Thunderhead Trail

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo drew rein about twenty feet out. He made the sign for friend again and waited for them to show their intentions.

  Then the tracker pointed at him and held two fingers to the right of his mouth and moved his hand to the left.

  It was sign language for “You lie.”

  38

  Fargo half expected the warriors to attack but they didn’t. He held his right hand under his chin with his index finger straight out, the sign for “I speak with a straight tongue.”

  The tracker gazed past him at Crown and Richmond and surprised Fargo by saying, “Me talk white tongue.” He held his thumb and first finger about half an inch apart, a white gesture, not sign language. “Little bit.”

  Fargo knew a smattering of Blackfoot but not enough to say what he now did in English, “My friends and I have no fight with the Blackfeet. We would have you go in peace.”

  “Not go,” the warrior said. He rested his lance across his horse, pointed at the canyon, then raised both hands to the sides of his head with his first fingers slightly crooked to resemble horns. It was the sign for “buffalo” but he was referring to Thunderhead. “We kill.”

  “We have come to take the bull back to where it comes from,” Fargo said. “We do not want it dead.”

  “It kill friends.”

  “I know,” Fargo said. “I was there.”

  “Bull must die.”

  Fargo racked his brain for some way of persuading them to let it be. If they had a pipe he’d offer to smoke it with them. Maybe then they’d believe that he sincerely desired to be their friend.

  But the next instant another tremendous bellow rent the air and out of the canyon hurtled a ton or more of enraged longhorn.

  A warrior with a rifle snapped it to his shoulder and fired. The others started to scatter except for the warrior with the lance, who reined toward Thunderhead, uttered a war whoop, and slapped his heels to his horse.

  “No!” Fargo yelled, but he was wasting his breath. Things had gone to hell and there was no stopping it.

  The young warrior with the lance displayed foolhardy courage. He rose with the lance and let fly. Unfortunately, it glanced off a horn, and before the young warrior could rein around to flee, Thunderhead slammed into his warhorse with the impact of a train engine.

  The horse squealed as it went down. The warrior tried to leap clear and was caught full on the bull’s head.

  It was the same as being smashed with a sledgehammer.

  Fargo heard the crack of ribs and saw blood spurt from the warrior’s mouth and nose.

  In a twinkling the bull whirled after the others.

  A warrior with a bow shifted and unleashed a shaft. It hit the bony ridge across the longhorn’s brow and was deflected.

  The Blackfeet did the only thing they could. They fled with the bull thundering after them.

  Fargo sat and watched until they were out of sight. An idea had taken hold. It would work only if the bull was gone a spell, and it appeared that Thunderhead was determined to chase the Blackfeet to the ends of creation. There might never be a better chance.

  Reining toward the canyon, Fargo motioned at Crown and Richmond. He didn’t wait for them but galloped up the canyon, unlimbering his rope as he went. He wasn’t a cowhand but he’d worked with cattle and could toss a loop fairly well.

  He figured he’d need to sneak into the thicket and surprise the cow as she was chewing her cud. But when he came around the bend, there she was, her and the calf both, drinking at the pond.

  The cow raised her head and turned to face him. Instinctively, the calf moved behind her for protection.

  Fargo slowed and moved to put himself between the stream and thicket.

  She was the same brindle color as Thunderhead but she wasn’t nearly as big and her horns were shorter and curved forward at the ends. Getting a rope over her would be easier than over her mate.

  Hooves pounded, and Rafer Crown and Glyn Richmond appeared.

  The cow turned so she faced both Fargo and the new arrivals.

  Crown had a brief exchange with Richmond and the Easterner nodded and stayed at the bend, no doubt to keep the cow from fleeing down the canyon.

  Not that she looked disposed to take flight. Longhorn females weren’t timid. This one tossed her head in anger and stomped a hoof.

  Crown came partway and stopped. “Both or you?” he hollered.

  “I’ll try first,” Fargo said. “Be ready if she gets past me.”

  A poke of his spurs, and Fargo galloped toward the cow. He swung his rope, the loop open and wide.

  The cow didn’t wait for him to come to her. She thrust her horns out and barreled at the Ovaro.

  Fargo waited until the last possible moment and reined aside even as he threw. The cow missed her charge but he didn’t. The rope settled over her horns and head and slipped onto her neck as neatly as could be. Quickly, he dallied it around the saddle horn and braced for the shock.

  The lasso went taut and the cow came to a stop so abruptly, her legs nearly swept out from under her.

  She managed to stay upright and stood shaking her head and straining against the rope.

  The stallion knew to brace against her weight. All Fargo had to do was keep the lariat taut. “Crown!” he yelled. “The calf! We can save us a lot of trouble.”

  Crown understood. He veered his bay toward it.

  This whole time, the calf hadn’t moved except to raise its head and bawl. It wanted its mother. It still didn’t move when Crown brought his bay to a sliding stop and sprang down. Only then did the calf turn to run but Crown dived and caught hold of its rear legs.

  The calf struggled and bleated, and the cow went berserk. She charged toward her offspring and was brought up short by the rope. This time she crashed down but she was immediately back up and bucking and fighting to break free.

