by Jon Sharpe
The shadows lengthened. Soon the bright glare of day would give way to the spectral gray of twilight.
Fargo pondered as he rode. It bothered him that he couldn’t figure out what Rinson and the other so-called protectors were up to, or how, exactly, Victor Gore fit into the scheme of things. Gore had talked the farmers into hiring Rinson but he might have felt he was doing the farmers a favor.
It bothered Fargo, too, that the farmers wouldn’t listen to his advice and get the hell out of Nez Perce country while they still could. No valley, no matter how ideal, was worth the price the farmers would pay when the Nez Perce found out they were there.
Then there was Rachel. Fargo had taken a shine to the girl and didn’t want her harmed. He had half a mind to throw her over his saddle and take her away by force when he left.
Engrossed in his musing, Fargo forgot to rise in the stirrups. He was jolted back into the real world when the Ovaro suddenly stopped of its own accord and pricked its ears.
Fargo looked up, and wanted to kick himself. He had nearly blundered onto the Nez Perce. Quickly reining into cover, he bent low over the saddle horn.
Mounted Nez Perce were winding through the woods. With a start, Fargo realized it wasn’t the entire war party but only six warriors, and they were coming toward him, not moving away.
Fargo firmed his grip on the reins. He wondered if the six were looking for him, although he couldn’t see how that could be. He had been careful not to cross open areas. And his Henry, with its shiny brass receiver that could flash in the sun and give him away, was snug in his saddle scabbard.
Gore had been right about one thing. The warriors, and their mounts, were painted for war. One horse bore the stick figure of a man to show its owner had ridden an enemy down in combat. Another had a crescent high on its front leg and the symbol for a bow on a rear leg to show that the warrior had fought in a battle at night.
The Nez Perce were casting about for sign, and four had arrows nocked to the sinew strings of their bows.
They were hunting, Fargo guessed. War parties had to eat. And if they kept coming they might spot the Ovaro’s tracks and know by the pinto’s shod hooves that a white man was nearby.
The tracks would lead them straight to him.
Fargo reined to the north and moved off at a walk. He stayed bent low and prayed none of the warriors would glance up and catch sight of him. But fate had other ideas. He covered less than a dozen yards when a sharp cry rang out.
A warrior with a bow was pointing at him.
“Damn it.” Fargo jabbed his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a gallop. He had confidence in the stallion but Appaloosas were fine animals, too, with a lot more stamina than the grass-fed ponies of the plains tribes. He was in for a long chase.
The Nez Perce came on fast. An arrow whizzed past but that was the only shaft they wasted. He didn’t resort to his Colt. Shots might bring more.
Fargo concentrated on increasing his lead but the warriors were determined to keep him in sight, and their Appaloosas were equal to the challenge. Half a mile of hard riding convinced him he must do something drastic.
A thicket sparked an idea.
Fargo raced around it. The moment he was on the other side he brought the Ovaro to a sliding stop next to it. Soon the Nez Perce came flying by on either side. They were intent on the woods ahead and went past without seeing him.
Halting on the reins, Fargo used his spurs again. Only he was now chasing them. They had lost sight of him and slowed, and were looking around in bewilderment.
As the Ovaro swiftly overtook the last warrior, Fargo unlimbered his Colt.
The warrior glanced over his shoulder, his face mirroring disbelief. It slowed his reaction.
Fargo slammed the Colt against the warrior’s temple and sent him tumbling to the earth. Without slowing Fargo bore down on the next, a stocky warrior armed with a Sharps rifle. The warrior never got the chance to use it. Once again the Colt flashed. Once again the barrel struck flesh and bone. And once again a warrior pitched headlong from his warhorse.
Two down and four to go.
Fargo caught up to the third warrior and reined in close. The man shot a surprised glance at him and started to turn. Fargo hit him full in the face and cartilage crunched.
Three down now.
Of those remaining, one was to Fargo’s left, the other two to his right. He reined to the left.
