by Jon Sharpe
“First those redskins and now this,” Sol said. “You need to watch out for yourself better.”
“We don’t want anything to happen to you,” Seth said.
“Find the bull and quit playin’ around,” little Jared said.
Fargo glared at him.
“What?”
Sol had turned and was staring at the bodies of the men with their throats slit. “Look at that,” he said.
His brothers turned.
“They bled out nice,” Seth said.
“Bet they didn’t hurt much,” Jared said.
“They’re still dead,” Seth said. He claimed his rifle from his brother and peered off into the forest. “We’d best light a shuck. Those three might take it into their heads to circle back.”
“Always play it safe,” Seth said.
“Always,” Jared said.
They started to walk off and Sol said over his shoulder to Fargo, “Be seein’ you.”
“Wait,” Fargo said.
“No.”
“Why are you following me?”
“We already told you,” Sol said.
“Find the damn bull,” Seth said.
“If you don’t, you are worthless,” little Jared said.
“Damn it,” Fargo said, but they paid him no heed and melted into the undergrowth and were gone. He was tempted to go after them but they might be right about the Hollisters circling back.
Fargo stared at the throat-slit bodies and then off in the direction the Hollisters had gone and then in the direction the three boys had vanished and scratched his chin in bewilderment. “What the hell?”
28
If the Johnson boys were shadowing him, they were good at it.
Fargo tried to catch them. Several times he reined behind a pine or a boulder and waited for them to appear but they never did. Once he dismounted atop a ridge and lay on his belly for half an hour studying his back trail, but nothing.
They were ghosts, those boys.
He saw neither hide nor hair of anyone else, either. Apparently the war party had lost his trail, and he could devote himself to finding Thunderhead’s.
Toward sundown the terrain underwent a change. Canyons and bluffs replaced the steep slopes, and there were far fewer trees.
He stopped for the night in a gully deep enough to hide him and the Ovaro. After the day he’d had, he decided to treat himself, and his belly, to coffee. It took a while to gather enough wood and dry brush. He kept the fire small and, as the coffeepot heated, reviewed the day’s events.
Something nagged at him, a vague sense that an important fact was right in front of his face but he was missing it.
The coffee grew hot enough and he filled his tin cup and sat with the cup in both hands, admiring the stars. A coyote yipped and was answered by another. Somewhere far off a grizzly roared. Closer, an owl hooted.
He turned in about midnight. His gut was so sore that it hurt to lie with his back propped on his saddle so he lay flat, his hat at his side, his arms across his chest.
The stomp of a hoof brought him around as day was breaking. It was only the Ovaro, and after he kindled the embers of his fire to life, he threw on his saddle blanket and saddle and tied on his bedroll.
Two cups drained the pot. He was sipping the last of it and about ready to head out when a sound he’d never heard before pricked the Ovaro’s ear and brought him to his feet.
It seemed to come from everywhere at once. How close, it was hard to judge. It wasn’t a roar or a shriek or a howl. It was a tremendous bellow, similar to the bellows bull buffalo made when they challenged a rival for a cow’s affections. But there were no buffalo that high up.
Excited, Fargo slid his tin cup into a saddlebag, forked leather, and rode up out of the gully. He drew rein and rose in the stirrups to try to catch sight of the animal responsible—and there it was, not fifty yards away, staring right at him.
“God in heaven,” Fargo blurted.
Jim Tyler had said that Thunderhead was a large bull. But “large” didn’t do him justice. The bull was gargantuan, taller at the shoulders and broader and more massive than the Ovaro, with a horn spread of some seven feet. It was a brindle color, dark brown with darker stripes, except around the eyes and the brow where it was almost white.
It looked to be a longhorn, although Tyler never mentioned that fact.
Fargo stared and the bull stared, and then it snorted and pawed the ground.
“Oh, hell,” Fargo said.
With another of those tremendous bellows, Thunderhead lowered his head and charged.
Hauling on the reins, Fargo rode into the gully and up and out the other side and jabbed his spurs. The Ovaro didn’t need much urging.
Fargo glanced back and saw Thunderhead come hurtling out of the gully and pound in pursuit. A bull that size could easily bowl the stallion over, to say nothing of the wounds those deadly horns could inflict.
A boulder loomed and Fargo avoided it. He swept up a short grade and along a bench and looked back again to see if he was increasing his lead. He wasn’t.
Thunderhead was narrowing it.
Swearing, Fargo rode for dear life, the Ovaro’s as much as his. He reached the end of the shelf and flew down another grade into thick timber. He figured the closely spaced trees would force Thunderhead to slow and lose ground but the bull slipped through them with a speed and agility that belied his huge size.
The Ovaro swept out of the forest and a meadow spread before them. Normally, on level ground, the stallion was uncatchable. But no one had told Thunderhead. Incredibly, the bull came on faster than ever.
Fargo lashed the Ovaro’s reins even though the stallion was flying flat out.
Resembling nothing so much as a living locomotive, Thunderhead bore down on them.
Fargo began to think he might have to shoot it. Dead, the bull wasn’t worth a cent, but he’d be damned if he’d let any harm come to the Ovaro.