  Crown had grabbed the calf’s front legs, too, and was trying to lift it.

  If Fargo had to guess, he’d say the calf wasn’t more than two or three weeks old, and weighed somewhere between seventy and a hundred pounds. That wasn’t a lot but the calf was doing all it could to resist being taken.

  Rafer Crown performed a feat Fargo had seen cowboys use. With a wrench on the calf’s legs, he upended it onto its back. Before the calf could try to kick free, he swung in a circle, and then another, raising the calf higher with each swing. At the apex of his second turn he took a long bound and swung the calf up and over his saddle as neatly as you please. Another bound, and Crown was in the saddle and holding the calf in place even as he hauled on his reins. “Got it!” he cried.

  Momentarily paralyzed with fright, the calf didn’t try to jump down.

  They had to get a rope on it fast, though.

  Fargo started toward Crown, thinking he’d have to pull the cow after him. But she came willingly, heading for the bay and her young one.

  Fargo was pleased at how well it had gone—for about ten seconds.

  That was when Glyn Richmond shouted, “Thunderhead is coming!”

  39

  Beckoning to Rafer Crown and Richmond, Fargo made for the right-hand canyon wall near the bend. He got there first and reined up.

  Crown was careful not to get too close to the cow. The calf continued to lie docile over the saddle. Part of it had to do with the fact that Crown wasn’t using his stirrups. He was sitting farther back on the saddle than he normally would and had one leg across the calf’s rear legs and his other leg over the calf’s front legs to hold it in place.

  The cow—Fargo kept forgetting that her name was Mabel—was being docile, too, staring forlornly at her calf.

  Glyn Richmond trotted up, saying, “What the hell are we doing? We should be riding for our lives.”

  “Right into Thunderhead?” Fargo said.

  “Use your damn noggin,” Crown said.<
br />
  “This worked once,” Fargo said. “It might work again.”

  “What worked?” Glyn asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Fargo’s explanation was nipped in the bud by the drumming of heavy hooves.

  Around the bend flew Thunderhead. He didn’t look to the right or left. His gaze was locked on the thicket, where he thought the cow and the calf were. Without slowing, he plunged into the trail to the center.

  “Quick,” Fargo said. “Before he discovers they’re gone. Rafer, you have to lead.”

  Crown gigged his bay and headed down the canyon.

  Without Fargo having to do a thing, Mabel headed after him.

  “I think I get what you’re up to,” Glyn said. “She’ll follow us anywhere so long as we have the calf. And Thunderhead will follow her.”

  “We hope,” Fargo said. Thunderhead might do as he had done on the long trek from Texas, or he might try to kill them.

  They hurried, each of them casting repeated glances back.

  When they were almost to the canyon mouth, Glyn looked back once more and said, “Dear God. I hope this plan of yours works or we’re dead.”

  Thunderhead was at the bend, staring after them. His head was high and he was turning it from side to side and sniffing.

  “Do we stop and wait to see what he’ll do?” Crown called.

  “We keep going,” Fargo said. To Glyn he said, “Go fetch your sister and Dirk Peters. Follow after us but stay a ways back.”

  “In case of the bull?”

  “In case of the bull.”

  Glyn nodded, and as soon as they were out of the canyon, he reined to the north and galloped off.

  Crown pointed the bay in the general direction of the far-off ranch. He still had his legs over the calf, which had twisted its head and was looking at its mother.

  Fargo let Mabel move closer to Crown’s bay, but not so close that she could gore it.

  The familiar drumming of hooves to their rear made Crown look back. “Get set. Here he comes.”

  The moment of truth was upon them.

  Fargo willed himself to stay calm as Thunderhead overtook them. He shifted in the saddle, his skin prickling as the bull moved past the Ovaro. Up close, the monster seemed even more gigantic.

  Thunderhead didn’t so much as glance at him. The bull had eyes only for Mabel. It came alongside her and slowed.

  Crown had one hand on a pistol. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s working.”

  It appeared to be. Mabel was following the calf and Thunderhead was glued to her.

  “Do you reckon he’ll let us lead him all the way down?” Crown asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Fargo said.

  For over an hour they worked their way lower. They saw no sign of the surviving Blackfeet or any of the other bull hunters. Not even the three they were looking for.

  Rafer Crown gave voice to Fargo’s own question. “Where the hell can they be? Dirk and those two should have been here by now. One of us should go look.”

  “We can’t stop yet,” Fargo said.

  “The farther we get . . .” Crown didn’t finish.

  “I know.”

  It was another half an hour before they reached the tree line. As much as Fargo wanted to push on, he took a gamble. He told Crown to rein up. When Crown complied, Mabel stopped, and when she stopped, Thunderhead halted.

  “I’ll be damned,” the bounty hunter said.

  Now came the part that could result in either or both of them being gored.

  Moving slowly so as not to agitate the bull, Fargo dismounted. He undid the rope from the saddle horn, stepped to a sizable spruce, and tied it off, leaving a good two feet at the end lying on the ground.

  Mabel had eyes only for her calf but Thunderhead watched everything Fargo did.

  “Easy does it,” Crown said.

