Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “Now, now,” Teague said. “According to Mr. Beckman, there isn’t a man alive who knows these mountains better. Fargo’s knowledge might prove of benefit.”

  “So we excuse what he just did to Garrick and Melantha?” Anson swore lividly. “There are times, Teague, when I don’t understand you. Not one little bit.”

  “What is there to understand?” Teague asked. “The hunt always comes before all else. You know that. And Fargo here is essential to the success of our latest. So, yes, we forgive and forget.”

  “Like hell,” Anson said, and stomped off.

  Teague found that humorous. “You certainly have a flair for making friends. At the rate you’re going, everyone will despise you by the fourth day.”

  “Including you?” Fargo said.

  “Unlike my associates, I never let emotion cloud my judgement,” Teague boasted. “It’s a childish trait, worthy of women but not men. Every decision I make, everything I do, is based on clear, precise logic.”

  The man sure was fond of himself, Fargo mused. He went and sat on a log and munched on jerky. It was a good two minutes before Melantha and Susan revived Garrick and he marched over to Teague to vent his spleen. Whatever Teague said made Garrick only angrier.

  Fargo was checking his cinch, about to announce they should mount up, when Jerrold Synnet approached.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “So long as it’s not personal.” Fargo figured it would have something to do with Garrick or Melantha.

  “Why did you agree to be our guide? I know you don’t like several of us. If it’s the women, you should rethink your decision. Melantha is mad as hell at you, and she and Susan just begged my brother to send you packing.”

  Fargo stepped into the stirrups and regarded the younger man a moment. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Me?” Jerrold said. “My opinion never counts for much of anything. My brother always makes the decisions.”

  Bending over the saddle horn, Fargo said, “I don’t care what your brother wants. I want to know what you think. Do you reckon it’s best I go?”

  Jerrold checked that no one was within earshot. “No, I don’t. I’ve had a lot of talks with your friend, Mr. Beckman, and I’m convinced we might be getting in over our heads. Frankly, I’m glad you’re along, even if Garrick and Horner aren’t.”

  “Horner?”

  Jerrold pointed at a chunky block of muscle over with the rest of the hired helpers. “That’s him, there. He’s in charge of the pack string. I overheard him telling the others that we can get by without you.”

  Now why would Horner do a thing like that? Fargo wondered. He had never so much as spoken to the man. Was Horner a friend of Campbell’s, nursing a grudge over Campbell’s death? Another potential enemy to add to the list, and the day wasn’t half over. Rising in the stirrups, he bellowed, “Mount up! We’re heading out!” Then he reined around and waited for the line to form.

  No sooner did they get underway than Leslie brought her mare up alongside the Ovaro. She rode superbly, straddling her saddle as a man would, unlike her friends, who all rode sidesaddle. “Melantha is very unhappy with you.”

  “Melantha can ride off a cliff,” Fargo said.

  “Is it me or is someone in a surly mood today?” Leslie chuckled, then became serious. “Is it true what she said? That you’ve slept with squaws?”

  “Calling an Indian woman a squaw is the same as calling you a bitch. They consider it an insult.”

  Leslie chuckled again. “But I am a bitch. A pampered selfish bitch, no less, and damn proud of it.”

  Despite himself, Fargo grinned. “Yes, I’ve been with a few Indian women. What of it? Are you like Melantha?”

  “Hardly. When I was little, my mother hired a new nanny. A lady from Mexico. She was the sweetest person I’ve ever met. Maria never lost her temper or had a mean word for anyone. I learned a lot from her.”

  “Such as?” Fargo prodded.

  “Such as it’s not the color of a person’s skin that counts, it’s what is on the inside,” Leslie said.

  Fargo studied her anew. She surprised him. He would not mind getting to know her better before the hunt was over. “Remind your friends not to stray once we’re up in the mountains. All it takes is one mistake.”

  “What are we to you that you care so much?” Leslie bluntly asked.

  “That’s a popular question today,” Fargo said.

