by Jon Sharpe
To his surprise, Winter Wolf chuckled. “You think I dumb but I not dumb.”
“I never said any such thing.”
“How I know you not after gold? How I know you not speak with two tongues?”
“I could be lying, yes,” Fargo admitted. “You have to take my word that I’m not.”
Winter Wolf chuckled again. “Take word of a white man? You, how you say, funny.”
The old warrior fell silent. Fargo tried to draw him out but Winter Wolf had apparently said all he was going to. They rode along until about sunset when they came to a small clearing near a stream. The warriors climbed down and two of the younger ones none too gently pulled him from the saddle.
“We’re camping for the night?” Fargo asked. He tried to sound as if it didn’t mean anything to him, when in fact the prospect of escape was being handed to him on a double-edged platter.
“We reach village in three sleeps,” Winter Wolf disclosed.
Fargo was thrown onto his side next to the fire a warrior was kindling. Rising on an elbow, he saw two of the younger ones go off into the trees with their bows to hunt. That whittled the odds but he wasn’t about to do anything in broad daylight. Patience was called for.
The hunters returned with a doe, which was promptly butchered. The Nez Perce roasted their meat but they weren’t finicky about how well done it was. Fargo’s mouth watered and his belly growled but no one offered a piece to him. Finally he said, “My belly is empty. I sure could use some of that venison.”
His mouth dripping, Winter Wolf said, “Good for you not eat. Maybe you listen better.”
“Is this what you call Nez Perce hospitality?”
“It what I call smart,” Winter Wolf said, and laughed.
Fargo sank onto his side and closed his eyes. He wanted them to think he was resigned to his fate. He listened to them talk, catching snatches of words here and there, enough to glean that the Nez Perce were on the brink of open hostilities with the whites. There had been clashes between gold seekers and warriors, and blood was spilled.
A young warrior made a comment to the effect that the gold hunters weren’t the only ones the Nez Perce had to be concerned about. Some whites wanted to till the soil and build wooden lodges, as the warrior called cabins. The Nez Perce weren’t going to allow that, either.
Fargo immediately thought of the wagon train. Sooner or later the Nez Perce were bound to come across it. Then again, the tribe laid claim to a large territory encompassing thousands of square miles, and they couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was entirely possible Winston’s bunch would have their cabins built before the Nez Perce discovered them. Either way, the outcome wasn’t in doubt. The farmers would be wiped out.
A sliver of moon had been up several hours when Winter Wolf and his companions turned in. But first Winter Wolf came over and checked that Fargo’s wrists were still tied. He also bound Fargo’s ankles.
Fargo had a few anxious moments as Winter Wolf looped the rope around his boots. But the old warrior didn’t think to slip a hand inside them to check for hidden weapons. Fargo’s Arkansas stayed snug in its sheath. “I’m sorry we can’t be friends,” he remarked.
Winter Wolf had stood and turned but he stopped. “You white. I red. White and red fight. White and red kill.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
Sadness crept into the old warrior’s features. “It not how I want. It how things be.” He went to the other side of the fire and lay down to sleep.
Fargo made himself comfortable. It would be a while before all five drifted off. He was mildly surprised they didn’t have someone stand guard, but then they were deep in their own territory, and he was tied.
Fargo had no desire to harm them. He wasn’t their enemy. He wasn’t an Indian hater, as so many whites were. But he couldn’t go to their village, either. Hotter heads might prevail, in which case he could well find himself staked out over an anthill or skinned alive.
By midnight, heavy breathing and the lack of movement told Fargo the warriors were asleep. Slowly bending his legs back and up as high as they would go, he slid his boots toward his hands. When one of the younger warriors stirred, he stopped. He would only get this one chance. He mustn’t make a mistake. Lives depended on him.
In the distance a wolf howled. One of the horses pricked its ears but thankfully didn’t whinny or stomp.
