Thunderhead Trail

by Jon Sharpe

  13

  To Fargo this bull hunt was getting better by the moment. First there were all the greenhorns. Then there were the Blackfeet. And now, “You’re saying Thunderhead is a man-killer?”

  Tyler nodded. “It’s why the rancher in Texas was willing to sell him.”

  “Hell,” Dirk Peters said.

  “Two of the men he gored were trying to herd him into a pen,” Tyler said. “For some reason he snapped and gored them. The third man was on the way here. One of my hands was trying to persuade him to ford a river and he brought down the hand and his horse.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell everyone else?” Dirk said.

  “I don’t want them so scared of him that they shoot him if he acts up.”

  “I won’t be gored,” Rafer Crown said. “Your bull tries that with me, I’ll put lead in his brainpan.”

  “See? Please, try not to,” Tyler said. “I’m begging you.”

  “Better and better,” Fargo said.

  “How’s that?”

  Before Fargo could answer, a woman on the porch called to the rancher and he excused himself, saying simply, “It’s the missus.”

  “What do you think?” Dirk Peters asked when the rancher was out of earshot.

  “I’m right pleased,” Crown said.

  “Why?”

  Crown motioned. “Most of these folks don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding that critter. I can almost feel the money in my poke.”

  “Put the cart before the horse, why don’t you?” Dirk said. “Any one of them could have a stroke of luck and find him.”

  “More likely they’ll find an early grave.”

  The pair went on talking as Fargo made for a pump toward the side of the house. He worked the handle and after half a dozen tries water splashed out. Cupping his hand, he caught some and drank.

  “How about a little for a lady, there, handsome?”

  Fargo turned.

  Aramone Richmond had closed her parasol and was holding it across a slender shoulder. She smiled and ran the tip of her tongue along her ruby lips. “I’m terribly thirsty.”

  “There’s no cup,” Fargo said.

  “Who needs one?” she said, with a meaningful look.

  Fargo pumped and cupped and held out his hand to her. Grinning, she pressed her lips to his palm and sipped, her eyes on his the whole time. When she was done, she flicked her tongue across his wet palm.

  “That was nice of you.”

  “I can be nicer,” Fargo said.

  “Oh?”

  “Come visit me sometime when your brother isn’t around.”

  “Listen to you,” Aramone said huskily. “What would you do if we were alone?”

  “Screw you silly.”

  Where some women would be offended, Aramone laughed merrily. “Promises, promises,” she said, and stared at his crotch. “You never know what might happen up in those mountains.”

  “Anytime,” Fargo said.

  With a saucy flip of her hips, Aramone sashayed toward her brother. She looked back and puckered her lips as if blowing Fargo a kiss.

  “I’ll be damned,” Fargo said.

  Over on the porch, Jim Tyler turned from his wife and raised his arms to get everyone’s attention. “You’re welcome to start hunting for Thunderhead anytime you want.”

  “Hold on, mister,” a man called out. “What about those trappers who saw him? Where did they see him at?”

  “About ten miles northwest of here.”

  “Anything else we need to know?” someone else asked.

  Fargo expected the rancher to tell them about the gorings but Tyler shook his head.

  “I wish each of you the best of luck. Thunderhead means everything to me. Whoever finds him will have my eternal thanks.”

  “I’d rather have the money,” Humphries, the farmer, said, provoking more laughter.

  Rafer Crown and Dirk Peters came to the pump.

  “I reckon this is where we part company,” Crown said. “From here on out it’s every hombre for himself.”

  “We could work together,” Dirk suggested. “Split the money three ways.”

  “No, thanks,” Crown said. “Sixteen hundred dollars is a lot less than five thousand.”

  “With the Blackfeet on the prowl, we’d be better off.”

  “They don’t worry me none,” Crown said. “I’ve fought redskins before.” He touched his hat brim and departed.

  “Well, damn,” Dirk said, and faced Fargo. “How about you? I’m willing to settle for half if you are.”

  It wasn’t the money as far as Fargo was concerned. It was the fact he preferred to go it alone.

  “Never mind,” Dirk said. “I can tell by your face you’re not interested, either. It must be my breath.” He touched the brim of his high-crowned hat and left.

  Fargo turned to go and found his way barred by Esther, the old gal with the Dragoon. She was giving him a strange sort of scrutiny. “Ma’am?” he said.

  “You know,” she said, “you look good enough to eat.”

  14

  “A gal your age,” Fargo joked. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “A woman is never too old for that,” Esther said. “And I’ve gone without since my Charlie died.”

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “You don’t like your women wrinkled like a prune?” Esther chuckled. “That’s all right. I see myself in the mirror every day. I wouldn’t hanker to give me a poke, either.”

  Fargo didn’t know what to say to that.

  “But I didn’t come over to talk pokes. What do you say to the two of us partnering up? I cook better than most and I’ll use this cannon if I have to.” Esther patted the Colt Dragoon.

  “Sorry. I like to ride alone.”