It had to happen. This warrior was more alert than the others. He glanced back and immediately yelled to warn his companions. Then he tried to bring his bow into play.
An extra burst of speed brought Fargo up close. He swung and hit the bow, and it went flying. The warrior clawed for a knife and was whipping it from its beaded sheath when the Colt caught him across the jaw. One blow wasn’t enough. The warrior swayed but stayed on. A second blow remedied that.
The last pair had heard the yell and were streaking toward Fargo. Both held bows with shafts ready to fly.
Fargo had no choice. He snapped off a shot. The slug cored a warrior’s shoulder and half twisted him around but he stayed on his horse. Then an arrow loosed by the last warrior buzzed within a whisker’s width of Fargo’s ear. Hugging the Ovaro, he sought to outdistance them, but they and their Appaloosas were as tenacious as always.
So far Fargo had not had to kill any of them. Nor did he want to. He had no quarrel with the Nez Perce. In the past, he’d made friends with a few, and if the truth be known, he didn’t blame them for wanting to drive the whites out of their territory. He would do the same if he were a Nez Perce. The whites had no right to claim land the tribe had roamed for God knew how many generations.
When next Fargo looked back only one warrior was still after him. The man he shot in the shoulder had stopped.
By now the sun was dipping below the horizon. More shadow than light cloaked the woodland and it took all of Fargo’s considerable skill as a horseman to thread the Ovaro through the trees safely. Unfortunately, the doggedly persistent warrior was also a good rider, and while he didn’t gain, he didn’t lose ground, either.
The stamina of their mounts would decide the outcome. Appaloosas were renowned for their endurance but the Ovaro was no swayback. The stallion could go strong for miles but it had already been through a lot and Fargo had a hunch it would tire before its pursuer. He decided on another reckless gamble. But he needed the right spot.
Presently his wish was granted. The forest thinned, giving way to broken country split by gullies and sprinkled with boulders. The Ovaro flew down the slope of a dry wash and up the other side, dust and stones spewing from under its flying hooves.
The Nez Perce gave voice to a war whoop. He had an arrow notched but was wisely saving it for when he was so close he couldn’t miss.
A clutch of cabin-sized boulders reared in Fargo’s path. He reined wide to go around, as he had done back at the thicket. And again as he had done at the thicket, when he came to the far side he reined in behind them. But only for the brief second it took to launch himself from the saddle, yank the Henry from the scabbard and swat the Ovaro on the rump.
The pinto kept going.
Fargo dashed to the edge of the boulders. Reversing his grip on the Henry, he set himself, ready to wield it as a club. There was a chance he might damage it, though, so when his foot bumped a rock as big as his fist, he suddenly changed his mind. Bending, he scooped up the rock. He hefted it a few times, then cocked his arm.
Hooves pounded, and around the boulder swept the Appaloosa. The warrior spied the riderless Ovaro up ahead, and stiffened.
That was when Fargo threw the rock with all his might.
The warrior reeled, blood pouring from a jagged gash on his forehead. He brought his mount to a halt, reined around, and raised his bow. But he couldn’t let the arrow fly for all the blood in his eyes. Blinking and wiping his forearm across his face, he tried to sight down the shaft.
By then Fargo was on him. Seizing an ankle, he unhorsed the Nez Perce. The man lande
d on his shoulders and rolled to scramble to his feet but he was only halfway up when the stock of Fargo’s rifle slammed against his head and he crumpled in a heap.
Fargo stepped back, ready to swing again if he had to, but the Nez Perce was unconscious.
Sticking two fingers into his mouth, Fargo gave out a piercing whistle that would bring the Ovaro back. The lathered Appaloosa had already stopped and was standing with its head down.
Fargo scoured his back trail for the others. None were in view but they soon might be. He must make himself scarce, and quickly. Hurrying to meet the Ovaro, he forked leather, and paused.
Fargo had a problem. He wanted to head straight for the wagon train but if he did, the Ovaro’s tracks would lead the Nez Perce right to them. He must lose the war party before he could head back and that might take some doing.
