Black Hills Badman

by Jon Sharpe

  “Take your hand off your revolver.”

  Forcing a crooked grin, Owen obeyed. “I wouldn’t really have drawn on you. I was mad, is all, you slugging me like that.”

  “When you go around insulting people that’s what happens.” Fargo let down the hammer and twirled the Colt into his holster.

  Senator Keever stood. “Enough of this. I hired the two of you and I expect you to get along. Mr. Fargo, I’ve noticed that you’re not overly fond of Mr. Owen. Mr. Owen, I’m aware that you don’t think highly of Mr. Fargo. Whatever the cause of this silliness, either behave like adults or leave my employ.”

  “I’m all for getting along with folks,” Owen said.

  Fargo almost laughed in his face. Owen was the kind to smile while stabbing a person in the back. If ever there was such a thing as a human sidewinder, Lem Owen filled the bill.

  “Mr. Fargo?” the senator prompted.

  “What?”

  “Your turn. Do you agree to get along with Mr. Owen for the duration of our hunt?”

  “So long as he doesn’t insult me, we’ll get along fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Keever said curtly. “I want your word that you will be on your best behavior.”

  “I’ll do as I damn well please.” Fargo took a step and poked Owen in the chest. “And so long as I’m guiding this outfit, I don’t want any more guff out of you.”

  “Or what? You’d cut me loose in Sioux country? That’s not very white of you.”

  Fargo almost hit him a second time.

  “If word got out that you abandoned a white man in the Black Hills, there’s not a soul alive who would hire you.”

  Senator Keever was staring in the direction of the black bear. “Look at what your bickering has done. You’ve made me lose my shot. The bear has gone into cover. We’ll have to follow it in.”

  Up ahead, an isolated bluff was fringed by woodland. The undergrowth was particularly thick. Somewhere in there was their quarry.

  They climbed on their mounts and rode to within fifty yards of the woods. Fargo dismounted, saying, “I’ll come with you, Senator. Owen and Lichen will watch the horses.” The Sioux were as fond of stealing horses as they were of counting coup.

  “It’ll take forever to flush that bear with just the two of you,” Owen objected.

  “An excellent point,” Senator Keever agreed. “You may tag along. But remember what I said about behaving.”

  Fargo shucked his Henry from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.

  Owen had a .58 caliber rifle made by Parker, Snow and Company. They were supposedly accurate as could be but were single-shot.

  The senator was wiping dust from his Whitworth. “Shall we bait the beast, gentlemen?” He grinned and made for the trees.

  “We should stick together,” Fargo proposed. For two reasons. First, he wanted Owen where he could see him; rumor had it that Owen wasn’t above shooting people he disliked in the back. Second, he had yet to take the senator’s measure as a hunter. Keever might have nerves of iron—or he might be prone to panic if the bear charged.

  “Whatever for?” was the senator’s reply. “We’re all of us armed, and good shots. We can cover more ground by separating.” As he spoke he bore to the right. “Good luck.”

  Owen bore to the left.

  Leaving Fargo to stop and stare after them in mild frustration. Since arguing was pointless, he shrugged and made for the bluff.

  That was the thing with guide work. Sometimes those he guided had enough sense to listen. Others were jackasses and did as they pleased, and often as not paid a high price for their folly.

  The woods were alive with wildlife. A robin warbled high in an oak. Sparrows flitted gaily. A ribbon snake crawled off at his approach, and shortly thereafter a wasp buzzed his ear. Tracks showed there were deer to be had. Larger prints were courtesy of elk.

  Above the forest canopy reared the bluff. Long ago part of the near side had broken away, creating a slope littered with boulders. It went almost to the top. From up there a man would have a good view of the entire woods.

  Fargo had lost sight of the senator and Owen. The skin between his shoulder blades prickling, he moved silently, alert for sign of them, especially Lem Owen. A twig crunched off to his left.

  Instantly, Fargo crouched and tucked the Henry to his shoulder. It could be anything but he wasn’t taking chances. He waited with the patience of an Apache for what or who to show it—or him—self, but nothing appeared. Warily, he stalked on.

