Drawing rein, he shifted in the saddle and scanned his back trail. His lake blue eyes narrowed. A big man, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, he wore buckskins and a white hat caked with the dust of many miles. A red bandanna added a splash of color. A Colt with well-worn grips was in his holster, a Henry rifle nestled snug in his saddle scabbard.Fargo did not see anyone but he had learned to trust his instincts. Since daybreak he had been winding along a seldom-used trail that was taking him deep into the heart of the Sawatch Range.Thick timber hemmed the trail. Ahead rose the towering peaks of the central Rockies, as remote and untamed a region as anywhere on the continent. The haunt of wild beasts and scarcely less wild men, it had yet to be explored. Even the gold seekers, the greedy horde that poured into the Rocky Mountains in ’58 and ’59, had not penetrated this far.Fargo was in his element. He liked untamed country. He got a thrill out of venturing where few ever set foot.
