Idaho Gold Fever

by Jon Sharpe

  “Ohhhhh.” Rachel threw back her head.

  Fargo kissed her to silence her and she moaned into his mouth. He pumped his finger, causing her bottom to rise off the ground. Her legs widened and her ankles hooked behind his back.

  The world receded even more. There was only pulsing pleasure that coursed through him as he aroused her to the heights of need. She cupped him, low down, and it was his turn to moan.

  At last, the coupling. Fargo paced himself, rocking on his knees, each stroke as precise as a piston. He pumped and pumped and she thrust and thrust and they were panting into each other’s ears when she cried out and spurted. Her release triggered his. He rammed into her hard until he was spent, then collapsed on her twin pillows.

  Fargo was on the cusp of slumber when his sluggish senses flared to sharp life. For a few moments he lay still, trying to figure out what had snapped him out of the well of inner darkness. A rustling sound gave him warning. It didn’t come from the trees above but from the nearby undergrowth. Rolling off Rachel, he started to pull himself together. He got his pants up and his belt hitched just as the vegetation parted, disgorging phantom forms. From the noise they made, and the way they moved, he could tell they weren’t Nez Perce.

  A few more steps and they were close enough for Fargo to identify. Anger welled, and he balled his fists as the foremost, the largest of the three, bent toward them.

  Heaving upward, Fargo planted his fist on Slag’s jaw. The blow rocked Slag onto his heels. The next moment Rinson sprang, seeking to grab Fargo’s wrists. A boot to the gut dissuaded him. Then it was Perkins, flourishing his long-bladed knife.

  “Not that!” Rinson barked. “Gore wouldn’t want us to draw blood.”

  Perkins glanced at him and swore.

  It was the opening Fargo needed. He unleashed a right cross that spun Perkins around and caused him to trip over his own feet.

  Rachel chose that instant to sit up, blurting, “What in the world is going on?” She realized others were there, and covering her breasts, shrieked fit to burst their eardrums.

  “Oh, hell,” Rinson said.

  Slag came in again, apparently determined to repay Fargo for earlier. His big fist swept at Fargo’s face, but Fargo ducked and retaliated with a boot to the knee that sparked a roar of rage and sent Slag tottering.

  Yells pierced the night from the direction of the covered wagons.

  Perkins had firmed his grip on his knife and was hefting it as if of a mind to disobey Rinson and use it anyway.

  Rinson was in a crouch.

  Slag had steadied himself for another try.

  Fargo discouraged all three by drawing his Colt. “I don’t know what you peckerwoods are up to, but I’ll damn well blow a hole in the next idiot who tries anything.”

  “I told you he was fast,” Rinson said.

  “I could have cut him if you’d let me,” Perkins complained. “I could have gut him where he stood.”

  Rachel slid next to Fargo’s legs and began frantically rearranging her clothes. “How dare you! What was the meaning of this?”

  “You hush, girl,” Rinson said.

  “If you wanted it so bad, you should have told me,” Perkins said, cupping himself. “I’d be glad to give you a poke.”

  Slag simply glared.

  Judging by the racket, half the settlers were crashing through the undergrowth. A few more moments and the clearing was hemmed by farmers and their wives. Victor Gore was with them.

  “What is the meaning of this? What was that scream we heard?” Lester Winston and his wife pushed through. At the sight of Rachel, both stopped in shock. Then Lester solicitously helped his daughter to stand, saying, “Are you all right? Was that you we heard?”

  “I’m fine, Pa,” Rachel declared. Now that she was dressed, she had regained her composure. Waving her hand at Rinson, Slag and Perkins, she said bitterly, “These three ruffians attacked Mr. Fargo.”

  “Attacked, hell,” Rinson said. “We were defending your girl’s honor.” He turned to Victor Gore. “I noticed Fargo, here, was missing, so I asked around. One of the kids saw him and Miss Winston walk off together so we came looking for them.”