  Fargo wasn’t too worried about the bear. Black bears usually avoided people. Likely as not, it would run when it saw them. But there was that one time in ten when black bears proved they could be as ferocious as grizzlies.

  Close up, the bluff was gigantic. Fargo stepped from the trees and craned his neck. It was a two-hundred-foot climb, at least. He started up, glancing over his shoulder every few yards, just in case. At one point he thought he glimpsed someone off among the trees to the right; that would be the senator.

  Gusts of wind stirred the whangs on Fargo’s buckskins. He came to a flat boulder about waist high and climbed up for a look-see. He was higher than the tops of the trees and could see Lichen and the horses. But of Keever and Owen, there was no sign.

  Hopping down, Fargo resumed climbing. The higher he went, the steeper it became. Loose dirt dribbled from under his boots. Dislodged stones rattled. He skirted several boulders and was within a pebble’s toss of the top when a crow took wing from the woods below, cawing loudly. He looked, but whatever startled it into flight was well hidden.

  The slope ended five feet below the rim. Raising both arms, Fargo slid the Henry over, then jumped, hooked his elbows, and with a lithe swing, gained the summit. He picked up the Henry as he rose. The top of the bluff was as flat as a flapjack and dotted with slabs of rock the size of covered wagons.

  The view was spectacular. Prairie surrounded the hub of woodland for as far as the eye could see to the east, west, and south. To the north were the Black Hills.

  Fargo walked along the rim, scouring the vegetation below. He saw Keever moving through dense growth. He didn’t spot Owen. He was bending for a better look when something buzzed his ear. This time it wasn’t a wasp. It was an arrow, and it came from behind him.

  Diving flat, Fargo twisted and brought the Henry up. A shadow dappled one of the slabs, moving away from him.

  Heaving upright, Fargo gave cautious chase. The warrior who loosed the shaft might have friends.

  Rock slabs were all around. In the dust was the clear imprint of a foot clad in a moccasin.

  Fargo wondered how the warrior got up there. He hadn’t seen tracks on the slope. His back to a slab, he sidled to the other side. Then it was on to the next. It was slow going. Eventually, near the opposite rim, the boulders ended. Crouching, he peered over.

  This side wasn’t as steep. A well-defined game trail wound to the bottom. Almost to the end of it was a lone warrior on horseback. The style of his hair and his buckskins warned Fargo the man was a member of the one tribe he wanted to avoid: the Sioux. The warrior glanced up and smiled in grim defiance. Then he used a quirt on his mount.

  “Damn.”

  Fargo jerked the Henry to his shoulder. He had time for one clear shot. He fixed a bead on the center of the warrior’s back—and couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Fargo never liked to back shoot. Yes, the warrior tried to kill him, but he was white, and an invader.

  Lowering the Henry, Fargo stood there until the warrior and his mount were specks on the horizon. Then he retraced his steps.

  Keever had disappeared again.

  Owen might as well be invisible.

  Fargo thought he had spotted one or the other in the middle of the woods. But it was something else, a black mass that detached itself from a patch of shadow Its shape left no doubt. The black bear had been lying up in a thicket but now it was on the move. Its head was low to the ground as if it were sniffing—or stalking.
/>   Fargo leaned farther out.

  Senator Keever was twenty yards from the bruin, blissfully unaware of his danger. The bear, though, now had its eyes locked on him.

  Cupping a hand to his mouth to shout a warning, Fargo took one more step. The next moment the ground gave out under him and he plummeted over the edge.

  4

  An outcropping swept toward him. Instinctively, Fargo grabbed at it and was brought up short. The jolt nearly tore his arm from the socket. He couldn’t use his other hand, though; he was holding the Henry and refused to let it go, no matter what.

  His body dangling, Fargo looked down. He had to be a hundred and eighty feet above the ground, if not more. It was a straight drop to boulders at the bottom. He wouldn’t survive the fall.

  Fargo tried to brace his feet against the cliff. He jabbed with his toes, seeking a crack or a hole that would bear his weight, but try as he might he couldn’t gain purchase. His boots kept slipping. Each time they did, he nearly lost his grip.

  As it was, Fargo’s shoulder was screaming for relief and his arm was in agony. He couldn’t hold on much longer.