He reached the meadow’s end and plunged into more timber. Barely seconds went by and Thunderhead barreled in after him.
In addition to the drum of heavy hooves and the crash of underbrush, Fargo heard the bull’s great rasps of breath. It sounded like a blacksmith’s bellows.
A low limb materialized and Fargo ducked. He reined around a spruce and then around a thicket. The bull avoided the former but crashed through the latter as if it didn’t exist.
Now Thunderhead was only a few yards behind them.
Fargo shot between two saplings.
Thunderhead shot between them, too, and snapped both in half as if they were twigs.
Fargo flew down a short slope and veered around a small pine that was leaning against another.
Thunderhead rammed into the pine, splintering it like so much kindling.
“Damn,” Fargo fumed. The bull was damn near indestructible and determined to bring him down.
The Ovaro galloped up a short slope and out into the open again. And suddenly Fargo had a whole new problem.
He had the bull behind him.
And the Blackfeet in front of him.
29
The warriors seemed as surprised to see Fargo as he was to see them. They had heard him and the bull crashing through the forest and had drawn rein with their arrows nocked and lance arms cocked, and two who had rifles were ready to shoot.
The instant Fargo set eyes on them, he reined sharply to one side.
A rifle spanged but the Blackfoot missed. Several of the others uttered piercing war whoops and goaded their mounts toward him.
That was when Thunderhead exploded out of the trees.
The bull was close enough to the Ovaro that if it had turned, it could have gored the stallion easily. Instead, it saw the Blackfeet in its path and went straight at them. Astonishment rooted the war party. Then the o
ther warrior with a rifle banged a shot at Thunderhead. But he rushed his shot and puffs of dust showed that the slug had hit between the bull’s front legs.
Thunderhead was on them. The warrior who had just shot at the longhorn attempted to turn his horse but he wasn’t anywhere near quick enough. Thunderhead slammed into the animal and both it and the warrior were smashed to earth. The horse let out a squeal while the warrior sought to scramble away from the bull.
Thunderhead had other ideas. He rammed into the warrior, knocking him flat. The Blackfoot clawed for a knife just as a horn impaled his chest. Whirling, Thunderhead went at the downed horse with the warrior’s body stuck fast. A couple of head-on blows and the mangled body slipped off and the horse was still.
A warrior who was braver than the rest, or more foolhardy, bore down on the bull with his lance raised high to hurl.
An enormous lightning bolt, Thunderhead slammed into the warrior’s horse and both horse and rider crashed to earth. The Blackfoot tried to spring clear but his leg was pinned. He pushed against his horse and was trying to rise when Thunderhead’s horn caught him under the chin and ruptured out the back of his neck, taking part of his spine with it.
It had all happened so fast that the remaining Blackfeet were too stunned to attack together, which was their only prayer. Individually, they were no match for the massive juggernaut.
Thunderhead went after the warrior holding the lead rope to the mule and the packhorse. The man let go and sought to flee, and for once, luck was with him. The mule chose that moment to bolt, drawing Thunderhead’s attention. Before the mule had gone ten feet, Thunderhead was on it.
Fargo gained cover and drew rein. He expected the bull would kill a few more but the Blackfeet made it to cover, too.
As for Thunderhead, he was going at the mule in a frenzy of butts and sweeps of his horns, and in no time at all, the mule was a broken, blood-soaked ruin.
Thunderhead straightened. Gore matted his head and horns and scarlet had splashed his brow and muzzle. He let out a bellow.
Fargo was astounded by the destruction the behemoth had wrought in so short a span. He sat his saddle perfectly still in order not to draw its attention.
Thunderhead, though, appeared to have lost interest in him. The bull went to each of the fallen warriors and sniffed them as if he was making sure they were dead.
Fargo spied the five remaining Blackfeet off through the trees. They were doing as he was doing. They were statues frozen on their mounts.
Thunderhead shook his head at the dead mule and at the dead horse, then glowered at the woods and the sky as if he were mad at the world and everything in it. Another moment, and he broke into motion, heading back the way he had come. He passed within a stone’s throw of Fargo and the Ovaro without seeing them.
Fargo didn’t move until the bull was out of sight. He waited half a minute to be certain and was debating what to do when he saw that the Blackfeet were spreading out and moving toward him.
From the frying pan into the fire and back again, Fargo realized. He reined after Thunderhead and followed him, staying a good thirty yards back.
The Blackfeet, as he’d hoped, didn’t give chase. They’d had enough of the mad bull and didn’t care to come anywhere near it.
Fargo was worried that Thunderhead would hear the Ovaro and turn. But the bull lumbered on, oblivious, almost as if it had somewhere it hankered to be.
Fargo followed for a short way farther to be sure about the Blackfeet, then reined to the west and as quietly as possible got the hell out of there.
He didn’t feel safe until he’d gone half a mile.
Climbing to a bald crown where he could see in all directions, he slid off and patted the Ovaro.
“Damn,” he said.
That had been close. It could easily have been him the longhorn gored.
