Idaho Gold Fever tt-327

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo didn’t doubt it. The Piegans were notorious for killing every white they came across.

  “We fled, of course. And as fate would have it, our flight brought us to this very canyon. We thought we had given them the slip. But no sooner did we spot the vein than the red devils appeared on the rim above us, raining down arrows. We spurred our mounts to escape but one of the shafts struck my friend in the eye.” Gore stopped, and shuddered. “I saw him get hit. I saw the tip pierce his socket and burst out the back of his head. And then I rode like a madman up the canyon and out the far end. I didn’t stop until I’d left those red demons far behind.”

  “Too bad,” Fargo said.

  “What?” Gore looked at him, and laughed. “Oh. Too bad I got away? But I did, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the vein. I had seen enough to realize a fortune in gold was there for the taking. But I had also seen my friend die and I wasn’t hankering to share his fate.”

  “You were afraid to come back.”

  Gore colored slightly. “To my shame, yes. I was afraid. When our trapping company was disbanded, I went east. I tried to forget about the gold but it proved impossible. The memory ate at me like a cancer. Some nights it was so bad, I’d break out in a sweat.” He paused and said softly. “All these years.”

  “What finally gave you the courage to do it?”

  “I looked in the mirror one day and realized I wasn’t getting any younger. I’d wasted my life at a common job when I could have lived a life of ease. Right then I made up my mind to do what I should have done long ago.”

  “And here you are.”

  “Yes. But I nearly starved crossing the prairie. And when I reached the mountains, I lost my way a couple of times. Finally I reached Fort Bridger, and that’s when everything fell into place.”

  “How?” Fargo asked when Gore didn’t go on.

  “I ran into Rinson and his men. They would kill their own mothers if there was money to be made. With their help, I realized I could get in and out of Nez Perce country. But it meant sharing the gold. I was reluctant to do that at first. Then the Winston party showed up, and I took it as an omen.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “I needed a way to transport the gold. I didn’t have the money to buy enough pack animals.” Gore grinned. “Their wagons will do quite nicely, don’t you think?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “All my talk about the valley was for the purpose of luring them here. And they fell for it, the gullible fools. As soon as the vein is picked clean, we’ll load the ore on the wagons and be on our way. Simple, eh?”

  “And the farmers? What about them?”

  “Why, they will be wiped out by the Nez Perce, of course.” Gore winked. “Even if the Nez Perce don’t do the actual wiping.”

  “You have it all worked out.”

  “Don’t I, though?” Gore laughed. “The only loose end was you, and now I have you tied up.” He laughed louder.

  Fargo had to think of something and he had to think of it fast. At any moment Gore could decide to put that bullet in his brain. He still had the Arkansas toothpick in his boot, but it would take time to work the rope loose enough to get at it. Time he didn’t have. So he did the only thing he could think of. “All this trouble you’ve gone to, and all for nothing.”

  “Eh?” Victor Gore tilted his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Nez Perce.”

  “What about them?”

  “A war party spotted me about a mile from here. I was running from them when I came across this canyon.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Fargo shrugged. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He gazed up at the high canyon walls. “They could be looking down on us even now.”

  “You’re lying, I say.”

  “I call it fitting that you come back after all these years only to end up like your friend.”

  Victor Gore stood. Nervously fingering his derringer, he called out, “Mr. Stern, get over here.”

  Stern came on the run. “What is it?”

  “When you were up on the rim did you see any sign of the Nez Perce? Any sign at all?”

  “Don’t you reckon I’d have told you if I did?”

  Gore swung on him, balling his free hand into a fist. “Don’t take that tone with me. Did you or didn’t you?”

  “Hell, no,” Stern said. “But I wasn’t really looking. I had my eyes on him.” Stern jerked a thumb at Fargo.

  “I want you to take Larson and go back up. Scour the countryside for sign of the hostiles. And be thorough.” Gore glared at Fargo as Stern ran off. “God help you if this is a trick. I’ll have Slag stake you out and we’ll sit around and watch Perkins go to work on you with his knife. He’s vicious, that one. He likes to cut and carve on people.”