  The seconds crawled into a minute. His fingers began to weaken. Gritting his teeth, he clamped on harder. He refused to give up. Death might claim him but not without a struggle.

  It was then that a strange thing happened. A pair of buckskin pants came sailing over the edge and smacked the cliff next to him. He blinked in surprise, and saw that the pants were tied to a buckskin shirt. From above came a voice, the last voice in the world he expected to hear.

  “Hook your rifle to the belt!”

  A belt was secured to the end of the pant leg, and a loop had been rigged for the Henry. But could Fargo do it one-handed? He tried three times before he succeeded in sliding the barrel through the loop as far as the breech. It wasn’t snug but it would have to do.

  “Let go and I’ll pull it up!”

  Fargo glanced up. The face peering down at him showed concern, which in itself was remarkable. He nodded and released the Henry, then gripped the outcropping with both hands.

  The pants rose, taking the rifle with them. For a few anxious moments he feared it would slip out and drop and be shattered, but no, his rescuer got it up and over.

  “Your turn! Watch the knot!”

  Down came the pants/shirt/belt “rope.” The knot, where the pants were tied to the shirt, bulged like a fist. Would it hold? Fargo took the gamble. He grabbed the pants with one hand and then the other. The knot started to slip. He could see it shrinking. He tensed, thinking it would come undone, but just when it seemed his luck had run out, the knot caught.

  “Hang on! Try not to move too much!”

  Fargo rose, but oh-so-slowly. It had to be hard on the man pulling him. And the man had to be strong. Stronger than he thought.

  Inch by snail-paced inch, Fargo was hiked higher until he was close enough to the rim to touch it. A brawny hand was lowered and iron fingers gripped his wrist.

  “Get ready.”

  Fargo was yanked upward. He flung his arms nd over, wedged his elbows on the rim, and swung onto his knees.

  “Finally.” Lem Owen was in the dirtiest pair of long underwear any human ever wore. He lay on his back, puffing from his exertion, his bare feet bleeding where he had pressed them against the rocks.

  “I’m obliged.”

  Owen waved a hand as if to say it was nothing.

  “I mean it,” Fargo said. Here he thought the man hated him, and Owen went and saved his life.

  Owen grinned between gasps. “I never got undressed so fast in my life. But I couldn’t think of what else to do. I didn’t have a rope.”

  “I’m in your debt.”

  “Us white men have to stick together,” Owen joked, then said, “Besides, the senator wouldn’t like it if you were to get yourself killed.”

  Fargo pushed to his feet and turned to peer over the cliff. This time he was careful not to step too close to the edge.

  “What is it?” Owen asked, sitting up.

  “The last I saw, the black bear was stalking him.” Fargo saw no sign of the politician or the beast. He unhooked his Henry from Owen’s belt, tossed Owen his clothes, and bolted for the slope. He barely reached it when a tremendous roar rose from below, followed by the crack of a shot.

  Fargo descended as fast as was safe. It was so steep, a single misstep would send him tumbling. He was breathing hard when he came to the bottom and flew in among the trees. “Keever! Where are you?”

  There was no answer.

  Fargo began moving in ever wider circles, seeking some sign. He kept calling out the senator’s name. Then he rounded a pine and came on a small clearing and two still forms. “Damn.”

  The black bear was sprawled on its belly. Its head was bent to one side, ringed by a scarlet pool, and its long tongue lay limp over its lower teeth. From under the bear poked a pair of legs—human legs.

  Fargo warily circled around. Keever’s head and part of a shoulder jutted from under the other side of the bear. The senator’s eyes were closed and he didn’t appear to be breathing.

  “Son of a bitch.” Fargo poked the black bear with the Henry. It appeared to be dead. Kneeling, he clasped Keever’s wrist to feel for a pulse.

  Senator Keever’s eyes snapped open. “About time someone got here. Where have you been?”

  “I had problems of my own.” Fargo bent to try to see the senator’s chest. He envisioned clawed and torn flesh, the ribs exposed, and worse.

  “I can hardly breathe but otherwise I feel fine.” Keever struggled to move. “Get this brute off me, will you?”

