Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “You should keep on going, Jerrold,” Whirtle said. “For once one of us can get the better of Teague. I haven’t heard his gun go off yet.”

  Jerrold reined up and took an interest in Fargo. “Oh, I don’t care who wins. For me the fun is in the hunt itself.” He paused. “Who might your new acquaintance be?”

  “He hasn’t favored us with the information,” Whirtle said. “I thought it best to take him to camp so Beckman and Teague can decide what to do with him.”

  Fargo straightened. “Beckman? Sam Beckman? Is he the guide you mentioned a while ago?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  Quite well, Fargo thought to himself. Beckman was an old-timer who literally knew the Rockies like he did the back of his hand. A former trapper and mountain man who now made his living as a scout and guide, Beckman could still drink most anyone under the table and hold his own in wrestling matches with upstarts Jerrold’s age. “We’re old friends.”

  “Then he’ll be pleased to see you, laid up as he is,” Whirtle said.

  “What happened to him?”

  Whirtle opened his mouth to answer when suddenly more loud crashing erupted in the undergrowth, and the next moment into the clearing barreled the terror of the Rockies, a beast so formidable, a brute so savage, it was the one creature held in fear by all others: a grizzly.

  2

  “Don’t move!” Fargo yelled. It was a safe guess the griz had been drawn by the scent of the buck’s blood. All it was interested in was filling its belly. If no one interfered, it might be content to drag the buck off and leave them be.

  As grizzlies went, this one was puny. It wasn’t much more than a year old and not much larger than a large black bear. But it was still deadly dangerous, armed as it was with long teeth that could crush bone as easily as shred flesh, and with long claws that could disembowel an elk or a buffalo with one stroke of a powerful forepaw.

  For a few moments the tableau froze. Then the grizzly reared onto its hind legs and fastened its gaze on the buck. Whirtle, Link and Charley were imitating trees, Charley with his mouth agape in stark fear. The newcomers, Jerrold and his men, had tensed in their saddles.

  Fargo hoped no one would do anything stupid. Grizzlies were extremely hard to kill, even with heavy-caliber rifles. Their skulls were so thick, most slugs glanced off, and their vital organs were protected by thick layers of muscle and fat.

  The young grizzly grunted and took a shambling step toward the buck. Link began to slowly back away and Whirtle followed his lead. Charley, though, was too transfixed by fright to do more then mew like a terror-struck kitten.

  “Back off nice and slow,” Fargo whispered. Sudden movement nearly always triggered an attack.

  A wet stain began to spread down Charley’s pants as he shuffled backward, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  All was going well. Then the bear dropped onto all fours and growled, and one of the riderless horses whinnied and reared, causing another to nicker and bolt. Charley squawked and spun to flee but he had only taken a step when the grizzly was on him, its enormous jaws closing on his head with a loud crunch. His skull split like a rotten melon, oozing brains and gore.

  “No!” Whirtle shouted, and took quick aim.

  “Don’t shoot!” Fargo warned, but the Enfield boomed and the grizzly jerked to the impact. With a mighty roar, it charged. Link was nearest and whirled to escape but the bear bowled him over and brought a paw down on the back of his neck. The snap of Link’s spine was a testament to the bear’s incredible strength.

  Whirtle would be next. He was trying to reload but his gun had jammed. Backpedaling, he swore a lurid streak, oblivious to the ponderous advance of the enraged grizzly.

  “I’ll save you!” Jerrold declared, and reined his mount between Whirtle and the grizzly. His roan had other notions. Rearing, it flailed the air with its front hooves, momentarily giving the bear pause, then came down on all fours and fled into the trees with Jerrold furiously hauling on the reins, to no avail.

  It was up to Fargo. He must do something or Whirtle would end up like Link and Charley. Reining to the right, he applied his spurs and streaked within a few feet of the grizzly’s massive bulk. He shouted, “Try me!” as he swept by. The bear swung at the stallion’s legs and missed, then wheeled and came after them, its paws striking the ground with the cadence of heavy hammers.

