Idaho Gold Fever tt-327

by Jon Sharpe

  “So?” Fargo didn’t see where her questions were leading.

  “So you’re partial to those red devils. You care about them more than a white person should.”

  “You should hear yourself.”

  “And you should remember what color your skin is,” Martha said with more than mild irritation. “We want Victor and Mr. Rinson to find that war party. We want Mr. Rinson to shoot as many as he must to convince the rest to stay away from our valley.”

  “You want a war, in other words.” Fargo’s disgust knew no bounds. “You pathetic wretches.”

  “There’s no need for name-calling,” Lester said.

  Martha pointed a finger at him. “Don’t make more of this than there is. The death of some Indians is a small price to pay for our future.”

  The woman really believed that. Fargo shook his head and said, “I’m going, and that’s final.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t agree.” Martha motioned at Lester and Lester motioned at the two men and they raised their shotguns. “Would you be so kind as to hand over your six-shooter? And don’t try to jump on your horse or you might be shot in the leg for your troubles.”

  “Don’t do this,” Fargo said.

  “What choice do you leave us?” Martha asked. “Our welfare is at stake. We can’t let you stand in our way.”

  Fargo fought down an urge to draw on them. They were farmers, not outlaws or gun sharks. He could probably drop both shotgun wielders. But all it would take was one blast from one of those twelve-gauge hand cannons and he would be blown to kingdom come. “After all I’ve done for you.”

  “Let’s not be petty, shall we?”

  Fargo tried one last appeal. “Does she do your talking for you now, Lester?”

  The big farmer sheepishly looked away. “She’s my wife, Mr. Fargo.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Spoken like a man who has never been married. She’s my woman and I do what I can to make her happy. If she doesn’t want you to interfere with Mr. Gore and our protectors, then by the eternal, you won’t.”

  “Hell, Lester. I gave you credit for more sense.”

  Martha said, “Your problem is that you keep forgetting white and red don’t mix and never will.”

  Fargo’s temper flared. She was a bigot on top of everything else. “Wish I’d known this sooner.”

  “You mustn’t think ill of us,” Martha tried to placate him. “Not until you’ve stood in our shoes. How can you expect us to stand idly by when your antics threaten to dash our hopes and prayers?”

  That was when Fargo noticed the man Rinson had left behind standing only a dozen feet away, a smirk on his face. “Are you going to just stand there and do nothing?”

  “It’s between you and them, mister,” the man replied. “I’m to keep an eye out for redskins. My boss didn’t say anything about you.”

  Fargo had to submit to the indignity of having his Colt and Henry taken. He also had to stand there helpless as the Ovaro, still saddled, was led off to be put with the other horses.

  “In case you have any notions about sneaking off,” Martha said smugly.

  The only notion Fargo had right that moment was to chuck her off a cliff, but there wasn’t one handy. With those shotguns trained on him, he settled for stepping to the rear wheel and sinking down with his back to the spokes.

  “That’s not so bad, is it?” Martha said in a tone that suggested he was the same age as her Billy.

  “Lady, you don’t know what bad is,” Fargo said, and let it go at that. Lester and Martha left, leaving one of the men with a shotgun to guard him. Fuming, he plucked at the grass. He didn’t look up when familiar feet appeared.

  “I’m sorry. I tried to get them not to do this to you. I practically begged. But they refused.”

  “Do you know what a thunderstorm is?” Fargo asked.

  “Of course, silly. Why?”

  “Because one is about to break, and when it does, all hell will break with it.”

  15

  Fargo didn’t eat much supper. He wasn’t in the mood. He chewed a few pieces of venison and poked at the carrots, but that was it. He did drink coffee. A lot of coffee.

  After they ate, the farmers gathered as they ordinarily did, and the man who played the fiddle soon had some dancing while the rest looked on and talked and laughed.

  The farmer assigned as Fargo’s guard looked on, too. His back to Fargo, he was particularly interested in one woman. His wife, as Fargo recalled, who danced a couple of times with another man. Each time, his guard looked fit to burst a vein.

