan. I’ve dealt with these greasers before. I made it clear that the initial payment will be repeated every month so long as my operation is pulling ore out of those ridges.”
    Perry nodded. “Well played. Given the constant revolutionary fever in Mexico and the extraordinary weakness of their federal government it should be safe enough for you. Chihuahua is essentially Juan Torres’s private little fiefdom.”
    Winslowe poured himself another glass of scotch and rolled a sip around in his mouth. His luxurious hotel suite featured textured walls and heavy teak furnishings.
    â€œOh, he’ll eventually try to put the crusher on me,” he said. “And the U.S. government might butt in at some point. But my engineer tells me the veins under those ridges are dense and high yielding. It won’t take that long to mine plenty of high-grade ore. Even if they eventually haze me out, I’ll have millions in the banks back east.”
    The smug satisfaction on Winslowe’s face gave way to a frown as a possible irritant occurred to him. “But what’s this about this drifter Skye Fargo? Do you really believe he could make trouble?”
    â€œMaking trouble is his hallmark. At this point, however, I consider him a volatile unknown quantity. He’s put himself into the mix, and he’ll have to be killed as soon as possible.”
    â€œIf he’s the fiddle-footed drifter you claim he is, perhaps he’ll soon just move on. I hear the man is a bunch quitter.”
    â€œThat’s my understanding, too,” Perry replied. “But there’s a complicating factor, and his moving on may not be enough.”
    Winslowe waited expectantly for a few moments and then narrowed his eyes. “Well?” he demanded. “Is there a chicken bone caught in your throat?”
    â€œIt’s this way, Mr. Winslowe. You may have arranged things with Governor Torres, but the U.S. Army is a horse of a different color. And Fargo has valuable acquaintances in the army.”
    â€œIf it comes to that, I happen to know you’ve paid off several high-ranking officers in the past.”
    Perry nodded. “Yes, even many West Point men often prefer the color gold over red, white and blue.”
    â€œThen why the long face?”
    â€œThe commander at the nearest fort, Colonel Josiah Evans at Fort Union, is one of these straight-and-narrow types who is pathologically law abiding. I know that from rueful personal experience—he had me indicted once for attempted bribery. Fortunately for me, the judge in the case
was
corruptible.”
    Winslowe, not liking the drift of this conversation, pushed out of his overstuffed easy chair and began pacing the spacious room.
    â€œYou’ve got good men on the payroll,” he pointed out. “Look how professionally they handled the blast. Don’t