  Breaking into a gallop, Fargo rode with all the skill at his command. He had no time to think, to plan, to do anything other than react to the many obstacles before him, everything from logs and thickets to giant boulders. The grizzly was glued to the Ovaro’s tail, its hunger forgotten in its vengeful thirst to inflict pain on the puny creatures who had inflicted pain on it.

  One factor was in Fargo’s favor. Grizzlies were immensely strong and unbelievably fast for their size, but they did not possess much stamina. They usually gave up after a short sprint.

  This one, though, showed no sign of slowing. It snapped at the pinto, missed, and snapped again.

  Glancing back, Fargo lashed his reins. He was so intent on the bear that he almost missed spotting a low limb. With a whisker’s width to spare he ducked under it. Ahead loomed a thicket. He reined left and had to vault a log. The Ovaro responded superbly but stumbled as they came down and for harrowing heartbeats Fargo thought he would be pitched to the earth in the bear’s path. Gripping the saddle horn, he managed to stay on.

  The undergrowth thinned and the Ovaro put on a burst of speed that left the grizzly growling into their dust in frustration. The bear came to a stop, lifted its muzzle to the canopy, and roared.

  Fargo slowed and circled wide to the left. What he did next depended on the griz. If it turned and made for the clearing he would yank his Henry from its saddle scabbard and bring the bear down. If not, if the bear went its own way, he would let it live. Granted, it had just slain two men, but he couldn’t fault an animal for being true to its nature.

  Fortunately, the bear had apparently forgotten about the buck. It headed south, its huge head low to the ground, its distinctive hump rippling with each ponderous stride.

  Clucking to the Ovaro, Fargo returned to the clearing. Jerrold was back, and had dismounted to watch the hired helpers who had ridden in with him dig graves for Link and Charley.

  An angry Garrick Whirtle was pacing back and forth and looked fit to bust. The moment the Ovaro broke from cover, he stalked over, saying, “We didn’t hear shots.”

  “I didn’t fire any,” Fargo said.

  “Why not?” Whirtle angrily jabbed a finger at the bodies. “They’re dead, and you let the beast that slew them get away? What manner of frontiersman are you?”

  Fargo didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Climbing down, he stood beside Jerrold, who was as pale as a bed sheet. “Ever seen a person killed before?”

  Jerrold swallowed hard. “No, can’t say as I have. Animals, yes, but never another human being.” He swallowed again and put a hand to his mouth. “It was horrible, Mr. Link’s brains squeezing out like they did.”

  Fargo had witnessed a lot worse. Unlike back East, where most enjoyed the luxury of dying peacefully in bed, death on the frontier was often swift and messy.

  “I wish I never let my brother talk me into coming along,” Jerrold remarked. “I never have enjoyed hunting as much as he does.”

  “Whirtle is your brother?”

  “No, not him.” Jerrold tore his gaze from the bear’s grisly handiwork and extended a hand. “Where are my manners? I’m Jerrold Synnet. My brother, Teague, organized this hunt. He’s the real sportsman in our family.”

  As Fargo introduced himself, Whirtle came up behind them. “Wait until your brother hears that this lout let the bear get away. He’ll be furious.”

  Slowly turning, Fargo locked eyes with him. “I wouldn’t call me that again if I were you.”

  “If the boot fits,” Whirtle said harshly, then sneered, “What will you do, you cowardly bumpkin? Ride off in a huff?”


  “This,” Fargo said, and punched him in the gut. The blow doubled Whirtle in half. “Only next time I won’t hold back.”

  Jerrold was shocked. The other two men stopped digging but made no attempt to intervene.

  Swearing viciously, Whirtle staggered and started to jam his rifle stock to his shoulder but thought better of using it when Fargo’s hand swooped to the Colt. “As God is my witness, you’ll regret that!”

  “Please!” Jerrold said. “This is no way to get along.”

  Whirtle glanced in disgust at the younger man. “Always the nice one. Always willing to bend over backwards. Why your brother insists on dragging you along, I will never know.” Hefting his Enfield, he stalked toward the horses.

  “Pay no attention to him,” Jerrold said to Fargo.