  “Too bad. Of all of them, I take you for the most trustworthy.”

  “You don’t know me,” Fargo said.

  “True. But I read people real good. Comes from living so long. Oh, well.” Esther smiled and made off toward Humphries.

  “Enough of this,” Fargo said. It was time to get the hell gone. And he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Several would-be bounty hunters had peeled from the rest and climbed on their animals and gigged them toward the mountains.

  Fargo bent his steps toward the Ovaro, only to have Jim Tyler call his name and beckon.

  The rancher’s wife was at his side. A mousy little thing, she was wringing her hands and giving the departing riders an anxious look.

  “This is Clementine, my wife,” Jim Tyler said. “She’d like a word with you.”

  “Oh?” Fargo said. It seemed like everyone wanted one.

  “Jim has told me who you are,” Clementine said. “That you’ve scouted for the army, and you have a reputation.”

  Fargo thought of all the women he’d bedded and the liquor he’d swilled and the countless nights of cards.

  “I’ve never claimed to be a churchgoer.”

  “What? No. Jim tells me you’re an honorable man.”

  Fargo figured the rancher must have him confused with some other scout. Or with Daniel Boone, maybe.

  “He says you always do what’s right.”

  Now Fargo was sure the rancher was mistaken. “I do what’s right for me, ma’am.” He almost added that he didn’t much give a damn about anyone else.

  “I’d like for you to do me a favor,” Clementine said. “I’m willing to pay you out of my own purse for your trouble.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Jim said. “There’s no need.”

  “I say there is.” Clementine took Fargo aback by clasping his hand. “You’ve seen these folks?” She indicated the dispersing riders, some with pack animals in tow. “What’s your opinion of them?”

  “They’re pitif
ul,” Fargo said.

  “That’s my assessment, too. I can’t help but think that some of them won’t make it back. And I wouldn’t want that. It’s our bull, after all.”

  “Clementine,” Jim said.

  “Hush. I have a right to do this and I will.” She stared at the retreating figure of Esther on a mule. “Mr. Fargo, I’d like for you to look after them.”

  “Do what?”

  “You heard right. I’m willing to pay you a hundred dollars of my own money if you’ll keep an eye on them so they don’t come to harm.”

  Fargo looked at Tyler.

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “It’s mine,” Clementine said. “A hundred dollars is no small amount. All you’d have to do is keep your eyes and ears peeled and if any of them get into trouble, you help them out.”

  Fargo didn’t know where to begin. He tried with, “Ma’am, there are twenty or more. I can’t keep watch over all of them.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I know you want to hunt for Thunderhead yourself. But as you’re hunting, do what you can.”

  Jim Tyler frowned. “You’re asking an awful lot of him, dear.”

  “I know.” Clementine squeezed Fargo’s hand and patted his arm. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She turned and stepped to the screen door and Jim opened it for her and they went in.

  “Son of a bitch,” Fargo said.

  15

  The range that Thunderhead had wandered off into didn’t have a name yet. Neither did many of the rivers and streams and lakes. Much of the territory was unexplored, let alone settled.

  Some would call it a subrange. The highest peaks, Fargo had heard, pushed two miles up, and seemed to brush the clouds.

  Granite slabs and stretches of flat rock were everywhere. The forests were mostly pine but there were firs and aspens, too.

  There were no towns and no settlements and, except for a few trappers and mountain men, no whites, either. The Blackfeet roamed it, as they had for who knew how long, and resented any and all intrusions.

  Fargo had passed through the range several times in his many wanderings but didn’t know it all that well.

  Now, as he climbed the foothills, he pondered the state of affairs and wondered if he wasn’t making a mistake.

  First off, while Thunderhead was supposed to be an exceptionally large bull, finding him, when he had the entire range to hide in, was like looking for that well-known needle in a haystack.

  Second, with over twenty bounty hunters searching, it would be luck more than anything for him to find it before anyone else. Granted, most were as green as grass and had no business being there, but greed always brought out the stupid in people.

  He had no intention of acting as their nursemaid, Clementine Tyler or no. Whatever calamities befell them were on their shoulders, not his.

  Then there was the war party. Once the Blackfeet became aware that a lot of whites had entered the range, they might take it into their heads to count as many coup as they could.

  Fargo rubbed his chin and raised his head. He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t been paying much attention to his surroundings. Now he focused on the next hill he had to cross before he reached the mountains and caught a flash of sunlight similar to the one he’d spotted back in town the day before.

  Instantly, Fargo reined to the left. The whizz of lead preceded the far-off boom of the shot by a full second and a half.

  Bending low over the saddle horn, Fargo used his spurs.

  He’d almost forgotten about the Hollisters, but they sure as hell hadn’t forgotten about him. Rance and that Sharps of his were becoming more than a nuisance.

  Fargo flew into some pines. He drew rein, half expecting Rance to fire into the trees to try to pick him off. But Rance didn’t waste the lead.

  After waiting a while, Fargo continued on into the mountains, using every scrap of cover there was. The thickest trees, bluffs and rises he could keep between him and higher up—those sorts of things.