The wagons were coming from the south. The war party was to the east. Fargo could go north but that was the direction the wagons were traveling. He could go west, too, but if the warriors lost his trail and headed to the east as they had been doing, they might cross the wagon train’s trail.
Add to that the possibility that one or more of the six Fargo clashed with might go fetch the rest of the war party.
Fargo reined to the southeast. It would take him away from the wagon train and the settlers, but dangerously near the war party. Since it would be dark soon, he was confident the Nez Perce wouldn’t be after him until daylight. He had all night to find a way to shake them.
In due course the sun sank and a few dim stars speckled the firmament. They brightened as the sky darkened and multiplied like ethereal rabbits.
Fargo found the Big Dipper. In the northern hemisphere, the two stars that made up the cup of the Dipper farthest from the handle always pointed at the North Star. Knowing where the North Star was enabled him to tell direction at night. Every frontiersman knew the trick.
Fargo’s belly growled but he ignored it. Food would have to wait. Besides, hunger helped to keep a man awake and sharp, and he might need to ride all night.
The mountains came alive with savage cries and ululating howls. The meat eaters were abroad, a legion of fang and claw that feasted from dusk until dawn and then returned to their dens and burrows to sleep their lethargy away and greet the next night as ravenous as on the last. A cycle of hunger and blood, as old as time itself.
Fargo wasn’t worried about the predators. A grizzly might take an interest in him but most everything else would give him a wide berth. The mere scent of a human was enough to cause most meat eaters to slink silently away.
Weariness nipped at Fargo’s sinews. He had been on the go since before sunup. Between the hours in the saddle and his fight with the Nez Perce, he wouldn’t mind a few hours rest. Stifling a yawn, he shrugged the tiredness off. Sleep, like food, had to wait.
A belt of woodland brought him to the base of a mountain. He rode along the bottom until he came to a stream. Reining into the center, he headed upstream. It was shallow but flowed swiftly enough that by morning all traces of the Ovaro’s tracks might be obliterated.
“We can only hope,” Fargo said out loud.
Another hour of riding brought him to a narrow gap. He passed through, the rock walls virtually rubbing the Ovaro’s sides, and emerged to discover a range he had never visited before. He would love to explore it but it would have to wait. Swinging to the south, he rode in a wide circle that would eventually bring him back to the wagon train.
Fargo had a fair notion of where the train should be. He estimated it would take him two hours to reach it. He would try, yet again, to warn the settlers off. With the countryside swarming with Nez Perce, the farmers would be lucky to live long enough to plant seeds.
Then from out of the night came a sound other than the howls of wolves and the yips of coyotes.
It was a scream, torn from a human throat.
10
It came from the east, from out of the dark heart of the unknown range. Faint but unmistakable, it rose to a piercing shriek then gradually faded.
Fargo’s skin prickled. That was a death cry if ever he heard one. He drew rein and briefly debated. Should he head west to the covered wagons or east into the unknown? He reined east.
It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was no light to guide him, not so much as a finger of campfire flame. He relied on his instincts to pinpoint the approximate area the scream came from.
The somber mountains gave way to a narrow valley so thickly chocked with timber that Fargo couldn’t see ten feet. Wary as a cat in a room full of sleeping dogs, he went a quarter of a mile. Far enough, he thought, to show he must be mistaken. He was about to rein around when an acrid odor tingled his nose.
Smoke.
Fargo sniffed. He turned his head from right to left and back again. There could be no mistake. The smoke was drifting his way from deeper in the inky valley.
The clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves were the only sounds. Although they were muffled by the carpet of pine needles, to Fargo they were thunderclaps that could be heard by hostile ears. He kept his hand on his Colt.
The acrid smoke scent grew stronger.
Up ahead a tiny red sprite flared, a flickering dervish that writhed and danced to the whispers of the wind.
A clearing spread before him.