Fargo tugged at his pant leg. The rope was so tight, he couldn’t work his pants free. The irony brought a grim smile. It was his own rope, or a piece of it. He tugged harder, then pried at the knot with his fingernails. But Winter Wolf had done a good job. It took Fargo a quarter of an hour before the knot began to come undone. Another five minutes and he had it. He was so annoyed it took so long, he went to throw the rope but caught himself.
The warriors still slept.
Hiking his pant leg, Fargo slipped his fingers inside his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. Carefully sliding it out, he reserved his grip and sliced at the rope binding his wrists. The knife made all the difference. In seconds the severed rope lay on the ground.
Quietly unfurling into a crouch, Fargo moved toward the young warrior who had helped himself to the Colt. The warrior had been holding it when he fell asleep but now it lay next to his limp fingers.
Easing forward, Fargo reclaimed the six-shooter and holstered it. He could kill them. He could kill all of them as easy as could be. Five swift shots and they would no longer pose a threat to anyone. But Fargo didn’t shoot. He killed only when he had to.
All Fargo needed now was his Henry. It was beside Winter Wolf. The old warrior had taken a fancy to the shiny brass receiver; all afternoon he had fondled the smooth metal. Fargo imagined how upset he would be when he woke up and found it gone, and grinned.
Rearmed, Fargo crept toward the horses. The Ovaro raised its head, waiting. Fortunately, the Nez Perce hadn’t bothered to strip the saddle and saddle blanket. They had opened his saddlebags but left the saddlebags tied on. Right neighborly of them, Fargo thought.
The Appaloosas were curious about what he was up to and were watching him much as they would a mountain lion—with distinct unease. Fargo whispered to them, saying a few Nez Perce words, but stopped when one of the warriors mumbled in his sleep and rolled over.
Fargo waited to be sure the man was asleep. Then he quickly replaced the toothpick in his ankle sheath and slid the Henry into the saddle scabbard. He gripped the saddle horn and went to slide his toe into the stirrup. A few more seconds and he would be gone.
A yip rent the night. Not the cry of a coyote or wolf, but of the warrior named Winter Wolf. He had sat up and was groping for the rifle Fargo had taken. In his own tongue he shouted, “The white-eye! Stop him!”
Fargo swung onto the Ovaro. Moccasins pattered, and strong hands grabbed his leg. He kicked out, was rewarded with a cry of pain, and used his spurs to bring the Ovaro to a trot. An arrow whizzed over his shoulder, missing him by a whisker.
“After him!” Winter Wolf shouted.
Fargo wished he had spooked their mounts. But they couldn’t see any better in the dark than he could, so he stood a good chance of getting away. Provided he didn’t ride into a tree or a boulder. Reining sharply, he bent low in case more arrows arced his way.
The warriors were yelling. Apparently one of their horses was giving them trouble.
Fargo rode hard until the sounds faded, then slowed to a walk. There was no point in riding the Ovaro into the ground. When he finally drew rein an hour later, he was convinced he had lost Winter Wolf and his friends. Dismounting, he moved under a pine, wrapped the reins around a low limb, and sat with his back to the bole. He could use some rest.
Pulling his hat down over his eyes, Fargo willed his taut body to relax. It took a while but eventually he felt himself slipping away. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a rustling sound brought a whinny from the Ovaro and brought him to his feet with his Colt in hand.
It took a few seconds fo
r Fargo to make sense of what he was seeing.
A dozen yards away something had stepped out of the trees. A huge, hulking shape, an animal breathing so heavily each breath was as loud as a blacksmith’s bellows.
Fargo reached up to unwrap the reins from the limb, hoping the thing wouldn’t attack if he tried to leave.
It growled. A growl so deep and so loud, only one animal could be responsible: a bear.
Fargo froze. He was furious at himself for letting it get so close without hearing it.
Bears were formidable brutes. They could easily tear a man limb from limb. Or rip a horse apart.
Fargo glanced at the saddle scabbard, at the Henry he should have shucked before he sat down to sleep. He was getting careless, and in the wild, careless was the same as a death wish. Steeling himself, he started to unwind the reins so he could get the hell out of there.
The bear rose onto its hind legs.