  By early afternoon the foothills were behind and below him.

  Twisting in the saddle, Fargo saw the ranch buildings in the distance and the spread of prairie to the east.

  He went on climbing.

  There was plenty of animal sign. Deer were numerous, and he saw a few elk. Smaller game were everywhere.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when he stopped at a stream to let the Ovaro drink and knelt to take a sip himself.

  Not inches away was the day-old track of a bear. By its size and the pads and the claws, he knew it was a black bear print and not a griz. Black bears were usually harmless. They’d run at the sight of a man on horseback where a griz might decide it was hungry.

  For half a mile or so he had a feathered companion. A jay flew from tree to tree and squawked at him as if it shared the Blackfoot dislike for white invaders. Finally it wearied of insulting him and winged off.

  At one point a squirrel set up a considerable racket.

  If the Blackfeet heard it, they’d likely investigate. But they didn’t appear.

  Shortly after, he came on horse tracks.

  The horse was shod so the rider must be white. One of the bull hunters, Fargo reckoned. The prints were larger than most, and he recollected that the farmer, Humphries, had been riding an oversized plow horse.

  Fargo hadn’t gone fifty more yards when cap rock spread before him.

  And there, at its edge, lay a body.

  16

  Fargo drew rein.

  The bib overalls confirmed his hunch. There was no sign of the plow horse.

  Palming his Colt, Fargo dismounted. He warily advanced until he was behind a tree near the dead farmer.

  Humphries was sprawled belly-down, his head twisted to one side, his eyes wide open. He didn’t wear a pistol but he’d had a rifle in a scabbard on the plow horse. Evidently, he’d been killed before he could grab it.

  Fargo eased from concealment. When nothing happened, he hunkered and rolled the body over. He had to use both hands, the man was so heavy.

  The cause of death was obvious: a knife wound to the heart.

  Since Humphries would never let the Blackfeet get that close—and he still had his hair—it ruled out the war party. Whoever stuck the knife in him had been white. Someone Humphries let come right up to him. Someone he wouldn’t have suspected.

  Based on how warm the body was, Fargo guessed that the farmer hadn’t been dead half an hour, if that. The killer couldn’t have gone far.

  He straightened and saw two people standing and staring down at him from a little higher up and off to the right. They had the reins to their mounts in their hands, and when he set eyes on them, the woman gave a friendly wave.

  Glyn and Aramone Richmond led their horses down. Glyn also held a lead rope to their pack animal. Both acted surprised when they saw Humphries.

  “What’s this?” Glyn said.

  “We stopped to rest and saw you come out of the trees,” Aramone said.

  “You didn’t notice the body?” Fargo asked.

  “From up where we were you can’t see it,” Glyn said, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you kill him?”

  “Why the hell would I?”

  “How would I know?” Glyn said. “I don’t know a thing about you. Or him, for that matter.”

  “That works both ways,” Fargo said.

  “Please, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Aramone interjected, glancing at her brother. “It could have been anyone who killed this poor man.”

  Even you, Fargo thought, but he kept that to himself.

  “Well, this is just dandy,” Glyn said. “We must have a murderer among us.”

  “We should bury him,” Aramone said.

  “Without a shovel or a pick?” Glyn responded. “We’d waste an hour or more, as h
ard as the ground is.”

  “It’s wrong to just leave him there like that,” Aramone said.

  “How so? We don’t know him. We don’t owe him anything.”

  Aramone appealed to Fargo. “What do you say we should do?”

  Fargo agreed with her brother but for a different reason. “Whoever killed him might still be around. And there’s the Blackfeet to think of.”

  “So you’re saying we leave him there to rot?”

  “He’ll rot underground, too.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Aramone looked at her brother and at Fargo. “All right. I’m against it but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Fargo wondered if it was an act on her part. What did she care about a complete stranger?

  They climbed on their horses while he went for the Ovaro. Together, they scaled the cap rock to the next timber.

  Fargo made it a point to let them go first. He’d rather have them in front of him than at his back. He couldn’t think of a reason for them to kill the farmer, but he’d be damned if he’d trust them.

  “We should make camp and talk this over,” Aramone proposed.

  “And waste hours of daylight?” Glyn said, shaking his head. “What purpose would it serve? I say we keep searching for the bull.”

  Once again Fargo agreed.

  Aramone slowed so her sorrel could pace the Ovaro. “I’m sorry about my brother,” she said. “He’s not exactly a fount of human kindness.”

  “Who is?” Fargo said.

  “He’s always been more practical than me,” Aramone remarked. “I suppose I should be grateful.”

  “Neither of you should be here.”

  “That’s a fine thing to say. Especially since I think it’s wonderful, us joining up.”

  “Oh?”

  “When we make camp, we’ll have the whole night ahead of us.” Aramone grinned. “Whatever will we do with ourselves?”

  “You have something in mind?”

  Her gaze drifted to a spot several inches below his belt buckle. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  17