by Jon Sharpe
The minutes crawled on the scales of a slow snake. Fargo’s every nerve jangled when the Ovaro stepped on a twig that crunched loudly. He was sure the warriors had heard, but they gave no sign that they did.
It took some doing but he made it to the end of the valley. Once around the mountain, he breathed easier.
The rest of the night proved uneventful.
A pink blush marked the eastern sky when Fargo at long last set eyes on the covered wagons. The camp was astir, the women making breakfast while the men prepared to get under way. Bone weary, he rode past a sentry, who didn’t say a word, and into the circle.
The farmers gathered around, eager to hear what Fargo had to say. So did most of their self-styled protectors. He didn’t make much of his escape but he did of the dead gold hunters, finishing with, “If you don’t turn back, you could end up the same. You’ve been lucky so far but no one’s luck holds forever.”
“What you call luck,” Lester Winston said, “we call the hand of providence. The Lord will watch over us.”
“Those gold hounds probably thought the same,” Fargo pointed out, but he was wasting his breath. The farmers were determined to get to the Payette River Valley, come what may.
Fargo needed sleep, needed sleep badly He mentioned it to Rachel who went and talked to her father, and Lester came over to offer Fargo the use of their wagon.
“You can tie your horse on the back. We have plenty of blankets and a quilt we spread out at night. Make yourself comfortable.”
Fargo was grateful. The creak and rattle of the wagon bed didn’t bother him a bit. Nor did the bouncing and the swaying. He drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep from which he didn’t awaken until the middle of the afternoon. Poking his head out of the blankets, he blinked in the bright sunlight that streamed in under the canvas.
“About time you woke up, mister.” Billy was sitting cross-legged, his elbows on his knees. “I’m tired of being a mouse.”
Befuddled with sleep, Fargo had no idea what the boy was talking about. “A what?”
“Ma said I had to be as quiet as a little mouse while you were sleeping or she would have Pa take a switch to me.”
“Oh.” Fargo slowly sat up. They were alone. Rachel was on the front seat with her parents.
“They say you fought Indians yesterday. Is that true?”
“I ran more than I fought.”
“But you did fight?” Billy grinned excitedly. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to tangle with some of those red devils.”
“They’re people, like us,” Fargo said. He rubbed his chin, then jammed his hat back on.
“What kind of talk is that? Indians are savages. Everybody knows that. They kill whites every chance they get. My grandpa used to say that the only good redskin is a dead redskin.”
“Your grandpa is a jackass.”
Billy stiffened and balled his small fists. “Take that back. No one talks about Gramps like that. He was the best man I ever knew.” Billy paused. “He died a year ago. Came down sick with a cough and got worse and worse until one morning Ma sent me to wake him for breakfast and he wouldn’t answer me or move or anything. He was dead.”
“He was wrong about Indians.”
“Mister, I liked you until now. I’m not stupid. Most Indians hate us and we hate them right back.”
Fargo cast off the blankets. “I’ve lived with Indians, boy. Sure, some hate us. But a lot more don’t. A lot of tribes would rather live in peace than lift our hair.”
“Grandpa used to say we can’t trust anyone with red skin, even the friendly ones. He said they’re all heathens.”
“Do you even know what that word means?”
“I told you I’m not stupid. It means they don’t believe in God. They don’t go to church or read the Bible or anything.”
“Some do. Some convert. But most have their own religion. It’s not the same but it’s religion.”
“Our religion is better, my ma says. If redskins lived like we do, there wouldn’t be any blood spilled.”
Fargo sighed. Arguing was pointless. The boy had had hate pounded into his head from an early age, and nothing Fargo could say or do would change his outlook.
Suddenly the wagon gave a lurch. Fargo steadied himself and moved to the front. “Did you hit a log?” he joked.
Rachel squealed, “You’re awake!” and grasped his hand. “I was beginning to think you would sleep the whole day away.”
