by Jon Sharpe
“You have done fine, sir,” Winston told him. “We have no complaints. Give me a minute to fetch my poke from my wagon.”
Several farmers added their compliments.
“When will you be leaving us?” the farmer named Harvey asked.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Rinson answered.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” another said.
“We’re planning to celebrate,” a third farmer revealed. “Tonight or tomorrow night. The ladies will bake cakes and cookies. And Sam will play his fiddle. We’ll have us a grand time.”
“Are you inviting the Nez Perce?” Fargo asked.
“Why on earth would we do that?”
Just then Lester Winston returned. “That’s not a bad idea, Mr. Fargo. It would show them we have peaceable intentions.” He opened his poke and commenced to count out coins.
Fargo scanned the surrounding mountains. It was only a matter of time before the Nez Perce showed up. “You’ll be lucky if they don’t slit your throats on sight.”
“None of that kind of talk in front of the ladies and the children, if you please,” Lester chided him. “You’ll scare them.”
“It would help if someone was scared,” Fargo said.
As soon as Rinson had the money, he divided it among the other protectors. Fargo seemed to be the only one who noticed that they weren’t nearly as happy about being paid as they should be. It was peculiar.
Lester jingled the few coins left in his poke. “There’s not much left but we’ll fill our pokes again real soon.” He gave a slight start. “That is, after we’ve grown our crops and taken them to market.”
“Where?” Fargo asked.
“Why, to Fort Bridger, of course. Or maybe to Fort Laramie. From there we can send our surplus east on freight wagons.”
“You have it all thought out.”
“I like to think so, yes.”
Fargo was being sarcastic but Winston didn’t notice. “That’s a long way to ship corn or wheat. And vegetables would rot.”
“We’re well aware of that,” Winston said. “Which is why we have intended from the start that when we got to Oregon we would try a whole new crop. One that won’t spoil on its way to market.” He looked about them. “I suppose they would grow just as well here as in Oregon.”
“What is this wonder called?”
Lester smiled and swelled out his chest in pride at their brainstorm. “Potatoes.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We’re going to grow potatoes.”
Fargo stared.
“I’m serious. Potatoes don’t need a long growing season and they keep for a long time. They’re perfect.”
“You’re loco. Why would people back East buy potatoes from way out here when they can grow their own?”
Lester had more to say, but just then Rinson came back. Slag and Perkins were at his elbows.
“What is it?” Lester asked. “Was my count off?”
“No, your count was fine,” the hawk-faced man said. “But we’ve been talking it over and we’ve decided we’ll stick around for a spell.”
“You will?”
Fargo was as surprised as Winston.
“Our horses can use the rest. So can we. And if the Nez Perce show up, they’ll be less likely to attack.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful we are,” Lester said. In his enthusiasm he clapped Rinson on the arm. “With you watching over our families, we’ll be free to get that much more work done.”
“I’m glad you like the idea.”
Fargo said nothing. But Rinson and his friends didn’t strike him as charitable sorts.
“Let me go spread the news.” Lester hustled away with Harvey and the others.
Rinson shifted toward Fargo. “What about you, mister? I take it you’ll be on your way soon?”
“When I’m good and ready.”
“Damn, you’re prickly. But if I was in your boots, I’d stick around, too, what with that gal being so sweet on you.”
“Be careful,” Fargo said.
Rinson didn’t take offense. “All I’m saying is that she’s as fine a filly as I’ve ever set eyes on.”
Perkins said, “Better ask her to be yours before one of the sons of one of these dirt-pushers gets the notion.”
Slag bobbed his chin. “Stay as long as you want, mister. It’s fine by us. We don’t hold grudges.”
The three grinned and walked off.
Fargo was inclined to pinch himself to be sure he was awake. What in hell was that all about? he wondered. He didn’t buy for a minute that those three had sheathed their claws. They were up to something. But what?
Then Victor Gore came around a wagon. “Fargo! There you are. Lester just told me that Rinson and his men have decided to stay around awhile.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Marvelous. Just marvelous. I’m free to roam about, then, and not have to worry about them.” Victor gleefully rubbed his palms together. “Yes, sir. Things have worked out better than I dared hope.”
12
The first attempt on Fargo’s life took place several days later, late in the afternoon.
During that time the farmers held a lot of meetings. Lester told Fargo they were deciding how to divide up the valley. “We figure we’ll give each lot a number and then draw the number out of a hat.”
For some reason Winston laughed after he said that.
As for Rinson and the “protectors,” they kept busy patrolling the valley’s perimeter for sign of hostiles during the day, and at night they took turns standing guard.
Little was seen of Victor Gore. Each morning he rode out at first light and didn’t return until near sundown. When Billy asked what he was doing, Gore explained that he was visiting places he had trapped years ago. Billy mentioned that he was amazed Gore could find them again after so many years, and Gore said there was one spot in particular he was anxious to revisit, but so far he hadn’t been able to locate it.
“But I will. Mark my words. It’s the most important of all.”