  “He’s had a chip on his shoulder ever since I can remember. Last year in Africa he beat one of our porters senseless for dropping a pack that contained his brandy. The year before that, in India, he kicked a beggar’s teeth in for refusing to take no for an answer.”

  “And he and your brother are good friends?” Fargo remembered Whirtle saying.

  Jerrold shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Our families have been close since before we were born. His father and ours went to Harvard together, and his father married my mother’s sister.” He abruptly turned toward the diggers. “Say, what are you doing there, Parker?”

  The man he had addressed was going through Link’s pockets. “Makin’ sure there’s nothin’ of value,” he answered.

  “I’ll have none of that,” Jerrold said. “Whatever he has on him will be buried with him. Is that clear?”

  Parker and the other man exchanged looks. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Synnet, but that would be a terrible waste. Link has no more use for his money or any of this other stuff.”

  “Have some respect for the dead,” Jerrold said. “How would you like it if I rummage through your clothes after you die?”

  “I wouldn’t care one bit,” Parker responded. “Just as Link, here, is in no shape to gripe if I relieve him of a few measly dollars.”

  Jerrold wagged a finger. “I won’t have it, do you hear me? You’re in our employ and you’ll do as I say.”

  For a moment Fargo thought Parker would hit Jerrold with the shovel. Instead, Parker rolled his eyes skyward and said, “You’re the boss. But don’t expect us to like it.”

  Garrick Whirtle had climbed on a sorrel. “I’m heading back,” he announced. “Bring my buck back with you.” He did not wait for a reply but reined sharply around and jabbed his spurs into the sorrel much harder than was called for.

  “He’ll be mad for a month,” Jerrold predicted. “I bet he’s going to fill my brother’s head with talk of how I took your side. Teague will be upset with me.”

  “You’re a grown man,” Fargo said. “You can do as you please.”

  “Not where my older brother is concerned. He always thinks he knows what is best for me, and everyone else.”

  “Stand up to him.”

  “I wish to heaven I had the courage,” Jerrold said softly. “But the truth is, Mr. Fargo, Teague has been telling me what to do since I was in diapers, and I always go along with whatever he wants. My sister does a better job of standing up to him than I do.”

  After that Jerrold had nothing to say until the bodies were buried and Parker was quartering the buck and wrapping the sections in the buck’s hide. “Are you planning to visit our camp?”

  Fargo had been debating whether to bother. With Whirtle gone, he might as well be on his own way. Instead he said, “I might as well. The sun will set in a couple of hours. I’ll stay the night and head out at first light.” Besides, he would like to see the women.

  “You’re more than welcome as far as I’m concerned,” Jerrold said. “But you’ll need Teague’s permission and he’s not liable to give it if he’s in one of his moods.”

  “I’ll chance it,” Fargo said.

  Soon Parker and the other man were ready to depart. Jerrold assumed the lead and Fargo brought the Ovaro up alongside him. “Mind if I ask a few questions?” There were a few things he would like to learn.

  “Go right ahead.” Jerrold gazed toward the smoke from the distant campfire and gnawed on his lower lip.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “If by ‘here’ you mean these mountains, about a week. If you mean out West, we left Fort Laramie three weeks ago. That’s where we hired Mr. Beckman. The colonel at the post assured us Beckman is one of the most reliable guides around.”

  “That he is,” Fargo confirmed. They had worked together on many an occasion scouting for the army, and Beckman had earned his highest respect. Not many could make that claim.

  “In a day or two my brother plans to leave our base camp and head up into the high country.” Jerrold indicated a line of rugged peaks. “The Gros Ventre Mountains, I believe Mr. Beckman called them.”

  Fargo frowned. It was a range rarely visited by whites. The Gros Ventre tribe were not all that friendly, and the Blackfeet regularly crossed the range to prey on their many enemies to the south and south-west. It was no place for anyone who was green as grass, and he said so.

  “Whatever you do, don’t repeat that to my brother,” Jerrold cautioned. “He prides himself on being a consummate woodsman. He also boxed while at Harvard and is not above thrashing anyone who angers him.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Fargo said.