Fargo came to a stop. At its center was the sprite, all that remained of a campfire. It didn’t cast enough light to illuminate the vague shapes and figures that littered the ground around it.
A new odor struck Fargo. Another unmistakable smell. This time it was the scent of blood. Freshly spilled blood, and a lot of it. He waited, refusing to expose himself until he was sure it was safe. After several minutes of complete silence, he kneed the Ovaro. Ever so warily, he picked his way around the sprawled figures.
Dismounting, Fargo hunkered. He puffed on the flame and it grew, revealing a nearby pile of broken sticks. He added a few and blew on the smoldering embers and soon had a fire. A small fire, a fire that wouldn’t be seen from any great distance.
It revealed a slaughter.
Five white men lay in the throes of violent death. One had his throat slit. Another had his head bashed in by a war club. A third had taken an arrow to the chest and another shaft low down in the ribs. Their end had been swift, the attack so sudden that they had not gotten off a shot. They had not been dead long. It was impossible to say which one had uttered the death scream Fargo had heard.
None had been scalped.
Their guns and knives had been taken. Packs had been torn open and the contents scattered about. Whatever did not interest their slayers had been left where it lay.
Picks and shovels and pans told Fargo what he had already guessed. The five were gold hounds. They had heard the rumors about gold in Nez Perce territory and snuck in to find it, and paid for their arrogance with the coin of their lives.
Ironically, Fargo found no proof the Nez Perce were responsible. No arrows had been left. No lances. There was nothing that would identify the killers. But this was their land and it was unlikely another tribe was to blame.
Fargo figured the attack took place about sunset, when the whites were settling in for the night and their guard was down. Believing them dead, the Nez Perce took what they wanted and rode off. But one man had lingered at death’s door for hours, voicing that scream when he finally succumbed to the reaper.
Fargo wished Lester Winston and the other farmers could see this. Maybe it would convince them to turn back before it was too late. Before the Nez Perce discovered them and drenched the soil with more blood.
Since he had the fire going, Fargo made use of it. A coffeepot had been knocked over. He righted it and put fresh coffee on to brew. He needed some to stay awake and alert. The Nez Perce were gone, so there was little danger. He wondered if it was the same war party he had been trailing.
Surrounded by bodies, the pungent smell of blood in the air, Fargo cupped the hot tin cup in his hands and savored
each swallow. Warmth spread from his stomach to his limbs.
Fargo was glad to relax for a bit. He leaned back and looked at the Ovaro and saw that the pinto was staring off up the valley. Swiveling, he did the same but dark baffled his efforts to penetrate it. He raised the cup to drink more coffee.
That was when, faint but clear, a horse whinnied.
In the bat of an eye Fargo was on his feet. He upended the cup as he dashed to the Ovaro. Swinging up, he reined around and flew into the forest.
Thirty yards was enough.
Fargo came to stop, took a moment to shove his cup into a saddlebag and palmed his Colt.
It was a good ten minutes before a mounted warrior came out of the trees on the far side of the clearing and stopped. Others joined him. Fifteen in all, their faces painted. The first warrior brought his Appaloosa up next to the fire. He regarded the flames with obvious puzzlement, then glanced at each of the bodies. Another warrior said something and the first one answered.
Fargo had been wrong. The Nez Perce hadn’t left. They had gone up the valley and made camp. His rekindled fire had caught their eye and they had come to investigate.
The first warrior climbed down. He sank to one knee and lightly touched a finger to the coffeepot. Jerking it back, he stood and scanned the clearing, then said a few words that caused the rest to raise their bows and lances and begin to spread out.
“Damn it to hell,” Fargo said under his breath. They knew someone must be close by.
Fargo moved off at a slow walk, twisting at the hips so he could keep one eye on the Nez Perce. Contrary to popular belief, Indians weren’t cats. They couldn’t see any better in the dark than white men. But their ears worked just as well, and the slightest sound would bring them in a rush.
So much for some coffee and some rest.