by Jon Sharpe
“Oh. I was still in St. Louis then. Maybe they went on to Oregon or California and just haven’t written to him. Or perhaps they decided to settle somewhere along the way, like Winston and his people are doing.”
Both were possible, Fargo supposed. The sutler at Fort Bridger had told him a family that sounded like the O’Flynns had made it that far. Where they went after they left, the sutler couldn’t say.
“I guess you’ll be on your way now,” Victor Gore said. “But you’re welcome to stay for supper if you’d like, as a token of my appreciation for you helping us.”
After what Fargo had overheard Perkins and Slag saying, he intended to hang around longer than that. But he nodded and said, “I’d be obliged.”
The others weren’t happy about it. Rinson shot him a dark glance. Slag scowled. Perkins fingered the hilt of his knife.
“Come join us,” Victor Gore requested, and reined his dun toward the covered wagons.
Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to the dun. “If you want, I’ll try to talk the farmers into going on to Oregon.”
“That would be wonderful. Lord knows, I’ve tried. But they’re determined to settle the Payette River Valley.” Gore shook his head. “People can be so stubborn.”
Rachel was in the back of the wagon, and she smiled as Fargo rode past. He touched his hat brim to her and she did what he expected: she blushed.
Lester Winston and most of the other farmers came to meet him. Fargo told them about the hunting party. He left out the part about being captured and bound, and the part about the mother bear.
“So you see?” Victor Gore said. “All is well. Now why don’t we get under way? We can cover a lot more ground before dark.”
Fargo made it a point to ride alongside the Winston wagon. “Is it true what Gore told me?” he asked Lester.
“About what?”
“That he tried to talk you out of going to the Payette River Valley?”
Lester’s eyebrows puckered. “You must not have heard right. Didn’t I tell you? Mr. Gore was the one who told us about the valley. It was his idea we go there. And I have to say, after hearing how fertile the soil is, and how much game is about, I agree with him.”
“I wanted to be sure,” Fargo said.
“Some of my people didn’t like the idea. They were all for going on to Oregon. But Mr. Gore persuaded them to change their minds.”
“A wonderful man,” Fargo said. And a marvelous liar.
“He’s got a silver tongue, that Mr. Gore,” Lester declared. “My wife swears he could talk a patent medicine man into buying his own tonic.”
Fargo agreed. It was the first thing that had struck him about Gore.
“I happen to like him,” Lester had gone on. “If this valley turns out to be everything he claimed, he’ll have saved us weeks of travel and I’ll be forever in his debt.”
“You don’t think he could be lying?”
“To what end?” the big farmer demanded. “What purpose would it serve, him luring us off to the middle of nowhere? We hardly have any money and little else of value save our possessions and our wagons. I can’t see anyone doing us harm over that. It’s not worth the bother.”
Lester had a point, Fargo reflected. But if Gore wasn’t out to rob them, what was he up to?
Toward sunset another halt was called, and Fargo had to hand it to Gore’s men. They knew their business. They formed the wagons into a circle, gathered the horses and the teams and placed them under guard, and sent two men into the woods after firewood and two more out after something for supper. The farmers gathered in the circle while their womenfolk broke out pots and pans and whatnot.
Fargo brought the Ovaro into the circle. He was loosening the cinch when a shadow fell across him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Slag demanded.
“What does it look like?” Fargo replied. “I’m not going to leave the saddle on all night.”
“I didn’t mean that, stupid.” Slag took a step and smacked the Ovaro. “No animals are allowed in the circle. We don’t want their droppings all over the place. Take him and put him with the rest.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t asking. It’s a rule. The plow-pushers abide by it, and so do we. I’ll take him myself if you won’t.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Slag gripped the reins, and smirked. “Oh? Why not? What do you aim to do about it?”
“Just this,” Fargo said, and slugged him.