Returning Thunderhead for the bounty had taken on a whole new dimension. Hearing that the bull had gored someone couldn’t compare to seeing the monster in action. Anyone who tried to rope that bull put their life in their hands.
Fargo had figured to toss a noose over him and lead Thunderhead back without much difficulty. He’d handled bulls before. But Thunderhead was no ordinary animal. He was a force of nature in and of himself.
“Damn,” Fargo said once more.
So now he had the remaining Blackfeet to worry about and the Hollisters were still out there and there was the mystery killer who was exterminating the bull hunters—and the bull, itself.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
As if in answer, from out of the labyrinth of canyons and bluffs to the northwest rose another defiant bellow.
30
Fargo wasn’t the only one who heard that bellow.
He was indulging in rare midday cups of coffee when out of the trees rode Dirk Peters.
Peters climbed down and chuckled and said, “Is this your notion of bull-hunting? Sitting on your ass?”
Fargo grinned. “After what I’ve been through, it’s sure as hell the safest.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Pull up a cup,” Fargo said, and when Peters made himself comfortable, he related his encounter.
“The bull and the Blackfeet,” Dirk said. “You don’t do things by half.”
“There’s more,” Fargo said, and told him about the farmer and the old woman and the other two he found, ending with, “Someone has killed four of us so far and likely won’t stop there.”
“Six of us,” Dirk said. “I came across two more my own self. One had been stabbed and the other was shot in the back.”
“Backshooters,” Fargo said in disgust.
“This hunt has gone to hell,” Dirk said, “and will likely get worse.” He thoughtfully tapped his tin cup with a fingernail. “It gives a man something to think about.”
“Oh?”
“I haven’t seen this bull yet but I did find some old tracks. Which is why I don’t think you’re telling a tall tale when you say he’s about the biggest damn bull who ever screwed a cow. And if he’s that big and that mean, he might be more than one gent can handle.”
“Might be,” Fargo admitted.
“So how about if I take a look-see and if he’s all he sounds like he is, we consider partnering up.” Dirk held up a hand before Fargo went to speak. “I know you probably want the five thousand for yourself. But half is better than an empty poke”—he paused—“or being dead.”
“I’m fond of breathing,” Fargo said.
“Is that a yes?”
“You can have your look-see and we’ll decide then.”
They spent the next hour and a half searching in the direction of that last bellow. For some reason Thunderhead preferred the maze of canyons and bluffs to an open meadow or the timber.
“Easier for him to hide,” Dirk Peters remarked when Fargo mentioned it. “Which fits with him being longhorn. I’ve heard they hide out in the roughest country they can find.”
“There’s plenty of it here,” Fargo said.
“Cows and bulls,” Dirk said. “You couldn’t pay me enough to wet-nose those stupid critters.” He paused. “I’ve been to Texas. Folks down there say longhorns aren’t only quick and tough, they’re uncommon smart. Corralling this Thunderhead won’t be easy.”
“You don’t need to tell me.”
“What we have is a bull as big as a mountain with the disposition of a kicked rattler and horns he could shove down our throat and have poke out our ass.”
Fargo laughed. “You have a colorful way of putting things.”
“Just so he doesn’t put one of those horns in me.”
Presently they rounded a bluff and ahead trickled a ribbon of blue, issuing from the mouth of a canyon.
“What have we here?” Dirk said with sudden interest.
Fargo had s
een them, too. Tracks. A lot of them. He dismounted and held on to the Ovaro’s reins as he sank to a knee. “Fresh ones and old ones,” he said. “Going in and coming out.”
“By God,” Dirk said, “we’ve found his hidey-hole.”
It was some hole. The canyon had to be a quarter-mile across and the rock walls were some of the highest Fargo ever set eyes on. Thanks to the stream, the canyon floor had plenty of grass and trees and thick brush.
“He could be in there looking at us right this minute and we wouldn’t know it,” Dirk said.
“Maybe there’s a way to the top,” Fargo said. “We can spy on him from above.”
“If there is, it could take an hour or more to find it and another hour for the climb,” Dirk said. “I vote we seize the bull by the horns.” He grinned at his wit.
“This bull-hunting isn’t for the timid,” Fargo said.
They warily advanced, Fargo on one side of the stream, Dirk on the other. Tracks were everywhere. So was evidence the grass had been cropped. And a tree bore rub marks where the bull had scratched itself.
“Home sweet home,” Dirk joked.
The dense thickets posed a problem. A bull standing still, even a bull the size of Thunderhead, would be hard to spot.
Fargo looked for the telltale flick of an ear or the swish of a tail but all he saw were several sparrows and butterflies.
“It’s damned pretty here,” Dirk said.
Fargo wished he would hush. Longhorns had keen hearing. And you wouldn’t think that something that weighed a ton or more could sneak up on a man, but they were ghosts when they wanted to be.
“There!” Dirk whispered, and drew rein and pointed.
Fargo stopped. He stared at the thicket Dirk was pointing at and for the life of him couldn’t see anything. Then an ear twitched, and suddenly an enormous silhouette took shape.
“The critter blends right in,” Dirk marveled.
“We should back off,” Fargo advised. He had been charged enough for one day.