Fargo wouldn’t mind more rest but he elected to stay up. “Have I missed anything?”
“A lot of bumps,” Lester said. “Martha thought she saw some smoke to the east a while ago. I looked but didn’t see any.”
“I saw it as clear as anything,” Martha insisted. “I can’t help it if my eyes are better than his.”
“Was it campfire smoke or smoke signals?” Fargo asked.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know the difference,” Martha answered.
“Campfire smoke rises straight up. Smoke signals rise in puffs or small clouds,” Fargo explained.
“Oh. In that case it was campfire smoke. More gold hunters, I’d wager.”
Fargo hoped not. The Nez Perce were riled enough as it was. “Any chance you’ve changed your mind about the Payette River Valley?” he said to Lester.
The big farmer chuckled. “You never give up, do you? Why can’t you understand what this means to us?”
“Why can’t you understand that all of you could be massacred?” Fargo rejoined.
Lester half turned in the seat. “The Nez Perce wouldn’t dare try. We have too many men and too many guns.”
“You could have an entire regiment of troops and it wouldn’t be enough,” Fargo said.
“There you go again.”
“I’m just trying to save your hides.”
“And I appreciate that. But I think that once I’ve sat down with their chiefs for a parley, they will come to terms. We’re prepared to offer the Nez Perce a third of the crops we harvest. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“They might want something else.”
“Like what?”
“The land you’re taking from them.”
“They have so much, I doubt they will begrudge us one valley,” Lester predicted.
Fargo frowned. Once again arguing was pointless. Lester Winston had never been west of the Mississippi River, yet he thought he knew the Nez Perce better than someone who had lived on the frontier for years.
“Don’t look so glum. Be happy for us. We’re happy. Our dream is about to come true.”
“You’re a fool.”
Lester lost some of his good mood. “I’ll forgive you the slur. But don’t make a habit of it. I have the best interests of my people at heart, and we will not be denied.”
“Even if it gets you all killed?”
“Enough. We have listened to you and you have our answer. Be considerate enough to drop the subject.”
Fargo got in one last lick. “I’ll be considerate enough to bury you, too.”
11
Days of slow travel. Nights of hot passion.
That was how Skye Fargo spent the next three days. The farmers treated him as a friend. If anyone regarded his nightly “walks” with Rachel as improper, they were polite enough not to say anything. It didn’t occur to Fargo why until the third evening. He had just eaten his supper and was downing his third cup of coffee when Billy grinned at him and made a remark that explained everything.
“My sis sure will be busy at the stove, the way you stuff food down.”
“The stove?” Fargo repeated.
Billy nodded. “When you’re hitched. I heard Ma say as how she hopes you’ll ask Rachel soon.”
Fargo nearly choked on the coffee.
“Pa says you’ll make a fine son-in-law. He likes that you’re not green behind the ears. His own words.” Billy grinned. “Ma says she figures she’ll be a grandma before she can blink.”
“Hell.”
Billy’s eyes narr
owed. “Why do you have that funny look? Are you sick or something?”
“My coffee went down the wrong pipe.”
“I’ve done that before. With milk. Once it came back out my nose. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
Fargo should have seen it sooner. The settlers were being so nice because they expected him to do the right thing. They expected him to wed Rachel. He wondered what Rachel thought. He’d made it plain to her that he wasn’t ready to be tied down. She’d said she understood. But women could say one thing and feel another. Could well be, she secretly hoped he would change his mind and pop the question. “Damn.”
“What was that?” Billy asked.
“Yes, I hate it when that happens.”
Victor Gore was friendly to him, too. Gore acted genuinely grateful to Fargo for helping with the Nez Perce. He came over as Billy was skipping off.
“Tomorrow is the big day. We’ll reach the valley at last. I can’t wait, Mr. Fargo. I will finally be able to get on about my own business.”
“What would that be?”
“Why, I’ve already told you. Visiting my old trapping haunts.”