  “Is it Shelly? She says the two of you fooled around in the woods, and keeps going on and on about how wonderful you are. But she brags about all her lovers, so it’s hard to tell when she’s telling the truth or making it up.”

  “I’m here,” Fargo said. “That should be enough.”

  “Fine. Then permit me to say how glad I am you decided to join us. I love my big brother dearly but he has put us in some dangerous situations. Like the time our canoe was nearly tipped over by hippos. Or the time a charging water buffalo missed my horse by inches. And those are just two incidents from among many. Unlike Teague, there are limits to how much excitement I want in my life.”

  “What about all that tough talk back at camp?”

  “I still think we can handle anything that comes along,” Leslie said. “But it’s comforting to know we can rely on you if we have to.” She smiled and reined the mare around to rejoin her friends.

  Fargo had a lot to think about over the next several hours. Twice he noticed Leslie staring at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And whenever he shifted in the saddle to ensure no one was straggling, Shelly would grin and wave and once went so far as to blow him a quick kiss. Thankfully, no one else saw her.

  Melantha, on the other hand, gave him the kind of looks a mountain lion might give a buck it was determined to bring down.

  By late afternoon they were climbing steadily. The slopes were steep but not yet as severe as they would be, and already some of the horses were laboring. Fargo came to a shelf and drew rein to check on the packhorses at the rear, which were struggling the hardest.

  Movement far below alerted him to a shadowy rider maybe a mile back, winding higher smack on their trail.

  As if Fargo did not have enough to worry about, now someone was shadowing them.

  9

  The spot Fargo chose for their night camp was not ideal but it would do, midway up a wooded slope where the ground leveled and the vegetation thinned. There was barely enough space but they were screened from the wind, and the two small fires he permitted could not be seen from any great distance.

  “Why must our fires be so small?” Garrick Whirtle complained, pointing at a mound of sticks and broken branches that was sending thin wisps of smoke into the twilight sky. “It will take forever to roast that buck you shot.”

  “If a war party does spot them, they might mistake us for Indians and leave us be,” Fargo explained.

  “I don’t understand.” This from Anson Landers.

  “Indians always make small fires. Whites usually build big fires,” Fargo enlightened him. “One tribe even has a saying that when a white man makes a fire, he wastes half a tree.”

  “So building a small fire is safer?” Leslie said. She and the other women were seated on folded blankets, their faces rosy in the dancing glow of the crackling flames.

  Around the other fire sat the hired helpers, speaking in hushed voices.

  “What I want to know,” Teague Synnet said, “is how long it will take us to reach prime elk country?”

  “Two more days should be enough,” Fargo answered. By then they would be high up in the mountains, and totally on their own should they be attacked.

  “I can’t wait for the contest to begin,” Garrick said, rubbing his hands together. “This time the five thousand will be mine.”

  Fargo glanced at Teague. “What kind of contest?”

  “We like to wager on the outcome of our hunts. In Africa we bet to see who would bag the biggest rhino. In India we had a contest to see which one of us
would get his tiger first.”

  “This time whoever shoots the largest elk wins?” Fargo guessed.

  “Something like that,” Teague replied.

  A figure detached itself from the other fire and came over. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Synnet, sir, but we were wonderin’ about the extra money you said you would give to those of us who came along.”

  “What about it, Horner?” Teague had an edge to his voice. “I always keep my word.”

  “I’m sure you do, sir,” Horner said. “It’s just that the boys and me were wonderin’ if we could be paid now instead of when we get back to civilization?”

  “You agreed to my terms before you signed on,” Teague said. “Everyone will be paid after we return to Fort Laramie, not before.”

  “I know, I know. But we’d like to play cards tonight and some of us are short on bettin’ money.”

  “Another of my conditions is no gambling,” Teague reminded him. “Go inform the others they will behave or their services will be terminated.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” Horner said, and walked to the other fire.

  Garrick Whirtle snickered. “The gall of some of these buffoons. To come groveling for money like that.”

