Beartooth Incident

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Night was falling. Fargo had to get up. He had to keep moving. If he stayed there he’d freeze. His days of roaming the frontier wherever his whims took him would be done. He got his hands under him and pushed but his strength had deserted him. He rose only as high as his elbows and then fell back.

“Not like this, damn it.”

Again, Fargo sought to rise. Again his body betrayed him. He lay staring up into an ocean of falling flakes, his consciousness swirling like the eddies in a whirlpool. He felt himself being sucked into a black abyss and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Nothing at all . . .

The Trailsman

Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

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