“You’re not sticking around to help the farmers settle in?”
“I doubt they need my aid. Winston and his people are capable folk. That is the way with farmers. They rely on the strength in their arms and the guidance of the Lord. But not me. I learned long ago that life is a roll of the dice. I’m rolling the die now by coming back here.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, only that all of us have taken our lives in our hands, what with the Nez Perce and all.”
“What about Rinson and his bunch? Will they go off with you or stay with the settlers?”
“Why would they stay? They were hired to see Lester’s bunch safely to the valley. That’s all. Once they’ve been paid the rest of their fee, I imagine they’ll be on their way.”
Fargo scowled. It would leave the settlers at the mercy of the Nez Perce, who were not in a merciful mood of late.
“You seem mad. But I assure you it was all worked out before we left Fort Bridger. Rinson made the conditions clear to Winston and his people. I was there. I heard every word.”
“You know what will happen, don’t you, when the Nez Perce find whites have moved in?”
Victor grimly nodded. “I warned Lester. You warned Lester. But he refuses to listen. I was puzzled at first. I thought he must be the most stubborn man on the planet.”
It had been Fargo’s experience that stubborn and stupid often went hand in hand.
“Whether it’s that, or his faith that the Almighty will protect them, or some other reason, I’ve never met anyone so insistent on not taking advice when it’s offered.”
“Thinking like that can get them wiped out.”
“You know that and I know that. But what can we say to someone who goes through life with blinders on?” Victor shook his head. “Some people believe only what they want to believe. You can talk to them until you are blue in the face and everything you say will go in one ear and bounce out again.”
Fargo sighed.
“I never meant for the farmers to come here. A simple remark on my part about how fine the valley was, and Lester seized on it like a dog on a bone. He regards it as some sort of new Eden.”
Fargo gazed across the circle at where the fiddler was warming up for the nightly festivities. “Some people never learn.”
“No, they don’t,” Gore agreed. “And there is nothing the rest of us can do. My own conscience is clear.”
As for Rinson and company, they pretty much left Fargo alone those three days. No more spying on him during the day and keeping watch on him at night. They seemed to have accepted the fact that the settlers didn’t mind having him along. Even Slag and Perkins ignored him.
There was no trace of the Nez Perce, and for that Fargo was thankful.
At last the big morning arrived.
The covered wagons were winding along the Payette River. The farmers were excited that their long trek was almost at an end. Victor Gore was excited that soon he would be back in his old haunts. Even the so-called protectors showed signs of being excited, although what they had to be excited about, Fargo couldn’t guess. Unless it was that soon they would get the rest of the money they were due and could return to Fort Bridger.
Fargo was riding alongside the Winston’s wagon when Victor Gore came galloping back to excitedly report that he had spotted the mouth of the valley ahead. Word spread. The farmers lashed their teams to go faster, and before long a broad valley spread out before their eager eyes. Oval shaped, it was everything Gore said it would be: lush with grass, with timbered slopes on three sides, plenty of wood for cabins and barns, and plenty of game for the pot. Fargo had to admit it was ideal.
The farmers brought their wagons to a stop in the middle of the valley and hopped down to gaze in heart-felt joy at their new home. Lester Winston scooped up a handful of dirt. He smelled it, and ran it through his fingers, and announced that it was some of the richest soil he’d ever seen.
Fargo didn’t share in the general elation. The valley was too open. Should the Nez Perce attack in force, the farmers wouldn’t stand a prayer. The wooded slopes would provide ideal cover for a war party to sneak in close and spy on the whites, waiting for the right moment to attack. But he didn’t voice his worries to Lester Winston. He would be wasting his breath.
Rachel came over and gleefully clasped his hands. “Isn’t it glorious?” she asked, her eyes alight with delight.
“If you’ve seen one valley, you’ve pretty much seen them all.”