  By then it was dark enough.

  Fargo palmed a fist-sized rock he had noticed earlier. He made sure no one was looking toward the Winston wagon, then slowly rose and struck his guard over the back of the head. Fargo didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him, but he wasn’t gentle about it, either.

  Catching the man before he could fall, Fargo eased him to the ground and placed him against the rear wheel, making it appear the man was sleeping with his hands in his lap. Then, staying well out of the firelight, Fargo headed for the wagon where the farmers had put his Colt and Henry. Both were lying in plain sight.

  Now that he was rearmed, Fargo half hoped someone would try to stop him. But no one did. The Ovaro, still saddled, was with the other horses. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard and swung up. At a walk he headed for the valley mouth, but he soon broke into a trot.

  He looked back only once. The fiddle still twanged and gay figures swirled. He thought he saw Billy staring in his direction. Not that it mattered. They couldn’t catch him.

  Fargo rode to the Payette River. He let the Ovaro drink, then paralleled the river. When he had gone far enough, he entered the forest. He went only a short way and climbed down.

  A cold camp had to suffice. He couldn’t track at night. He would wait until first light and head out again.

  Gore and Rinson hadn’t returned to the valley. But the farmers weren’t alarmed. Lester Winston told Fargo that Gore had mentioned they would be gone however long it took them to find the war party and drive the Nez Perce off. Lester, of course, believed him.

  Not Fargo. He had been skeptical about Gore from the beginning. Yes, a lot of trappers were fond of the mountains, and yes, some of them dearly missed the old days. But no one would do as Gore had done and come from back East into country overrun by hostiles. Not unless there was more to it.

  Some folks might say Fargo was too cynical. That he didn’t trust people enough. But he’d learned the hard way that trusting too freely could get a man killed. It was akin to going up to a grizzly with open arms and a smile and expect the bear to be as friendly as a puppy.

  Fargo suspected that Gore was up to something. Gore had another motive for coming back to the mountains. Exactly how the farmers fit in, Fargo wasn’t sure yet. But it didn’t bode well that Gore and Rinson left just one man to protect them and had gone off.

  His saddle for a pillow, a canopy of glittering stars above, Fargo listened to the howls of wolves and once, close by, the cry of a fox. He soon dozed off and wasn’t intruded on by man or beast. Up at the break of day, he went to the river and found what he was looking for—the tracks of Gore and the rest, heading deeper into the wilds.

  But no tracks of any Nez Perce.

  Gore wasn’t chasing a war party. He was up to something else, and it was high time Fargo found out what.

  In the distance reared a mountain, one among many, its peak a jagged outcropping that thrust at the sky like a spear about to draw blood. It was there the tracks led.

  It was pushing noon when Fargo drew rein at the edge of some trees. Beyond was a narrow canyon that split the mountain like a wound. And from out of the canyon came the ping of metal on rock.

  Fargo was about to venture into the open when movement warned him to stay put.

  A man was keeping watch. He was behind a large boulder, but he came out and squinted up at the sun, acting bored.

  Farg
o slid down and tied the Ovaro. With the Henry in his left hand he sank onto his belly and snaked from cover to cover until he was near enough to the boulder to hear the man mutter.

  Fargo crawled past the boulder to the slope to the top of the canyon. Suddenly hooves clattered. He quickly pressed flat.

  “About time you got here,” the man standing guard said.

  “Don’t start,” the new arrival replied.

  “You were supposed to relieve me an hour ago, Larson. Where the hell have you been?”

  “He had me working the vein. I have blisters from using that damn pickax. But he won’t let us stop. He says we have to get it all as quick as we can.”

  “He’s Injun shy.”

  “I can’t blame him there. Not if you’ve ever seen what these red devils do. I’m not hankering to have my eyes gouged out and my tongue cut off.”

  “They have no idea we’re here. Everything is going just as we planned.”

  “As he planned, you mean,” Larson said. “I’ve got to hand it to him. Everything has worked out just as he said it would, except for that Fargo character sticking his nose in.”