  “Teague put him in his place,” Anson said. “They must constantly be reminded who is in charge, and he’s just the man to do it.”

  Fargo couldn’t help wondering if there was more to it than that. Since Teague had made it clear from the beginning they would not be paid until the hunt was over, asking for the extra pay made no sense. But he didn’t give it much thought. He had another matter on his mind. “Is anyone from the base camp supposed to join us later?”

  “Not that I know of,” Leslie said, and looked at her older brother.

  “I gave explicit orders for no one to stray off while we’re gone,” Teague said. “Why?”

  “No reason,” Fargo said. It had occurred to him that maybe the rider he saw wasn’t a white man at all. In which case he shouldn’t unduly alarm them until he was sure.

  Shelly was gazing skyward. “The stars sure are pretty here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many at one time.”

  “I like the bracing air,” Leslie said. “It’s hardly ever humid. Remember how hot and terrible it was in India? We couldn’t go an hour without sweating so badly our clothes were wet rags.”

  Fargo had no interest in hearing more about their travels. Rising, he excused himself and walked to the second fire. Few of the ten faces raised to him were friendly. “Have you done as I told you?”

  Horner had been whispering to another man but stopped. “You bet. Two of us will be on watch at all times. Two-hour shifts, as you wanted, so everyone can get some sleep.”

  “Good,” Fargo said.

  “Before you walk off,” Horner hastily added, “I was curious how far you’re willing to go for our lords and masters?”

  Now it was Fargo who was not sure he understood, and said so.

  “What I mean,” Horner slowly said, “is what will you do if we’re attacked by Injuns? Light a shuck for safer pastures or fight to save them?”

  “I’ve agreed to be their guide,” Fargo said. “It’s my responsibility to keep them safe. I won’t let them come to harm if I can help it.”

  “I was afraid you would say that,” Horner said, and sighed. “But just so you know, me and some of the others don’t share your devotion. Those Easterners mean nothin’ to us. We’re not going to be turned into pincushions on their account.”

  “Don’t take it personal,” another man said. “But they can’t pay us enough to die for them.”

  “What about the women?” Fargo asked.

  “What about them?” Horner rejoined. “No one forced those prissy fillies to come along. They’ve brought whatever happens down on their own heads.”

  Several of the men nodded or grunted in agreement.

  One commented, “Some of us have wives and kids who would like to see us again. And we aim to accommodate them.”

  “That, too, Gus,” Horner said. Then, to Fargo, “I hope you won’t hold it against us for being honest with you.”

  “I won’t,” Fargo said. But he wasn’t being entirely honest with them. Any man who would run out on others in need wasn’t much of a man, in his estimation. Cowardice was cowardice no matter how it was sugarcoated.

  Right now, though, Fargo had the other business to attend to. He bent his boots to the Ovaro. He had picketed it close to his bedroll so he would know right away if someone tried to steal it. Some tribes, the Blackfeet among them, rated stealing a horse as high a coup as taking an enemy’s life. After slipping the bridle on, he threw the saddle blanket over the stallion’s broad back.

  The three Synnets could not contain their curiosity and drifted over. As Fargo bent to pick up his saddle, Teague asked the obvious.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Jerrold was clearly worried. “You’re not leaving us, are you?”

  “We’re doing everything you’ve asked of us,” Leslie said. “What more could you want?”

  Fargo aligned the saddle and adjusted the blanket. “I need to scout around a spell. I should be back by midnight.”

  “Scout around in the dark?” Teague was skeptical.

  “A campfire can be seen from a long ways off,” Fargo said. “If we’re not alone up here, it’s better we find out now rather than later.”

  “Oh,” Teague said. “I admire your zeal. By all means, scout around. If you like, one of us will go with you.”

  “I’ll do fine alone.” Fargo was soon mounted and threading through dense woodland. Riding at night was always risky, not so much for the rider as for the horse. A thousand and one obstacles had to be avoided. Night was also when most predators were abroad. Most of the time they avoided humans, but not always, and the exceptions could prove fatal.