At first Fargo had thought it was a grizzly, but now he wasn’t so sure. If it was a black bear, he might be all right. Black bears rarely attacked people. Then a second, smaller form came scampering around the big one, and his blood chilled. “Oh, hell.”
It was a cub.
4
Mother bears were protective of their young. They attacked anything that came near their offspring. Anyone who stumbled on a cub was well advised to hasten elsewhere before the mother noticed or risk being torn to pieces.
The last thing Fargo wanted was a clash with a bear. It would take but an instant for him to jump up, grab a low limb, and climb into the pine. Once he was high enough, the she-bear wouldn’t be able to reach him. But that meant deserting the Ovaro. He would as soon slit his wrists.
So Fargo went on unwrapping the reins while keeping his eyes on the mother bruin and the smaller version of herself. Both stood there and returned his stare. The reins came loose. Girding himself, Fargo slid the Colt into its holster, then launched himself at the saddle. He grabbed the saddle horn and swung his leg up and over.
The cub squalled.
The mother roared.
And Fargo got the hell out of there.
The Ovaro did not need goading. The smell of the bears was enough to make the stallion want to bolt. It wheeled around the pine and raced into the dark.
The mother bear gave chase.
Hunched low, Fargo slapped his legs and urged the Ovaro to greater effort. A raking paw nearly caught its flank. But just as he wouldn’t desert the Ovaro, the mother bear wouldn’t desert her cub. She pursued them only a short way and stopped. Venting her temper with another roar, she turned back to her ursine pride and joy.
Fargo let out a long breath. There was seldom a dull day in the wild, and this one had more than its share of excitement. First the wagon train, then the Nez Perce, and now this. “Things are supposed to come in threes but this is plumb ridiculous,” he said out loud.
Half a mile of hard riding was enough. Fargo slowed, pushed his hat back on his head, and patted the Ovaro. “If I ever get old enough for a rocking chair, I’ll put you out to pasture with two or three mares.”
Some folks would say it was silly to talk to a horse. But they never spent day after day, month after month, year in and year out, with a horse as their only companion. After a while a man got to think of the horse as more than just an animal.
The night wind had grown brisk. It brought with it the cries of the creatures that preferred the night over the day: the howls of wolves, the yips of coyotes, the occasional bark of a fox, the hoots of owls. Once a mountain lion screamed. And from afar came the roar of the mother bear. To most those sounds spelled terror and made for a sleepless night. To Fargo they were as ordinary as grass.
About two hours of night were left when Fargo reined up. He needed sleep, and the Ovaro could certainly use more rest. This time he rode in among a cluster of large boulders, where they were less apt to be seen or scented, and curled up on his side in the dirt, his arm for a pillow. Hardly the most comfortable of beds but within seconds he was asleep and this time he stayed asleep until the squawk of a jay brought him around to greet the new day.
A hint of gold splashed the eastern horizon. Dawn was about to break. Fargo sat up, yawned, and stretched. He was stiff and sore and hungry. Rising, he opened his saddlebags and took out a bundle wrapped in rabbit skin. Inside was pemmican. A Cheyenne woman of his acquaintance had kindly given the pemmican to him. He chewed with relish. After he ate his fill, he replaced the rest and forked leather.
Unerringly, Fargo headed for the wagon train. He had a good idea of how far the wagons had traveled after he left them, and when he reached the spot where he thought they should be, there they were, strung out as before, canvas-backed tortoises on wheels. Caution bid him stop while he was still in the trees, and it was well he did.
Rinson, Slag and Perkins flanked the wagons. So did others Fargo hadn’t seen before. He counted nine outriders, all told. In the lead was a man with hair as white as snow, dressed in clothes more fitting for the streets of St. Louis or New Orleans.
Fargo shadowed them a while. All appeared peaceful. The farmers and their families chatted and laughed and now and then one of the young girls would break into song. Toward midmorning the white-haired man raised an arm and called a halt so they could rest their teams.
Fargo chose that moment to make himself known. As soon as he broke from cover, the white-haired man trotted to intercept him, bringing Rinson, Slag and Perkins along.
