California Carnage by Jon Sharpe

six-horse team. Six more sturdy horses were roped together as a group that could be led by one man. When Fargo finished stowing the luggage in the boot, Sandy introduced him to the wrangler.
    ‘‘This here’s Jimmy,’’ Sandy said, nodding toward a lanky young man with thick blond hair sticking out from under a brown hat with a round crown.
    ‘‘Call me Joaquin,’’ the youngster said as he shook hands with Fargo.
    ‘‘I thought Sandy said your name was Jimmy.’’
    ‘‘It is, but call me Joaquin. Like Joaquin Murrieta. You heard of Joaquin Murrieta? The famous stagecoach robber and highwayman? I’m gonna be just like him one of these days.’’
    Fargo looked at Sandy. ‘‘You hired somebody who wants to be a bandit to work for a stagecoach line?’’
    ‘‘Oh, don’t pay no attention to him. He’s good with horses, but other’n that he ain’t right in the head. Anyway, if he wants to be a bandit, I figure I’d rather have him with us than agin us.’’
    ‘‘Stand and deliver,’’ Jimmy said. ‘‘Stand and deliver.’’
    Fargo stood there, all right, but instead of delivering, he thought about what he had gotten himself into. Not only did he have to lay out the best route through some wild, rugged, and even dangerous country,but he also had to ride herd on a businessman, a stubborn young woman, a jehu with a fondness for rotgut, and a youngster who might well be a little touched in the head.
    Jimmy—or Joaquin—might not be the only one that description applied to. Fargo had to wonder if he was a mite crazy himself to take on this chore.
    But he had said that he would do it, and he wasn’t the sort of man to go back on his word.
    ‘‘Let’s go to San Francisco,’’ he said.

5
    From San Gabriel Arcángel, the mission near Los Angeles, the original trail ran northwest to San Fernando Rey de España and San Buenaventura. This route led through the Santa Monica Mountains that overlooked the pueblo in that direction, but although the path was steep in places, it was wide and well defined, so the stagecoach had no trouble following it. The horses were strong and fresh and hauled the coach up the slopes without much difficulty.
    Riding the Ovaro, Fargo ranged ahead, staying about a hundred yards in front of the coach most of the time. He kept his eyes open, knowing that Hiram Stoddard was capable of hiring men to ambush them.
    No one tried to waylay them, though, and the journey got off to a good start. They stopped for the night at San Buenaventura. Fargo was pleased with the progress they had made, considering that they hadn’t gotten started until the afternoon.
    He knew they were a long way from being out of the woods, though. He didn’t think Stoddard would let them make it all the way to San Francisco without trying to stop them—by killing them if necessary.
    A pueblo had not been established at Buenaventura, but a small village called Ventura was near the mission from which it had taken its name. Sandy brought the coach to a halt in front of a cantina that had a stable next door. He leaned over and called through the window of the vehicle, ‘‘Everybody out! Jimmy an’ me will tend to the horses whilst you folks go on inside.’’
    Fargo had ridden back to join the others. He swung down from the saddle as Grayson and Belinda were climbing out of the coach.
    Belinda cast a rather skeptical glance at the squat adobe building and asked, ‘‘Is this where we’re going to spend the night?’’
    ‘‘This settlement isn’t very big,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Chances are the best accommodations it has to offer are right here.’’
    ‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘If you say so, Skye.’’
    Later on, once the stagecoach line was established and the route was set, the coaches would travel at night as well as during the day, at least over parts of the line. Some stretches of the route might be too treacherous for nighttime travel. But since the final path hadn’t been