5
On the frontier, men were touchy about their horses. To steal one was an invitation for the thief to be guest of honor at a hemp social. Many a horse thief had died gurgling at the end of a rope. Even laying hands on another man’s horse was frowned on. The same as laying a hand on another man’s gun. Or, the supreme insult, laying hands on another man’s woman.
Slag should have known not to try to take the Ovaro.
Fargo’s fist caught him flush on the jaw and sent him tottering back. But Slag didn’t go down. He swayed, shook his head to clear it, then set himself and did the last thing anyone would expect—he grinned.
“Not bad.”
Fargo knew a brawler when he saw one. But he refused to back down. “I’m keeping my horse with me.”
“Like hell you are.” Slag balled his big fists and rapped his knuckles together. “After I pound you into the dirt, I’m adding him to the night herd.”
“Like hell you are,” Fargo mimicked him.
Raising his fists, Slag started toward him. “I’ve yet to meet the man I can’t lick.”
“There’s always a first time,” Fargo said, and then there was no time for anything as Slag waded into him. Fargo blocked, ducked, backpedaled, taking Slag’s measure and finding that Slag was as good as his boast. Slag’s arms were like the pistons on a steam engine. And God, the man was strong! When Fargo blocked, he felt it to his marrow. Under those dirty clothes, Slag was all muscle.
Fargo was no weakling, himself. His own sinews had been sculpted to whipcord toughness by his years in the wild. He ducked under a jab and unleashed an uppercut that caught Slag on the jaw. For most men that was enough to bring them down. But all Slag did was stagger a couple of steps and shake his head again.
“You can do that all night and it won’t hurt me much. I have a cast-iron chin.”
“An iron head, too.”
Slag took the insult as a compliment. “I’ve been beat on by three or four men at once and hardly felt it. Now what say I end this so I can eat my supper?”
And with that, Slag became a whirlwind. It was all Fargo could do to ward off the blows. As it was, some got through. He gritted his teeth and took the punishment, and gave as good as he got. He was dimly aware that others had gathered, and he heard the hubbub of voices. Someone shouted for them to stop—it sounded like Victor Gore—but if Slag heard, he paid no attention. Slag had his mind set on one thing and one thing only: pounding Fargo to a pulp.
Fargo circled, feinted, flicked a forearm to deflect a punch. He answered with a swift jab to the cheek that snapped Slag’s head back but otherwise had no more effect than the jab of a feather.
Slag’s brow furrowed. He seemed puzzled by something. Suddenly stepping back, he said, “No one has ever lasted as long as you have, mister.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
A looping swing nearly took Fargo’s head off. He planted his left in Slag’s gut, but it was like punching a board. He followed with a right cross that Slag blocked.
They were too evenly matched, Fargo realized. The fight could go on a good long while yet unless one of them made a mistake. In order to end it quickly, he suddenly dropped his arms and dove at Slag’s legs. His intent was to bowl Slag over, straddle his chest, and punch him senseless. But slamming into those legs was akin to slamming into a pair of tree trunks. Fargo didn’t knock him down. Worse, when Fargo quickly wrapped his arms around Slag’s legs and sought to wrench them out from under him, Slag bent
and clamped his hands on Fargo’s neck.
“Now I’ve got you.”
It was like having his neck in a vise. Fargo pulled and pried and hit Slag’s forearms but the vise tightened and he was lifted bodily off the ground. Slowly but surely, he was being throttled to death.
Slag leered, confident he had won. He gouged his thumbs in deeper, saying, “How does it feel to die?”
Fargo drove his knee up and in.
It caused Slag to stagger and gurgle and turn near purple. His grip slackened. “That was dirty.”
So is this, Fargo thought, and drove a finger into Slag’s eye.
Slag howled and let go. He stepped back, pressing a hand to his eye. “Damn your bones!” he roared.
Tucking at the knees, Fargo swept his fist up from down near his boots and buried it in the pit of Slag’s stomach.
