The Trailsman #388 by Jon Sharpe Read Free Book Online Page B

need.
    Fargo rolled out at sunrise and watered the Ovaro from a goatskin bag tied to his saddle horn. Then he carefully inspected the stallion’s hooves, removing a few thorns and small stones with a hoof-pick. By then it was light enough for a careful inspection of his surroundings through his binoculars.
    Wary of that unholy trio, Fargo scanned the arid country in every direction, searching for movement or reflections more than shapes. All he spotted, however, was a lumbering armadillo and a few scavenging coyotes.
    Feeling safe for the moment, Fargo gathered up enough dead mesquite wood to build a cooking fire. He made coffee and fried up the last of his bacon to ease the gnawing in his belly. Then he rode out onto the desert hardpan and pointed his bridle toward Tierra Seca. Already the heat was rising and forming blurry, dancing snakes on the distant horizon.
    For a few moments Fargo wondered where those three menacing attackers were holing up. Most hired dirt workers were town men by choice, their trailcraft weak. These three, however, seemed adept at using terrain to their advantage, and he feared they would prove more proficient than the usual greasy-sack outfit at movement and concealment.
    They were obviously of a higher caliber, and that meant that whoever was the head of this snake was, too. Mining interests were behind that brazen rerouting of the Rio, and that meant deep pockets. But what the hell, Fargo wondered again, was Santiago Valdez’s mix in this deal?
    As Fargo trotted his stallion closer to Tierra Seca, he idly observed that the Mexican side of the river rose into low ridges exactly like the area near the blast site. But an impressive sight distracted his thoughts: members of the Phalanx already working the fields. Despite their foolish notions and laughable costumes, these agricultural utopians were certainly industrious.
    As he had hoped, Carrie spotted him riding in and walked out to meet him.
    â€œGlad you stuck around,” she greeted him. “I hope I had something to do with that. You’ve sure been on my mind.”
    Fargo swung down from the saddle. “Same here. There’s something we need to take care of, don’t you think?”
    â€œWhy not right now, long-tall?”
    Fargo grinned. “You mean right here?”
    She slugged him playfully on the arm. “We don’t share
that
much around here.” She nodded toward a nearby cornfield. “Notice how the corn is tasseled—it’s real high now. Would you like me to show you that field?”
    â€œThere’s a little farmer in all of us,” Fargo assured her. “But I need to get my horse away from the road.”
    They headed down a row of the bean field, Fargo leading the Ovaro, who kept trying to chomp at the plants.
    â€œJust curious,” Fargo said. “Won’t Rip—uh, I mean Justice—interfere again when he sees you’re not working?”
    â€œOh, he’s still in bed. He sleeps late.”
    â€œI thought you all shared equally in the work.”
    â€œWell, see, Ripley doesn’t really work. He sorta . . . guides the rest of us.”
    Fargo thought he detected resentment in her tone. “In other words he’s privileged? A little more equal than everyone else?”
    She shrugged her slim shoulders. “He does seem a little bossy. Danny Dexter wasn’t like that. He was our last spiritual leader. His rebirth name was Harmony and he always worked alongside the rest of us. But one day he just up and disappeared without so much as a fare-thee-well. We were fortunate that Justice came along.”
    â€œDisappeared, you say? How long after that did Ripley Parker join the group?”
    She cast those wing-shaped, Prussian blue eyes at Fargo, searching his face. “Why, a day or so later, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
    â€œNo reason,” Fargo lied. “I guess it’s just a coincidence. How long ago was that when