  “And found them here, doing I don’t need to tell you what,” Perkins related with lecherous glee.

  Gore said harshly, “That will be enough.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Perkins asked. “The scout and her came out here to fool around. I’m trying to be polite but if you want me to spell it out, I will.”

  “Enough,” Victor Gore said again. “What the young lady does or doesn’t do is her affair.”

  “Not if it makes trouble for us,” Rinson broke in. “How can we protect them if they don’t listen? You told them not to wander away from the wagons at night, and what did she do?”

  “We can’t force them to listen,” Gore said.

  Perkins swore. “I can’t believe my ears. You’re siding with them against us? When we were only doing what you told us to do?”

  “To hell with this,” Rinson said, and spun on a boot heel. “From now on these dirt-pushers can do as they please. I won’t lift a finger to help them.” He stalked off and Slag followed.

  Perkins was bubbling like an overheated pan about to boil over. He stabbed a finger at Fargo. “This son of a bitch has a reckoning coming, and nothing you can say or do will change that.” He stormed after his friends.

  “I’m sorry,” Victor Gore said to Lester. “Sometimes they forget they work for me. I’ll give them a while to simmer down and talk to them again.”

  “I don’t think they like us much,” Lester said.

  Martha was staring at Rachel, her arms crossed. “As for you, young lady, I can’t say as I approve of your antics. Coming out here to be alone with a man you just met today. What will everyone think?”

  “I don’t care,” Rachel said flatly. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.”

  “Is that the truth, daughter?”

  “All we did was stroll about and admire the stars,” Rachel fibbed. “Then those awful men attacked us.”

  “It won’t happen again, miss,” Victor Gore assured her.

  “I hope not,” Lester Winston said. “Not if they want the rest of their money. Our agreement was half in advance and half when we reach the Payette River Valley.”

  “I’m well aware of the terms we agreed on. And so far I’ve honored them, haven’t I? This incident was regrettable. But my men were only trying to protect your daughter. If they were too zealous, I apologize.”

  If Fargo was any judge of character, Victor Gore was sincere. And if that was the case, then there was more going on than met the eye. Unraveling the mystery could take a while. The only thing was, Fargo didn’t have a lot of time. In four days they would reach the Payette River Valley.

  And then all hell might break loose.

  8

  Everyone was up an hour before sunrise. Hasty breakfasts were gobbled and washed down, in Fargo’s case with four steaming cups of coffee. The teams were hitched, mounts were saddled, the children climbed into the wagon beds and the farmers and their wives perched on the front seats. Outriders were sent ahead and to the rear. Flankers moved off to either side. And then, at a shout from Victor Gore, the covered wagons lumbered northward, heading deeper into the dark heart of the wild.

  Gore asked Fargo to ride with him.

  Fargo didn’t mind. He had been looking for an excuse to pump the man for more information about the Payette River Valley, and maybe glean a hint as to what Gore was really up to. But to Fargo’s surprise, by the middle of the morning he was convinced the former trapper truly did come west again for one last glimpse of his old haunts.

  Gore was quite the talker. He went on and on about his trapping days, about the streams he had worked and the plews he had raised. He mentioned how much he missed the annual rendezvous the trappers held.

  “Yes, sir. Those were the days,” Gore said fondly. “We were paid hundreds if not thousands for our pe
ltries, and then spent most of it drinking and gambling and outfitting for the next season.”

  “You sound as if you would gladly live those times all over again,” Fargo remarked.

  “Would I ever! I was young. I was carefree. I lived on the raw edge.” Gore beamed. “Those were some of the best years of my life.”

  The heyday of the trappers was a little before Fargo’s time. He had trapped on a few occasions, though, and sold a few mink and ermine pelts, among others.

  “I remember it all so clearly,” Gore went on in a dreamy tone. “How cold the water was when I set my traps. How heavy the beaver were when I pulled them out. What it was like skinning and curing the hides so they were just right and would earn top dollar. I remember everything.”