Drawing rein, Fargo leaned on his saddle horn. “You must be Victor Gore.”
“That I am, sir. That I am.”
Since all the others were unwashed and unkempt, Fargo figured their leader would be the same. But Gore was the opposite. The man’s suit was clean save for the dust of the trail, and his white hair, mustache and short beard were neatly trimmed. Fact was, Victor Gore looked more like a parson than a wagon train pilot. Even more surprising, he wasn’t wearing a revolver that Fargo could see.
“And you must be the scout my men told me about. Mr. Fargo, I believe it is?”
“That’s me.”
“I want to thank you for what you’ve done, sir,” Victor Gore said.
“How’s that again?”
“You went to find the Nez Perce my men saw. To ensure they aren’t a threat to the settlers, I’d warrant. I’m grateful.”
Fargo cocked his head. This wasn’t what he expected. This wasn’t what he expected at all.
“Did you find them?” Victor Gore asked.
“It was a small hunting party,” Fargo informed him. “They don’t know about the wagons.”
Gore beamed in relief. “That’s good news, sir. Good news, indeed. These settlers are my responsibility, and I would be remiss if I were to let anything happen to them.”
The man could talk rings around a tree, Fargo reflected. “How is it you’re guiding this bunch? You don’t strike me as the kind to do this for a living.”
“I’m not. I’ve been in this part of the country before, though, back in my beaver days.”
“You were a trapper?”
Gore nodded. “Pretty near twenty years ago, yes. I came west with a fur brigade and spent an entire fall, winter and spring in this very area, laying traps and collecting plews.” He sighed wistfully. “Those were the days. I was young and carefree and thought the world was my oyster. The folly of youth, eh?”
“You don’t look much like a trapper now,” Fargo remarked.
Gore touched a hand to his suit. “You mean this? I shed my buckskins when I went back East. For the past dozen years or so I’ve lived in St. Louis, making my living as a merchant.”
“Why leave that to come back here?”
Motioning at the majestic peaks, Gore said sentimentally, “This country gets into your blood. I’ve never stopped thinking about my beaver days, and I got it into my head that I’d like to see my old haunts once more before I pass on.”
“You don’t say.”
“I got as far as Fort Bridger
and learned of the difficulties with the Nez Perce. That’s where I hired Mr. Rinson and his friends as my protection, you might say. It’s also where I ran into Mr. Winston and his people.”
“He mentioned that.”
“Mr. Winston told me they were bound for Oregon, and went on and on about how wonderful it is there. I happened to mention that I knew of a valley every bit as fine, from my trapping days. That made him curious. He pestered me with questions, then called his people together and they decided they would like to see the valley for themselves. They asked if I would take them there, and here we are.”
Fargo considered it possible, just possible, that Gore was telling the truth. A lot of people fell in love with the Rockies. He knew of half a dozen trappers who had gone east after the beaver trade died but missed the mountains so much, they came back. Others never left. The mountains were their home. Some took Indian wives and adopted Indians ways.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Victor Gore said.
“You do?”
“That it’s most unwise of me to bring these people here, what with the current state of affairs with the Nez Perce.”
“I was thinking that, yes,” Fargo confessed.
“I tried to talk them out of it. I explained to Mr. Winston that the Nez Perce are upset over white incursions into their land. But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted he can make friends with them, and he said that if I didn’t bring him and his people, they would search for the valley themselves.”
Fargo frowned. Winston hadn’t told him that. “The damned fool.”
“So you can see I’m not entirely to blame. I hope to sneak them in without the Nez Perce noticing. After that, they are on their own. I’ve made it clear their fate is on their shoulders, not mine.”
“Tell me something.” Fargo had decided to come right out with it. “Have you ever run into a family by the name of O’Flynn?”
Gore seemed genuinely puzzled. “The who? They’re not with Winston, are they?”
“No. They came west about three months ago and vanished. They were last seen at Fort Bridger. The father of the wife hired me to find them.”