  “A lot of others have thought the same and wound up with a broken jaw or busted ribs. You wouldn’t guess it to look at him but my brother is as strong as a bull,” Jerrold proudly stated.

  A glimmer of water diverted Fargo’s attention to a pristine stream. It was the first water he had come on since yesterday afternoon, and he reined toward it, saying, “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.” Shadows dappled him as he passed through a stand of cottonwoods. He was a dozen feet from the water’s edge when merry laughter fell on his ears and he glimpsed several shapely figures cavorting in a small pool a dozen yards upstream.

  Three women, as naked as the day they came into the world, were splashing and playing and having the time of their lives.

  Reining up, Fargo peered through the branches. One was a brunette, another a blonde, the third a redhead. All three were uncommonly attractive. The brunette had an oval face with a button nose, the blonde high cheekbones and full lips, the redhead beautiful green eyes that flashed as she played.

  Fargo felt himself stir, low down, and inwardly smiled. He would like to make their acquaintance. Maybe entice one into taking a moonlit stroll later.

  The crack of a twig warned Fargo he wasn’t alone. Twisting in the saddle, he beheld a fourth woman. Her long, lustrous hair was raven black, her exquisite bare body glistened with a sheen of water. He had not noticed her climb from the stream, or pick up a broken limb which she now raised on high.

  “Have a good look, did you?” the beauty snapped.

  “Wait!’ Fargo said, wanting to explain why he was there, but she was not inclined to listen. Taking a step, she swung the branch at his head.

  3

  Fargo ducked but the branch struck him a glancing blow across the temple that sent his hat flying and his temper flaring. Diving from the saddle as she began to swing again, he tackled her about the waist. Where most women would scream or squeal, she snarled like a bobcat, let go of the branch, and clawed at his face and neck. Fargo tried to seize her wrists but she had just climbed out of the water and was as slippery as an eel.

  “I’ll scratch your eyes out!” she raged, struggling furiously.

  Pain lanced Fargo’s cheek. She had missed his left eye by a fraction. Twisting his neck from side to side, he rolled her under him. He intended to pin her and hold her still but more pain exploded, this time in his groin. She had kneed him between the legs.

  Locked together, they rolled wildly about. They collided with a tree, then a bush, and then grass was under them and they were
tumbling down a bank.

  Fargo clamped hold of her left wrist just as the bank came to an abrupt end. There was the sensation of falling, then the cold, wet jolt of being enveloped in water as they landed in the stream with a giant splash. It was shallow where they hit, and since he was underneath her when they fell, he bore the brunt with his shoulder. He felt her fingers on his throat and her knee on his chest, and he realized she was trying to hold him under so he would drown.

  Heaving up with all his might, Fargo flung her off and rose to his knees. The water came only as high as his waist. She broke the surface in front of him, sputtering and hissing, her wet breasts heaving. Even then, even as she raked her nails at his eyes again, Fargo could not help noticing how full and firm her breasts were, and how hard and erect her nipples had become. “Wait! We can talk this out!”

  “Like hell!” she declared, hunching forward to come at him again. “Everyone was warned what would happen if you didn’t respect our privacy!”

  Catching her arm as it descended, Fargo gave a sharp wrench and was rewarded with a yelp. Swiftly, he spun her halfway around and bent her arm behind her back. “You think I’m one of the hired hands? Take another gander, lady.”

  She wasn’t inclined to listen. Thrashing and kicking, she swung her free arm again and again but could not connect. Finally she subsided and looked at him and a puzzled expression came over her. “Wait a minute. I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I just rode in with Jerrold Synnet,” Fargo said, and introduced himself. “I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you but so far it’s been nothing but a pain.”

  She started to grin, caught herself, and tugged on her arm. “Let me go, damn it! I don’t care who you are. You shouldn’t have been spying on us.”

  “If you’ll let me explain,” Fargo said, releasing her. At the same instant, he heard the metallic rasp of a rifle from the bank. The blonde was there, bare-skinned and luscious—and pointing a cocked rifle at him.

  “Don’t shoot, Shelly!” the raven-tressed firebrand cried out. “It might not be what we think.”