| DEATH IN THE HOLE Skye Fargo was desperately climbing
the ladder out of the desert gold pit when the huge Mohave warrior hit him. The
rickety ladder shattered, and Fargo plummeted toward the bottom with the fierce Mohave on
top of him.
In midair, the Mohave swung his big war club and clipped Fargo a numbing
blow on the shoulder. Fargo twisted to get out from under before they struck the
ground.
Then they hit. Stunning agony lanced through Fargo, and the pit was a
blur. Dazed, he looked up as the Mohave raised his club for another blow.
The leg irons shackling Fargo made it impossible to dodge. All he
could do was launch himself at the warrior's leg. It saved his skull from being
smashed, but a moment later the Mohave was astraddle his chest, with the club pressing
down on his windpipe. Fargo bucked. He shoved. He tried to butt the
warrior in the face. But he could not dislodge the man.
The pit would be the grave of one of them--and from the screaming pain in
the Trailsman's windpipe and the grin on the Indian's face, it was clear who the corpse
was to be.... |
THE KILLING
SWARM So
intent were the pair of gunmen on catching Morning Flower that they did not notice Skye
Fargo right away. One of them glanced toward the horses, but Fargo was on the ground
on the far side and escaped scrutiny. Pushing erect, Fargo drew the Colt. He
started to step around the stallion and nearly fell on his face when his numb feet refused
to do as he wanted them to. Grabbing his saddle to keep from going down, he steadied
himself.
Morning Flower was a fleet as a doe. She held her own for a few
seconds as she bounded gracefully across the meadow. Then the horses gained on her,
converging from the right and left, the killers whooping and laughing. Their
lecherous expressions left no doubt as to what they had in mind.
Fargo extended his arm over the pinto. Cocking the hammer, he aimed
just as the man he was going to shoot spotted him.... |
