Free The Trailsman #396 by Jon Sharpe Page A

“There’s no way around it.”
    They had reached a place marked “vulnerable ascension” on their army maps: a spot where the rising trail was forced into a series of switchbacks, winding higher and higher from the desert floor through a rocky pass. The mirror station had been erected at the pinnacle.
    â€œI proposed a way around this entire area,” Robinson carped. “Those six men are ­dead—­mirror relays stopped long ago.”
    â€œNo wonder you’re such an inspiration to the troops,” Fargo shot back, disgusted at the man’s lack of warrior camaraderie.
    Robinson stared at Fargo before dropping back again.
    The stretch of switchbacking trail began and Fargo took the point with Grizz Bear.
    â€œYou oughter keep the kid up front with us,” he told Fargo. “I ain’t even believing how good that little shit can chuck lead with a short iron. Happens it’s Mojaves that get to us first, they’ll swarm in close with their ’tater mashers. A good pistolero is just the ticket.”
    â€œRobinson would raise holy hell, and I don’t buck the army unless it’s necessary.”
    â€œThat ain’t how the army tells it.”
    â€œI lied,” Fargo admitted. “I buck them all the time. But Ed Beale is a good leader, and I’d like to avoid a set-to with his topkick. Now pipe down and watch for trouble.”
    But the ­ever-­expected attack never came. The switchbacking trail straightened at the top of the pass, a cut blown by army engineers through a maze of jagged outcrops. A mud hovel stood in the shade of a rock shelf, dark and ominously still in the eerie moon wash.
    The signal to halt was passed down the line. Fargo, Grizz Bear and Robinson approached the hut.
    â€œHallo inside!” Fargo called out. “Friendlies coming in!”
    There was no response from inside. Robinson barked out an order and a private hustled forward with a camp lantern. The three men entered and found the place empty and obviously ransacked. The big ­three-­foot mirror used for relaying signals had been shattered into countless fragments.
    A search began in the desolate terrain surrounding the station. Before too long a shout went up at the grisly discovery: five of the missing soldiers, all discovered within feet of each other in a rock nest about thirty feet beyond the mud hovel.
    The skull of each one had been brutally smashed, a few with such force they no longer resembled human heads.
    â€œMojaves, all right,” Grizz Bear pronounced. “Looks like they been dead for at least a couple weeks.”
    â€œHappy now, Fargo?” a smug Robinson demanded. “I told you these men were goners.”
    Fargo stared at him. “You know what you sound like? Like a man who’s happy as hell he won a bet.”
    â€œDon’t be an ass. But now you’ve led us into ­Indian-­infested mountains.”
    â€œI didn’t lead you ­anywhere—­Lieutenant Beale did, and he’s the boss.”
    Hassan and Turkish Tom pushed their way forward, rattling in agitated Arabic.
    â€œThe hell do you sand darkies want?” Robinson demanded. “Talk American!”
    Hassan moved closer into the light and held up one of the ­gutta-­percha bags that held half of the caravan’s water ­supply—­the bottom had been slit.
    â€œTen bags this way!” he shouted. “Somebody cut!”
    â€œSon of a bitch !” Robinson exploded. “Corporal Helzer! How could those bags be cut with fifteen soldiers riding security detail?”
    â€œIt can’t be, Sergeant.”
    â€œWell, goddamn it, it happened!”
    Fargo had already exchanged a long glance with Grizz Bear.
    â€œIt likely happened,” Fargo spoke up, “during one of the stops to spell the horses and mules. The camels are all milling around then, and it wouldn’t be that hard for somebody to get in among