  Fargo didn’t respond. His bluff had bought him precious minutes of life and now he had to make the most of them. But what could he do with Gore and the others right there? The ring of picks was continuous. “There’s something else you’ve overlooked.”

  “Make it good,” Gore said skeptically.

  “You were right about the army. They did send me. And when I don’t report back, patrols will be sent to look for me.”

  “They won’t have troops come this far in. It would provoke a war.”

  “Keep thinking that,” Fargo said. “I’ll visit you in the stockade.”

  Gore drew back a leg as if to kick him but lowered it again. “My interest in you is wearing thin. Were I you, I’d keep quiet.”

  Fargo took the advice. He’d planted seeds of doubt. Now he must get free. If they let him live until dark, he stood a chance of cutting himself loose. But that was a big “if.”

  Only a few minutes went by when Stern and Larson came sprinting back around the bend. Stern let out a yell that brought the work to a stop as everyone gathered around to hear what he had to say.

  “Smoke! We saw smoke!”

  “Calm down,” Gore snapped. “Where did you see it? From the direction of the valley?”

  “No. North of us, not south. It’s not the settlers.”

  “Injuns,” someone said. “We’re in for it now.”

  Most started to talk all at once and Gore silenced them with an angry roar. “A man can’t think with all this damn jabbering!” He rubbed his white hair, thinking. “Indians wouldn’t make camp this early. For that matter, whites wouldn’t, either.”

  “A village, maybe,” Rinson said.

  “Lordy, I hope not,” Larson said. “If they find us, we’ll be up to our ears in redskins.”

  “Stay calm,” Gore stressed. “It could be an army patrol. Fargo, here, might be working with them. The only sure way to find out is to go see. Mr. Rinson, take Perkins and Slag and do just that.”

  “Why us?” Perkins said. “Why not Stern or Larson or some of the others?”

  “Because I picked you,” Victor Gore said ominously. “And I don’t like being challenged.”

  Slag said, “I don’t mind going. It beats digging out ore.”

  They ignored Fargo. He tried working his wrists back and forth to create slack but the rope was too tight. Arching his back, he slid his hands to his boots and pried at the knots. They wouldn’t give. He was so intent on freeing himself that he didn’t hear someone come over. But he saw the shadow that fell across him and felt excruciating pain in his ribs.

  “What did I tell you?” Victor Gore said. “I should kill you where you lie but I might have need of you.”

  Grimacing, Fargo spat out, “Oh?”

  “On the off chance you were telling the truth. The army won’t dare do anything so long as I have you.”

  “Use me as a hostage? It won’t work.”

  “You place too little value on your hide. You’re a famous scout. They won’t want anything to happen to you.” Gore walked off.

  Fargo eased onto his other side to spare his aching ribs. He hated to admit it, but he was helpless. All he could do was lie there
. The minutes dragged and became hours.

  Gore hadn’t forgotten about him. Every so often, he glanced over.

  His ear to the ground, Fargo heard the rumble of hooves before anyone else. Perkins, alone, came flying back up the canyon and vaulted from his mount before the animal came to a stop. “It’s not the army! It’s Injuns! Rinson and Slag are keeping an eye on them while I came back to let you know.”

  “Are they Nez Perce?” Victor Gore asked.

  “Hell, I wouldn’t know a Nez Perce from a Blackfoot. One redskin looks pretty much the same as any other.”

  “How many? And more to the point, were they wearing war paint?”

  “I should say they were,” Perkins confirmed. “I counted seventeen but I might have missed a few.”

  “How far off are they?”

  “A mile, maybe a mile and a half. They were holding some kind of powwow.”

  “Damn,” Gore said. “This complicates things. But we needn’t pull out. Not until we have every last ounce of gold.”

  “We’re taking an awful chance,” Larson said.

  Gore gestured at the burlap sacks. “But well worth it. Or would you rather spend the rest of your life miserably poor?” He began to pace. “At the rate we’re digging, if we stick at it all day and all night, we should have most of the gold out by tomorrow morning. Agreed?”

  Someone said, “Yes.”

  “Then all we need to do is keep the war party busy until then. Once we’ve loaded the gold on the wagons and disposed of the farmers, we can hightail it out of here.”