  “Hell, we didn’t need those plow-pushers. We went to a lot of trouble for nothing.”

  “Would you rather carry it all out on your back, Barnes? They have their use.”

  A saddle creaked as Larson dismounted, then creaked again as Barnes climbed on.

  “Any sign of anything?”

  “Not unless you count bugs and a hawk. I tell you, we’re worried over nothing.”

  “Sure, Barnes. Sure.”

  Hooves clattered, and Larson was alone.

  Fargo crawled higher. Brush and boulders allowed enough cover for him to soon be well above the canyon floor. Removing his hat, he risked a look.

  Larson was leaning against the boulder and staring off down the mountain. In the other direction, the canyon bent at a sharp angle. From beyond that bend came the ping of pickaxes.

  Fargo jammed his hat back on and resumed crawling. When he was high enough to see past the bend, he inched to the edge. And there they were. Gore, Rinson, Slag, Perkins and the other so-called protectors, working hard in the hot sun, chipping away at the real reason Gore came back to the Rockies after all these years.

  From what Fargo could see of the vein, it was scores of yards long and inches wide. Gold, mixed with quartz, the yellow bright where the sun struck it. Enough ore to make a prospector’s mouth water. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth for whoever got it out.

  It confirmed Fargo’s hunch. Victor Gore must have stumbled on the vein during his trapping days. But why it took Gore so long to come back was a puzzle. Fargo started to back away when a gun hammer clicked.

  “Not so much as a twitch or you’re a dead man.”

  Fargo recognized the voice. It was another “protector.” He cursed himself for not counting those below.

  “My handle is Stern. Do as I say and you’ll live a while longer.”

  A gun muzzle gouged Fargo low in the back, hard.

  “This here rifle of mine is a Sharps,” Stern informed him. “Ever shot one, mister?”

  “Plenty of times,” Fargo said. He had owned a Sharps before he switched to the Henry.

  “Then you know how big a hole it’ll blow in you. I want you to do exactly as I say. Start by putting your arms out from your sides. All the way out, with your fingers flat on the ground where I can see them.”

  Fargo did as he was told. A slight tug at his hip told him Stern had relieved him of the Colt.

  “I reckon you feel pretty stupid right about now.”

  “More than stupid,” Fargo admitted.

  “Our boss has been expecting you. That’s why he sent me up here to keep a lookout.”

  The pressure on Fargo’s spine eased. Stern had stepped back.

  “Now, nice and slow, I want you to stand up. Leave your rifle where it is and keep your hands out from your sides.”

  Once again Fargo complied. It was just his luck that Stern was the kind who didn’t take chances. “Suppose I need to scratch my nose?”

  “Go right ahead. The last sound you hear will sound like thunder. And then you and your nose will be breathing dirt.” He paused. “Now shut the hell up and take five steps. Keep your back to me. Try to turn and my trigger finger twitches.”

  Fargo heard a boot scrape. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stern at the edge, looking down. Lean as a rail, with bushy eyebrows and a pointed chin, Stern cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed Victor Gore’s name.

  The pickaxes stopped picking and all heads rose.

  “Well, well, well,” Gore shouted up, smiling broadly. “Bring him down! But be careful. I hear he’s tricky.”

  “Tricky but dumb!” Stern hollered down.

  Laughter floated up, causing Fargo’s jaw muscles to twitch. He hated making a jackass of himself. It never once occurred to him that they’d expect him to do exactly as he had done. And it should have. He was getting too careless of late.

  “Start walking,” Stern instructed. “Keep those arms where they are or have a hole blown in you.”

  It was one of the longest walks of Fargo’s life. Larson met them at the bottom. Together, he and Stern marched Fargo up the canyon and around the bend. The others were hard at work again, except for Victor Gore and Rinson. Both waited with smiles on their faces.

  “Mr. Fargo!” Gore said good-naturedly. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I’m serious. I was worried you would prove to be a thorn in my side. But now that I have you in my power, as it were—” Gore chortled. “This has worked out better than I dared hope.”