“You don’t understand. This is the start of a dream for us. We have a lot at stake here, more than you can imagine. If all goes as my pa has planned, before too long we’ll have everything we’ve ever wanted. A new home. A new farm. We’ll be much better off than we were in Ohio.”
“You could also be dead.”
Rachel drew back, her eyebrow arching. “What has gotten into you? Why can’t you share in our joy?”
Fargo motioned at the green grass that covered the valley floor. “You see ten cabins and barns. I see bleached bones picked clean by the buzzards.”
“My goodness. Can you be any more gloomy? But I refuse to let you spoil this moment for me.” Rachel smiled and raised an arm to the azure sky. “I’m so happy, I want to shout.”
“Rachel . . .” Fargo began, but she thrust a hand at him.
“Don’t. It’s about the Nez Perce, isn’t it? I’m touched that you’re so worried, but you carry it too far.”
Fargo had said his last word on the subject. He’d tried with her father and mother and he had tried with her, and all they did was smile and seek refuge in denial. Whatever happened now was on their heads.
Rinson, Slag and Perkins were huddled with the rest of the protectors. From their angry gestures and low but sharp voices, they were in heated argument. Fargo tried to catch what they were saying. He started to drift toward them when suddenly Rinson, Slag and Perkins broke from the rest and came toward the farmers.
Rinson held out his palm to Lester Winston. “It’s time. We got you here safe, like we promised. Now pay us what is due.”
“You have done fine, sir,” Winston told him. “We have no complaints. Give me a minute to fetch my poke from my wagon.”
Several farmers added their compliments.
“When will you be leaving us?” the farmer named Harvey asked.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Rinson answered.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” another said.
“We’re planning to celebrate,” a third farmer revealed. “Tonight or tomorrow night. The ladies will bake cakes and cookies. And Sam will play his fiddle. We’ll have us a grand time.”
“Are you inviting the Nez Perce?” Fargo asked.
“Why on earth would we do that?”
Just then Lester Winston returned. “That’s not a bad idea, Mr. Fargo. It woul
d show them we have peaceable intentions.” He opened his poke and commenced to count out coins.
Fargo scanned the surrounding mountains. It was only a matter of time before the Nez Perce showed up. “You’ll be lucky if they don’t slit your throats on sight.”
“None of that kind of talk in front of the ladies and the children, if you please,” Lester chided him. “You’ll scare them.”
“It would help if someone was scared,” Fargo said.
As soon as Rinson had the money, he divided it among the other protectors. Fargo seemed to be the only one who noticed that they weren’t nearly as happy about being paid as they should be. It was peculiar.
Lester jingled the few coins left in his poke. “There’s not much left but we’ll fill our pokes again real soon.” He gave a slight start. “That is, after we’ve grown our crops and taken them to market.”
“Where?” Fargo asked.
“Why, to Fort Bridger, of course. Or maybe to Fort Laramie. From there we can send our surplus east on freight wagons.”
“You have it all thought out.”
“I like to think so, yes.”
Fargo was being sarcastic but Winston didn’t notice. “That’s a long way to ship corn or wheat. And vegetables would rot.”
“We’re well aware of that,” Winston said. “Which is why we have intended from the start that when we got to Oregon we would try a whole new crop. One that won’t spoil on its way to market.” He looked about them. “I suppose they would grow just as well here as in Oregon.”
“What is this wonder called?”
Lester smiled and swelled out his chest in pride at their brainstorm. “Potatoes.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We’re going to grow potatoes.”
Fargo stared.
“I’m serious. Potatoes don’t need a long growing season and they keep for a long time. They’re perfect.”
“You’re loco. Why would people back East buy potatoes from way out here when they can grow their own?”
Lester had more to say, but just then Rinson came back. Slag and Perkins were at his elbows.
“What is it?” Lester asked. “Was my count off?”
“No, your count was fine,” the hawk-faced man said. “But we’ve been talking it over and we’ve decided we’ll stick around for a spell.”