Breath whooshed from Slag’s lungs and he doubled over. Between his groin and his eye and his gut, he was in no shape to prevent the next blow from landing.
Fargo drew back his arm. He was set to end it.
Suddenly Lester Winston stepped between them and pushed against Fargo’s chest. “Enough! We won’t have this sort of thing, do you hear? You’re upsetting the women and children.”
Fargo almost hit him. Slowly lowering his arm, he looked around, and sure enough, many of the women were aghast at the violence and several small children clung to their mothers’ legs in horror.
Winston wagged a thick finger. “Honestly. What were you thinking? I saw that you started it.”
“My horse stays with me,” Fargo said.
Victor Gore was only a few feet away, flanked by Rinson and Perkins. “Is that what this was about?”
Fargo unclenched his fists. His knuckles were sore and skinned, and his fingers hurt. “Your man wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“He was only doing as he’s been told,” Gore said. “I’m beginning to regret inviting you to eat with us. But if you give me your word there will be no more of this petty behavior, you can stay.”
“My horse stays with me,” Fargo said again.
“Yes, yes, we’ve got that. I’m willing to make an exception. But don’t test my good nature further.”
A couple of Gore’s men were helping Slag to stand. He angrily shook them off and glared at Fargo. “This isn’t over, mister. No one does to me what you just did.”
Gore shook his head. “You’ll drop it, do you hear? Too much is at stake for this nonsense.”
Fargo wondered what he meant by that.
“This is personal,” Slag said. “You have no say.”
Despite being a full head shorter and nowhere near as muscular, Victor Gore stepped up to Slag and put his hands on his hips. “Did I hear you right? Aren’t you forgetting who’s in charge, and why?”
“Damn you, Slag,” Rinson said.
Slag wouldn’t look Victor Gore in the face. Abruptly as meek as a lamb, he said quietly, “All right. I forgot. I’m sorry, Gore. I lost my temper when he hit me. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
Fargo was dumfounded. Slag wasn’t the sort to back down to any man, yet here he was, cowed by a man twice his age, a man he could break as easily as he could snap a twig. Something was going on here, something more than met the eye. But what? he wondered.
Gore wheeled on him. “And you, sir. Do I have your word as well? Will you behave yourself?”
It galled Fargo to be treated like a ten-year-old. “I won’t cause trouble if your men don’t.”
“Very well. Mr. Slag, to give you time to cool down, you will ride night herd the first two hours. Mr. Perkins will relieve you. The rest of you, go about your chores. And Mrs. Winston, I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of inviting Mr. Fargo to dine with us. Is that all right?”
“It’s fine,” the farmer’s wife said, but she sounded dubious.
Fargo tied the Ovaro to a rear wheel of their wagon. As he did, a hint of lilac tingled his nose. He asked without turning, “Are you upset with me, too?”
“Not at all,” Rachel said, stepping to one side. She had her hands clasped behind her back, which accented the swell of her bosom. “I thought you were magnificent.”
Fargo chuckled. “I’ve been called a lot of things but never that.” Leaning against the wheel, he let his gaze rove from her toes to her nose. “But now that you mention it, you’re pretty magnificent yourself.”
Predictably, Rachel blushed. “No, I’m not. I’m ordinary. And please don’t look at me that way. You look as if you want to eat me alive.”
“I do.”
Rachel gasped and turned away, but turned right back again. “You make my ears burn.”
“Just your ears?”
“Mr. Fargo, for a gentleman you are positively scandalous. My parents wouldn’t approve.”
“When did I ever claim to be a gentleman?” Fargo rejoined. “I’m a man and I like women. That’s all there is to it.”
“Oh, my. Surely you’re not—” Rachel glanced about them, then lowered her voice. “Surely you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“That I’d like to go for a walk with you tonight? That’s exactly what is on my mind.”
“You’re too bold, sir.”