  “Did you regret having to give all that up?”

  “I hated it so much, I was in a funk for half a year after I went back East. But a man has to make a living and beaver wasn’t in fashion anymore. Damn silk all to hell, anyway.”

  Fargo chuckled. Silk hats had replaced beaver. But only until people switched yet again. The public was fickle that way. They were like butterflies flitting from flower to flower. Nothing held their interest for long.

  “I envy you, sir,” Gore unexpectedly said.

  “In what way?”

  “The life you live. I often wish I had bit the bullet and stayed. I might now be as you are. A scout. A frontiersman. Going where I please and doing what I will. Most men would give anything to live as you do.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Isn’t that always how it is? We never appreciate the good things right in front of our faces. We’re always looking at the next pasture and thinking it’s greener than our own.”

  “I could never go back East to live,” Fargo mentioned. “It would be like living in a cage. Always abiding by laws and rules.” He never had liked being told what to do.

  “You have more grit than I, sir. I freely admit it. I gave up the good life too easily.”

  After that Gore lapsed into silence.

  Fargo thought about all he had learned. The important thing was that Gore’s interest in the Payette River Valley seemed sincere, and his mention of it to the settlers at Fort Bridger appeared to be no more than happenstance.

  Fargo let some time go by before he gnawed at the truth anew. “Rinson and his men,” he said to strike up a new conversation. “I’m surprised a man like you would ride with them.”

  “They are a bit too zealous, aren’t they?” Gore said. “But that’s only because they take their job seriously. They don’t want anything to happen to Mr. Winston and his people.”

  “You say that you never set eyes on any of them before you met them at Fort Bridger?”

  Gore nodded. “Coincidence. Or the hand of providence, if you were to ask Mrs. Winston. I needed men and they were available.”

  “Lucky for you,” Fargo said.

  “If it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone else.”

  Fargo shifted in the saddle. Rinson and Slag were off to one side. Both met his gaze with glares. “I’m not one of their favorite gents at the moment.”

  “I daresay you’re not. I talked to Mr. Rinson last night after that little incident in the cottonwoods. He thinks you are a troublemaker and up to no good.”

  “Does he, now?”

  “Yes, indeed. He suspects you are out to rob the farmers. So he and his men are keeping a close eye on you from here on out.”

  Fargo tried to look at it from Rinson’s point of view. It was possible, just possible, that if Rinson was genuinely interested in protecting the settlers, he would think it suspicious of him to attach himself to the wagon train as he had done.

  “I should tell you,” Victor Gore said. “Mr. Winston and his people don’t have much money. They spent most of what they had buying their wagons and outfitting for their journey.”

  “I’m not out to rob them.”

  “I hope not. You’re terribly quick with that pistol of yours, and you punch as hard as any man I’ve ever seen, but Mr. Rinson and his men are tough, too. They won’t hesitate to throw lead if they have to.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Gore swatted at a fly. “Rinson sure is clever. I never would have thought of offering myself as a protector.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what he calls himself. There are plenty of pilots and guides and whatnot. But Mr. Rinson only hires out to protect wagon trains. So he calls himself and his friends protectors.”

  Fargo could see where a notion like that might catch on. Wagon trains were often beset by hostiles. Outlaws, wild beasts and other perils compounded the danger. Emigrants would gladly hire an outfit to see them safely through to Oregon or wherever else they were bound. “How much did Rinson ask for?”

  “Money, you mean? His fee was two hundred dollars, half in advance, the other half when we reach our destination. Mr. Winston and his people pooled nearly all the funds they have left to pay him.”

  Fargo did the math in his head. If Rinson and his men divided the money equally, that came to twenty-five dollars each. Not a lot for putting their lives in peril. Then again, if a man was frugal and a little lucky at cards, he could spend a month or more at a saloon, drinking and taking up with doves. Some men would rate that worth the risk of taking an arrow. “Are the settlers paying you, too?”