  The bear had to weigh upward of five hundred pounds. Fargo drew his Colt and placed it in the senator’s hand.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Until I get back. I don’t see your rifle anywhere.” Fargo rose and dashed across the clearing.

  “Wait! Don’t leave me like this! Where are you going?”

  “To get help.” Fargo ran faster. He didn’t like leaving the senator alone but he couldn’t lift the bear by himself. He doubted he could get it off even if Owen helped. So he ran, and when at last he broke from the trees, Lichen and the horses were where they should be. He wasted no time in explanations but swung onto the Ovaro and told Lichen to bring the others. A rake of his spurs, and he galloped back into the woods.

  Keever had company. Owen was hunkered next to him and they were talking heatedly about something but stopped when Fargo burst into the clearing. He drew rein so hard that the stallion slid to a stop. Vaulting down, he had his rope in hand when he reached the bear.

  “So that’s where you went,” Keever said.

  Owen was dressed again. He gave the bear a smack, and grinned. “Can you believe this? Pinned under a bear! He’ll be the laughingstock of all his high and mighty friends if they hear of it.”

  “Which they never will,” Keever said harshly. “I’m relying on your discretion, the both of you.”

  Owen snorted. “Hell, I don’t even know what that is. But if you want me to keep my mouth shut, I will. For an extra hundred dollars.”

  “Is that all you ever think of? Money?”

  “I think of women a lot. But the kind of women I like takes money to get to know. That hundred dollars won’t buy me but two nights of heaven. I can always use more.”

  Fargo was walking around the black bear. It was obvious the senator wasn’t gravely hurt. But if they weren’t careful about how they got the bear off, he might be. Fargo stepped to where one of the bear’s rear legs protruded and began tying the rope as tight as he could.

  Lem Owen came around. “I savvy what you’re up to. Two horses would be better. I’ll fetch mine.”

  Just then Lichen arrived with the rest. Owen climbed on his animal, uncoiled his rope, and tossed an end to Fargo. Fargo tied it to the bear’s other rear leg, then swung onto the Ovaro and lifted the reins.

  “Nice and easy does it.”

  Senator Keever called out, �
��What are you two up to? I can’t see from here. The bear’s backside is in the way.”

  “Hold real still,” Fargo cautioned. “We’re about to drag the bear off you.”

  Owen laughed. “Say, Senator? When we start pulling, watch out that the bear doesn’t snag a tooth or claw. You could lose skin, or maybe what you used to bring your little Gerty into the world.”

  Fargo was surprised Keever didn’t take exception. Turning the Ovaro broadside to the bear, he dallied the rope around the saddle and glanced at Owen, who had done the same with his. “Ready? On the count of three.”

  The Ovaro and the dun strained and the ropes grew taut. Bit by bit the bear slid backward. Its open mouth and head left blood and fluid on the senator’s shirt and jacket.

  Keever was a statue. His rifle, it turned out, was next to him. He didn’t move until the bear’s head slid over his ankles. Then he rose on his elbows and looked down at him self. “I appear to be no worse for wear. But my clothes are a terrible mess.”

  “You were damned lucky,” Owen said. “A black bear ain’t a griz but it can rip a man apart without half trying.”

  Fargo climbed down. He offered his hand and helped the senator to stand. There were no bite marks, no cuts, not so much as a tear in the senator’s clothes. He nodded at the dead bruin. “Mind telling us what happened?”

  “Not at all.” Keever commenced brushing himself off. “It tried to sneak up on me but I heard it. When it charged, I shot it in the head. But the beast was so close, it rammed into me before I could get out of the way and fell on top of me.”

  Fargo reconstructed the event in his mind. “So the bear was almost on top of you when you heard it?”

  “Actually, it was in the trees there.” Keever pointed at the woods. “I heard it when it stepped on a downed tree limb and the limb broke.”

  Fargo calculated the distance. “That’s a good thirty feet.”

  “More like forty.” Keever smoothed his bloodstained jacket and ran a hand through his hair. “How do I look?”

  “Wait a minute.” Fargo needed to hear more. Something wasn’t adding up. “The bear was forty feet off when it charged? And you only got off one shot? How close was it when you fired?”