  “Drop dead.” Fargo was looking at Gore and didn’t realize Rinson had whipped the Remington from its holster until the long barrel flashed at his temple. His head exploded in pain and pinpoints of light seemed to swirl in the air. Dimly, he was aware of his legs giving out and of falling to his hands and knees. Somehow he stayed conscious and looked up as Rinson raised the Remington to club him again.

  “No!” Victor Gore barked, stepping between them.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Rinson snapped. “You said yourself we won’t be safe until this bastard is maggot bait.”

  “All in good time, my friend. I want a few words with him first. Go work the vein.”

  Rinson grit his teeth and hissed like a struck snake. “I should do to you like I just did to him.”

  “But you won’t,” Victor Gore confidently declared.

  “We’ll have the gold,” Rinson said with a sweep of his other arm at the rock outcropping.

  “Thanks to me,” Gore said. “And if you go on doing as I say, you might just make it out of this alive.”

  Fargo’s head was beginning to clear. It hurt like hell but the pinpoints of light had faded. He slowly sat and gingerly touched his temple. When he drew his fingers away, his fingertips were scarlet with wet blood.

  Rinson walked off in a huff.

  “Sorry about that.” Victor Gore squatted, that friendly smile of his in place. But it was belied by the hard glitter in his eyes. “I didn’t hear a thank-you, but you’re welcome.”

  Fargo had to swallow twice to get his throat to work. “For what?”

  “For the few extra minutes of life. You see, I really need to know if you were telling the truth about the O’Flynns. Or was it a lie and you were after me all along?”

  Fargo wished his head would stop pounding. “You?”

  “For leading that simpleton Winston and his people into Nez Perce country. The army has been trying to keep people out. And since you’ve scouted for them and done other work for the military, I hear, it hit me that maybe they sent you in.” Gore’s brow knit. “But then you made no attempt to stop us, which confused me considerably until it dawned on me that, incredible as it seemed, you’d figured out what I was up to.”

  Fargo stared at the others, feverishly working. “There h
ad to be more to this than your old haunts.”

  “Ah. Then you did suspect?” Pleased with himself, Gore chuckled.

  “How did you find it?” Fargo asked, nodding at the vein. He immediately regretted it; the throbbing grew worse.

  “First things first.” Gore straightened and beckoned to Perkins, who stopped chipping and hurried over. “Would you be so good as to tie Mr. Fargo’s wrists and ankles?”

  “I’ll fetch my rope.”

  Fargo put his hands flat on the ground to push to his feet but Victor Gore produced a derringer. “Stay right where you are, if you please. We’ll continue our talk in a minute. And when we’re done, well.” He wagged the derringer. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll make it quick. A bullet to the brain so there is little pain.”

  “You’re all heart,” Fargo said.

  16

  “Now where was I?” Victor Gore asked.

  Fargo was on his side in the dirt. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles had been tied. The rope was so tight on his wrists, his arms were starting to hurt. “You changed your mind. You were going to cut me loose and let me go.”

  Gore blinked, then threw back his head and roared. “That was a good one. Such spirit, when here you are about to meet your Maker.”

  The gold ore, Fargo noticed, was being put in burlap sacks. So far dozens of sacks had been heaped in piles, and the piles were steadily growing.

  “No, Mr. Fargo. I’m afraid you stuck your nose in where you shouldn’t have, and it will cost you dearly.”

  “There is one thing I’d like to know,” Fargo said. “Why did it take you so long?”

  “To come back, you mean? I’ll get to that in a moment.” Gore glanced at the workers, grunted in satisfaction, then said, “As you have guessed, I found the vein during my trapping days. Or, rather, a friend and I did. It was between trapping seasons, when we had free time to do as we pleased. I loved to explore, and he always tagged along. One day we weren’t far from here, just riding along without a care, when we were set on by hostiles. Not the Nez Perce, by the way. Piegans. No doubt on a raid. And the moment they saw us, they whipped their horses and shrieked like banshees.”