  “Goodness, no. I was going to the valley anyway. Mr. Winston offered to pay me but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

  A grin split Gore’s face. “You needn’t sound so sarcastic. I just told you I was going there anyway.”

  “Even though the Nez Perce are stirred up?”

  “None of us live forever, Mr. Fargo.”

  When the sun was straight overhead Gore called a halt. The farmers gladly spilled from their wagons to stretch and stroll about. Some took the time to eat a quick meal.

  Fargo was by himself, sitting under a pine with his back to the trunk and his hat brim low over his eyes, when a dress swished and a warm hand brushed his cheek.

  “You haven’t said ten words to me all morning.”

  Fargo pushed his hat back on his head and squinted up at Rachel Winston. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

  Rachel grinned and sank down, her shapely legs coiled under her. “What do you have in mind, kind sir?”

  “What do you think?” Fargo rejoined, and went to reach for her.

  “Not in broad daylight!” Rachel cried, drawing back. “Everyone will talk.”

  “They’re talking anyway.”

  “Yes. But they’re doing it behind our backs. Were we to carry on now, some might see fit to complain to my ma and pa, and they’re upset enough with me as it is.”

  “They don’t approve?”

  “What kind of question is that? Of course they don’t approve. It would be different if we were to be married. As it is, they think I’m a woman of loose morals.”

  “They said that?”

  “No, but I can read it in their faces. I’ve disappointed them, I’m afraid.” Rachel leaned closer and lowered her voice. “But it was worth it. I wouldn’t trade last night for anything. Maybe that makes me a hussy. If so, so be it.”

  “It’s not as if you’re going to go to work in a saloon or walk the streets at night.”

  “You’re forgetting women have it harder than men. An unwed man can lie with a woman and no one says a word. They take it as natural. But let an unwed woman lie with a man and suddenly she’s a trollop and of no-account. I ask you, is that fair?”

  “No,” Fargo admitted.

  “Men are free to do as they please but women must walk around with chastity belts on.”

  Fargo laughed.

  “It’s not the least bit funny. Were it up to me, women would have the same freedom men do. Is that so wrong?”

  “No,” Fargo agreed again.

  “Well then
,” Rachel said softly, “tonight, if you’re willing, I’ll make a hussy of myself. But we must be discreet. We can’t let anyone see us leave, and we have to watch out for Rinson and his friends in case they come looking for us.”

  “They won’t make that mistake twice,” Fargo predicted.

  “Don’t put anything past them. I overheard Rinson and Slag talking. They resent you being here, for some reason. Slag is all for making you leave whether you want to go or not but Rinson told him it might make my pa or Mr. Gore mad. They must think my pa approves of you and me carrying on.” Rachel tittered. “We’ll let them go on thinking that if it keeps them off your back.”

  A shadow fell across them.

  Fargo looked up, thinking it was her father or mother but it was Rinson, and he wasn’t alone. Slag and Perkins were with him. “Speak of the devil.”

  Rinson held his hands out, palms up. “We’re not looking for more trouble, mister. We came over to talk, is all.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, Rinson forced an oily smile. “We want you to leave.”

  “Hell,” Fargo said.

  “Don’t get riled,” Rinson said quickly. “We’re asking real nice. As a favor to these farmers, it would be best for everyone if you lit a shuck.”

  “How long before you get it through your heads? I’m sticking around a while.”

  Perkins said flatly, “You don’t want to do that.”

  “No, you sure don’t,” Slag echoed.

  “Why not?”

  They swapped glances but said nothing.

  “Get used to me,” Fargo said.

  Rinson sighed and lowered his arms. His hand was near his Remington but he made no move to draw it. “No one can say I didn’t try. I asked real polite and you threw it in my face.”

  “Saying no was the biggest mistake you ever made,” Perkins said.

  “The biggest.” Another echo from Slag.