  Drawing the Arkansas toothpick, Fargo cut off the two feet of rope and replaced the toothpick. He moved wide around the bull and the cow and approached the bay.

  The calf uttered a bleat of fear.

  Instantly, Fargo stopped. All it would take was for the cow to show alarm and Thunderhead might charge.

  Crown commenced stroking the calf’s neck and speaking softly, saying, “Stupid damn calf.”

  When Mabel didn’t act up, Fargo stepped to the bay and quickly fashioned a hobble that he slipped over the calf’s front legs.

  “Good idea,” Crown said.

  Reaching up, Fargo slid both arms under the calf, and when Crown eased his legs off, he carefully lowered it. The calf thrashed but only until its hooves touched the ground.

  Then it tried to bound to its mother but the hobble hampered it and it tripped and almost fell. Catching itself, it managed to reach her side.

  Thunderhead didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch an ear. All he did was stare.

  “That bull is spooky,” Crown said.

  Returning to the Ovaro, Fargo gripped the reins and led the stallion back a dozen yards.

  Crown reined around the bovine family and joined him.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, he said, “So far, so good.”

  “One of us has to stay with them and the other has to go see what’s keeping the others,” Fargo said.

  “I don’t mind staying. I don’t like that Glyn Richmond much.”

  “I noticed.”

  “He’s one of those as thinks he knows it all. They raise my hackles.”

  Fargo squinted at the sun. “I should be back before sundown.”

  “If nothing has happened.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” Fargo said, grinning.

  “Jinx, hell,” the bounty hunter said. “Whoever is killing us bull hunters is still out there. You and the others will be lucky to make it back alive.”

  40

  The hell of it was, Rafer Crown was right.

  Fargo rode alertly. He was concerned for Dirk Peters and Aramone. Glyn, he didn’t give a damn about.

  He was also concerned for Crown. So far Thunderhead had behaved but it wouldn’t take much to trigger the bull’s rage. By rights two or three of them should be watching over the longhorn at all times. If Crown wasn’t careful, he could wind up like those gored Blackfeet.

  It further reinforced Fargo’s decision that this was the first and last bull bounty he’d ever go after.

  He made a beeline for the firs where he’d left the others. Forty-five minutes of hard riding and he was there.

  He was surprised to see gray tendrils rising from the trees. They must still be there.

  One of them was.

  Dirk Peters lay where Fargo had last seen him. His wound had been bandaged and there was a tin cup near his outstretched good arm. His throat had been cut from ear to ear and his neck and buckskin shirt were scarlet with dried blood. His eyes were wide in surprise.

  It told Fargo that whoever killed him either snuck up on him, or it was someone Peters didn’t suspect would try to harm him.

  Alighting, Fargo palmed his Colt.

  There was no sign of Aramone or her brother, and all the horses were gone.

  The fire had burned almost out, so they had been gone a while.

  Fargo roved for sign. He found no footprints other than those of Peters and the Richmonds. A cold feeling came over him, as of an icy wind on a winter’s day.

  Hoofprints showed that the Richmonds had headed north.

  That was strange. The ranch was to the east. The canyon where Thunderhead and his family had hid was to the south.

  Why go north?

  Something else was strange.

  Aramone and Glyn rode so close together, their animals were practically brushing one another. They might have done that for a while to talk but they had gone on doing it for over a mile. It made Fargo
think of how cavalry troopers would bunch up in a column when hostiles threatened.

  It also made him wonder if the Blackfeet were still around. Thunderhead had chased them off but they might have returned.

  “Damn this bull business, anyhow,” he grumbled.

  Presently the tracks swung to the east and the spacing and depth revealed that the Richmonds had brought their horses to a trot.

  Fargo began to wonder if maybe the pair had killed Peters and were circling to overtake Crown and him.

  The Richmonds might intend to get ahead of them and wait in ambush. They could pick Crown and him off and have the bull and his family to themselves, and the bounty once they reached the Tyler spread.

  It puzzled Fargo, though, that they continued to ride so close together. And after only a quarter of a mile they had slowed to a walk again.

  It made no damn sense.

  When he heard voices, he drew rein. They came to him on the upslope wind from somewhere close by. Sliding down, he held the reins and stalked forward.

  Under different circumstances the mountain meadow rife with wildflowers would be picturesque. Now Fargo only had eyes for the pair seated by the fire they had just kindled.

  Beyond were the horses, picketed.

  Fargo couldn’t get over how brazen they were about it. It fueled his anger. They were huddled together, talking. Their backs were to him but now and then Glyn would look sharply around.

  The next time, as soon as Glyn lowered his head, Fargo walked into the open with his Colt level at his waist. He didn’t try to sneak up on them. He simply walked over. When one of his spurs jingled, they leaped to their feet and spun.

  “Skye!” Aramone happily exclaimed.

  “Are we glad to see you,” Glyn said, almost sounding sincere.

  Fargo pointed his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. “I liked Dirk Peters.”

  “What?” Glyn said.

  “No,” Aramone said. “You don’t think we did it?”

  “Yours are the only tracks.”

  “It wasn’t us,” Glyn said.