Fargo didn’t bother to ask what was so special about a spot where Gore had pulled dead beaver out of the water.
Those first days Gore came back tired and glum. He didn’t talk much at supper, except to say that a lot had changed, and many of the landmarks he remembered were hard to locate.
The second evening Gore was in even worse spirits. He told the Winstons he had traveled through some dreadfully thick country and was worn out. “The only good note is that the beaver are thriving again. I thought we had trapped them out, but by God, there are as many now as there were back then.”
At one time, it had been widely feared that beaver had been trapped to the edge of extinction. But once the fur trade dwindled and prime skins were no longer in demand, the beaver population quickly recovered.
“I’m so happy I could bust,” Vincent Gore declared.
Fargo mostly hunted. There were a lot of mouths to feed, a lot of supper pots to fill with fresh meat. From morning until twilight he roved the surrounding mountains. He shot two deer the first day, three the second. The third day, toward the middle of the afternoon, he came on tracks made by a big buck. Fresh tracks, with the scent of the buck’s urine strong in the air.
Shucking the Henry from the saddle scabbard, Fargo stalked it, riding slowly and quietly.
He was over a mile from the valley. Now and then he caught sight of it far below.
The sun was warm on his face. Other than a few vagrant gusts, the wind was still. He had not come across any sign of the Nez Perce.
All was peaceful.
Fargo started up another slope. He saw where the buck had abruptly veered off and wondered why. A possible explanation came the next moment when a leaden hornet buzzed his ear at the same split instant that a rifle cracked below him.
The only reason the would-be killer missed was because Fargo had started to turn his head in the direction the buck had gone.
Suspecting the bushwhacker was gone, Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and circled lower until he came to his own back trail. As he expected, he found the tracks of another horse. A shod horse.
The bushwhacker was a white man. Indians didn’t ride shod horses. And since there were no other whites within five hundred miles, it had to be someone from the valley. Since he couldn’t see any of the farmers trying to kill him, that cut the likely suspects to eight: one of Rinson’s protectors. But which one? And why, for God’s sake?
The attempt was doubly puzzling because Rinson and company had left him alone for so long. They seemed to have accepted the fact he was going to stick around.
Fargo backtracked the killer. The man had shadowed him a long way, staying well back so Fargo wouldn’t spot him.
Fargo checked behind him often. Now and again he hid and waited to see if he was being followed.
Along about sundown Fargo came to the valley floor. As was his habit, he stripped the Ovaro and spread out his blankets near the Winstons’ wagon. For the time being, for their mutual protection, the farmers were keeping their wagons circled in the middle of the valley. Until they got their cabins built, they were easy targets.
Fargo helped himself to coffee and sat with his back to his saddle, peering out from under his hat brim. One of Rinson’s men was standing guard over the horse herd, another was walking the circle. The rest were huddled around a fire, talking and joking. None of them so much as glanced in his direction.
Discovering which one had tried to kill him would take some doing.
The sun was practically gone when Victor Gore showed up. He was whistling as he rode in, and he greeted the farmers jovially.
Then it happened.
The only reason Fargo noticed was because he was watching the protectors. He saw Rinson and Slag and Perkins glance up. He saw Rinson give Vincent Gore a pointed look. He saw Gore nod, a barely perceptible bob of the chin that no one else caught. And he saw Rinson turn to Slag and Perkins and say something that brought huge grins to their faces.
What the hell was that all about? Fargo wondered. He went on sipping coffee, and when Gore came over, greeted him with, “You’re in a good mood.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gore rejoined. “I love this part of the country. It is everything I remember it being.”
“Do you remember the part where Indians kill white men who invade their land?”
“Honestly, Mr. Fargo. Give it a rest. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Nez Perce, and frankly, I’m beginning to think we never will. In all the thousands of square miles of territory they roam, we are a needle in a haystack.”
Fargo swallowed more coffee, then casually asked, “How long before you head back to civilization?”
Gore blinked. “I haven’t given it much thought. It could be a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.” He paused. “How about you? When do you plan to get on with your own life?”
“When I’m sure these people are safe.”
“But according to you, they never will be. They are a massacre waiting to happen.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
Victor grinned. “You should have been born a chicken. You make a great mother hen.”
No sooner did the old trapper wander off than Rachel sank down and brazenly put her hand on Fargo’s knee. “How was your day?”
“You’re beginning to sound like a wife.”
Rachel removed her hand and said uncertainly, “What’s the matter? You sound mad.”
“Not at you,” Fargo assured her. After making sure no one could overhear, he told her about the attempt to ambush him.
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Rachel was shocked. “I’ll go tell my pa and he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“No,” Fargo said, snagging her wrist as she went to stand. “The only one who is to know is you, and then only so you can keep your eyes peeled when I’m off hunting.”
Rachel leaned closer, her breath warm on his neck. “Peeled for what?”
“Them.” Fargo nodded at Rinson and his men. “Their comings and goings. Keep track of who goes where and when, and let me know when I get back.”