“Are you going to stand there and tell me you haven’t been with a man before? How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-two,” Rachel said stiffly. “And whether I have or I haven’t is none of your business.”
“Which means you have. Do your folks know?”
Rachel’s mouth dropped, but she quickly recovered her composure and leaned in so near she practically brushed him. “You might not be a gentleman, but I’m a lady and ladies don’t discuss such things.”
“I’m surprised you’re not married yet, as good-looking as you are,” Fargo said. Most women found themselves at the altar before they were twenty. Any later than that, and people started to whisper about spinsters and strange desires.
“Do you really think so?” Rachel touched her hair, then frowned and said, “Quit doing that.”
“What?”
“Complimenting me. I’m trying to be mad at you and you make it very hard.”
“Then we’re even.”
“How so?”
“When I look at you, part of me starts to feel hard, too.”
Again Rachel gasped. Her eyes darted down, below his belt, and then up again. “That was crude.”
Fargo laughed. “You looked, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what to make of you. I honestly don’t.”
“I’ll help you out,” Fargo said. “I want to go for a walk and do things to you that will curl your toes. Was that gentlemanly enough?”
“You presume too much,” Rachel said, but she didn’t look away or blush, or leave.
“If I’m wrong, then don’t go for a walk with me. But if I’m right, I’ll meet you at the back of your wagon, say, about ten. It will be dark enough by then that we can slip away.”
“Amazing,” Rachel said. “You’re too sure of yourself, by half. Women can’t wait to rip your clothes off—is that how it goes?” She sniffed, and turned. “I need to help my mother. Don’t expect to see me at ten.”
Fargo watched her hips sway in exaggerated anger. “Things are looking up,” he said to the Ovaro.
From under the covered wagon came a scraping noise.
Squatting, Fargo found Billy about to crawl off. He grabbed hold of the back of the youngster’s shirt and hauled him out. “I don’t much like being spied on, boy.”
“It’s not my fault,” Billy said defensively. “I was under there when you and Sissy came up.”
“Then you heard everything?” Fargo could see him running to his parents, and his parents throwing a fit.
“So what if I did? I don’t care what my sister does. Besides, as Ma keeps telling her, she’s a grown woman and can do as she pleases.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
Fargo grinned. He had never been compared to a randy mallard before. “You have a good head on your shoulders, boy.”
Billy laughed. “You don’t fool me. You want me to be your friend so I won’t tell Ma and Pa about your plans for tonight.”
“Like I said, you have a good head on your shoulders.”
“I also have empty pockets.” Billy held out a hand. “A dollar will fill one of them just fine.”
“You little outlaw.”
“I could ask for two dollars.”
Fargo snorted. “The most I’ll give you is fifty cents.”
Billy waggled his palm. “Didn’t you say she’s awful pretty? A dollar ain’t much. And you have to promise to keep her out as late as you can.”
“What for?”
“Sissy has some chocolate hid in the wagon. I’ve been trying to find it for weeks but she’s never away from the wagon for very long.”
Fargo fished a coin from his pocket, flipped it into the air and caught it, then dropped it in the boy’s palm. “If I see your face on a wanted poster in a few years, it won’t surprise me.”
6
It had been a while since Fargo had home cooking, even if the cooking was done over a fire on the trail.
Martha Winston was a quiet woman. She didn’t say a lot, and when she did, she said what was on her mind with no hemming and hawing. Lester was lucky in that she wasn’t one of those women who talked a man to death. Doubly lucky, because she could cook. The food was delicious.
Supper consisted of thick venison steak, with salt if Fargo wanted some. Martha also heaped fried potatoes, cooked carrots and a couple of slices of bread smeared thick with butter on his plate. Saratoga chips were brought from the wagon and Fargo helped himself to a handful. For dessert there were cookies. She had made them days ago, and she didn’t stint on the sugar. To wash it all down, Fargo was told to drink as much steaming hot coffee as he wanted. He downed six cups.