  Fargo had a specific spot in mind, a rise they had crossed about four that afternoon. From it, he would have a sweeping vista of the surrounding countryside.

  A sudden guttural cough brought Fargo to a stop. Past a thicket on his right lurked a bear that had caught his scent. He hoped it was a black bear, and that it would make itself scarce. The cough was repeated, only nearer. The next moment a squat shape materialized out of the darkness and reared onto its hind legs.

  Fargo heard the beast sniff a few times. Judging by its size, it was either an old black bear or a young grizzly, maybe even the same one that killed Link and Charley. Moving slowly so as not to provoke it, he slid the Henry from its scabbard and fed a round into the chamber.

  Suddenly the bear snorted, dropped onto all fours, and wheeled. As it barreled off into the brush, Fargo noted the absence of a hump. He listened until the crashing and snapping faded, then slid the rifle back into its scabbard and clucked to the Ovaro. “Nice and slow, boy,” he said aloud.

  It was a good hour before Fargo reached the rise. Rising in the stirrups, he scoured the night, the wind whipping the whangs on his buckskins. Miles below, in the valley, glowed the campfires of the main camp. No others were visible. Not the faintest flicker anywhere. If someone was shadowing them, the shadower was too savvy to give himself away.

  Fargo lingered on the rise. He was in no hurry to get back. He’d had his fill of Garrick’s and Melantha’s resentful glares, and Teague’s better-than-everyone-else attitude. Half an hour of peace and quiet would be nice.

  About to climb down, Fargo stiffened. From out of the woods came the slow clomp of heavy hooves. But not from below, as he expected. It came from above. Drawing the Colt, he reined into the trees and halted in an inky patch between two towering pines. The hooves came closer and closer, and a silhouette was framed against the backdrop of vegetation.

  Fargo took aim, then lowered the revolver. He had heard the creak of saddle leather, and now he caught a whiff of perfume. Expensive perfume that reminded him of the scent of vanilla. “Leslie?”

  “There you are!” Leslie Synnet rode down and leaned over to place
her hand on his arm. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t find you.”

  Fargo didn’t mince words. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet someone who put her neck at risk to be with you?” Leslie looked around them. “Nice view.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  “It’s my life to throw away,” Leslie said. “But as I keep telling you, and you keep forgetting, I can take care of myself. I’ve ridden at night before and never had a problem.”

  “Does Teague know you’re here?” Fargo imagined she had snuck off.

  “Who do you think saddled my mare?” Leslie slid down and crooked a finger. “Why don’t we sit a while? I’d like to become better acquainted.” She smiled a smile that did not leave any doubt as to her true meaning.

  Fargo hesitated. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested; Leslie Synnet was a gorgeous woman by any man’s standard, and in the soft starlight her body looked as luscious as a ripe peach. But she could have picked a better place and a wiser time.

  “What’s the matter? Shy all of a sudden? To hear Shelly tell it, you’re a rhino in rut when you want to be.”

  “I’m flattered,” Fargo said dryly.

  “You should be. Most men are lumps who wouldn’t know how to give a girl what she needs if their lives depended on it.”

  The woods behind them were quiet, the woods below a serene sea of benighted foliage. Fargo sighed, and swung down.

  “Worried someone or something might come along?” Leslie asked. “Don’t be.” She opened her jacket, revealing a revolver strapped to her slender waist. “I’m a decent shot and I’ll gladly kill anyone or anything that tries to kill me.”

  “Are all the Synnets so bloodthirsty?” Fargo held up his end of the conversation while scouring the ridge from end to end.

  Leslie laughed. “Touché. Teague is a born hunter, so I guess he qualifies. But hunting bores me silly. And Jerrold is just a sweet kid at heart. He hunts because Teague does but he doesn’t like it nearly as much.”

  Fargo reached up to undo his bedroll and remembered he had left it at camp. “I don’t have a blanket for you to sit on.”