“That’s easy enough.”
“Don’t let them catch on,” Fargo warned.
“What will they do? Try to kill me? I very much doubt it. Besides, what purpose would it serve? If you ask me, whoever it was who took a shot at you was acting on their own behalf.” Rachel gnawed her lower lip. “I bet it was Slag or Perkins. Neither of them likes you.”
“Just be careful,” Fargo stressed.
Grinning impishly, Rachel squeezed his leg. “Why, kind sir, does this mean you care?”
Before Fargo could answer, Martha Winston was in front of them, and she wasn’t happy. “How many times must I tell you, daughter? Look at yourself. Sitting there with your hand on Mr. Fargo’s leg, cozying up to him for everyone to see.”
“Oh, Ma,” Rachel began.
“Don’t Ma me. Take your hand off his leg right this second. It’s bad enough you’re the talk of the camp. I won’t have you acting the hussy where everyone can see.”
“She hasn’t done anything to be ashamed of,” Fargo came to Rachel’s defense.
“Spare me your lies, Mr. Fargo,” Martha said sharply. “You seem to forget we are God-fearing folk. We live by the Bible. To some that might seem silly. But we try to do what’s right, and it’s not right for an unmarried woman to carry on with a man the way my daughter has been carrying on with you. I haven’t said anything until now because I’ve hoped and prayed that you would propose. But that’s not going to happen, is it?”
Fargo didn’t answer.
“I didn’t think so. But at least you’re not a hypocrite. You haven’t promised her the moon to get under her skirts. Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?”
“Ma!” Rachel exclaimed.
“Oh, please. I’m a married woman with two children. When I was your age I felt what you’re feeling. But I never gave in, not until I said ‘I do.’ That’s the difference between right and wrong. I won’t cast stones, but I wish to heaven Mr. Fargo would leave so we can get on with our lives and find you a man to call your very own.”
This was the first inkling Fargo had that Rachel’s mother felt this way. “I can’t leave just yet.”
Martha misconstrued. “Of course not. You have a good thing going here. But I ask you to reconsider. For our sakes. The sooner we are shed of you, the better. The longer you drag this out, the more harm it will do to Rachel’s reputation.”
Rachel said, “I don’t care about that.”
“But I do. Someone has to watch out for you. Or hasn’t it occurred to you that you are harming your prospects of getting a husband?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Most men don’t want loose women for wives. You best hope your reputation doesn’t spread or you’re liable to end your days alone and miserable, the price of your folly.”
Tears welled in Rachel’s eyes. “How can you talk to me like this?”
“If I don’t, who will? Certainly not your father. He pretends to turn a blind eye to your shenanigans but deep down he’s hurt.”
Rachel bowed her head.
“As for you,” Martha said to Fargo. “Haven’t you done enough harm? Can’t you control your urges and leave us be?”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“I will only say this once,” Martha said. “And keep in mind I know how to use a gun. I’ve hunted game, and shot ducks on the wing.”
Fargo had a disturbing thought.
Martha turned. “I’ve said my piece.” Wheeling, she walked off, her back as rigid as a ramrod.
“She’s righ
t,” Rachel said softly. “I didn’t give it any thought. But God help me, she’s right.” She slowly stood. “Excuse me. I need to be alone for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead,” Fargo said.
Rachel walked away, her head bowed.
A few glances were thrown Fargo’s way by those who overheard Martha’s tirade. Rather than sit there and be stared at, Fargo got up and walked about to stretch his legs, and to think. It was preposterous, his suspicion, but stranger things had happened. He was so deep in thought that he nearly collided with someone who suddenly stepped in front of him.
“We need to talk,” Rinson said.
“You, too?”
“What?” Rinson lowered his voice. “Did you see any Injun sign when you were out hunting today?”
“No.”
“One of my men did. He claims he saw a red devil spying on the farmers from the woods at the end of the valley.”
“Your man didn’t shoot him?”
“We don’t want trouble with the Nez Perce if we can avoid it. Not for our sakes. For the settlers. They’re the ones who have to live here after we’re gone. Unless we’re attacked, we’ll leave the Nez Perce be.”
“That’s damned decent of you,” Fargo said.
“I don’t much like your tone. But I wanted you to know, just in case my man wasn’t seeing things.”
“I’m obliged.”
Rinson hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “See? We can get along if we try.”
Fargo watched the hawk-faced hardcase saunter back to his friends. First Gore, then Martha, now this. Add the Nez Perce into the mix, and he better have eyes in the back of his head or there was a good likelihood he would end up with a bullet in the brain or an arrow between his shoulder blades.
13
The second attempt to kill him came the next morning.
Fargo was up at daybreak, as usual, and ate breakfast with the Winstons, as usual. Martha was cold to him. Rachel was withdrawn. Lester talked about downing timber for their cabins, and how he couldn’t wait to break soil and plant crops. Billy chattered about an eagle he had seen and possible wolf tracks the boys found.