  “By ‘busy’ you mean attack them?” Stern asked.

  “Are you insane? No. I aim to distract them another way.” Gore glanced at Fargo, and grinned. “Yes, sir. I believe we can give them something to do that will keep them out of our hair. We’ll give them a gift, as it were.”

  Fargo didn’t like the sound of that.

  “I don’t savvy,” Larson said.

  “You will.”

  Gore crooked a finger at Perkins and they moved out of earshot. Whatever Gore said made Perkins cackle. As Perkins ran up the canyon to do Gore’s bidding, Gore came back, and hunkered.

  “This will be our last talk. I want to thank you for showing up when you did. And for telling me about the war party you saw.”

  “I didn’t see one,” Fargo confessed.

  Gore laughed and slapped his thigh. “Then the joke’s on you, isn’t it? How fitting. The army will never learn what became of you. All they will know is that you rode off into the wilds to do their bidding and were never heard from again.” He chuckled. “Any kin you want me to send word to?”

  “Your true nature is showing.”

  “I have put on a bit of an act, haven’t I? And I’ve done quite well, if I do say so myself.”

  Fargo almost told him he had lied about the army, too. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “True,” Gore agreed. “Every moment we stay, we’re in mortal peril. But my prospects are a lot rosier than yours.”

  “You’re really going to do it? Kill all those women and children?”

  “What are they to me? It’s no different than drowning a litter of puppies you don’t want.”

  “You hide it well,” Fargo said.

  Gore sobered, and frowned. “Save your insults. None of us are perfect. Except for Martha Winston.” He snickered.

  “When your turn comes I hope you die screaming.”

  “Now, now. Is that any way to talk to someone who has arranged a special surprise for you?”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  “Let me put it this way.” Victor Gore glowed with sadistic glee. “You’ll die screaming a lot sooner than I will.”

  17

  “This spot will do,” Rinson said.

  Draped belly down over a horse, Fargo could see gray tendrils rising from the forest canopy half a mile away. Jostled by the ride, his side sore from rubbing against the saddle horn, he didn’t pay attention when the others dismounted and paid for his neglect when rough hands seized his legs and upended him. He tried to absorb the force of the fall by twisting so he hit with his shoulders but he only partially succeeded. A kick compounded the pain.

  “That was for all the trouble you’ve caused us,” Perkins said gleefully.

  Slag chuckled. “Kick him again. Kick him so hard, you stave his ribs in.”

  “None of that,” Rinson said. “We need him alive to keep the redskins busy, remember?”

  “A few busted ribs won’t kill him,” Slag said. “He’ll still be breathing when they find him.”

  “No,” Rinson snapped. “Gore told us how he wants it done and that’s how we’ll do it.”

  Perkins remarked, “I can’t get over how you let him boss us around.”

  “He didn’t have to cut us in but he did. For that we should be grateful.”

  “More for us if he’s worm food.”

  “God, you’re a greedy bastard,” Rinson said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I gave my word and shook on it.”

  “Since when does that count? We’ve always looked out for us and no one else. If you ask me, we don’t owe Gore a thing.”

  “I didn’t ask you. Now get to gathering the firewood so we can get the hell out of here.”

  Fargo was perplexed. It was foolhardy to make a fire so close to the war party. But Slag and Perkins hurried into the trees and shortly returned with their arms laden with broken limbs and kindling. They heaped it in a pile, and Slag rummaged in his saddlebags and produced a fire steel and flint.

  “Any last words?” Rinson taunted.

  “I expect to be around a good long while yet.”

  “Do you, now?” Rinson laughed. “Bold talk for an hombre who won’t see the dawn.” He slowly drew his Remington and just as slowly thumbed back the hammer. “Are you sure you don’t have any last words?”

  “You wouldn’t let Perkins bust my ribs but you’re fixing to shoot me?” Fargo shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  Rinson waggled the Remington. “Oh, this isn’t for you.”

  Slag was puffing lightly on a tiny flame so it would grow.

  “I wish we could see what they do to him,” Perkins said. “I saw a soldier once after the Sioux got done with him. The things they did you wouldn’t believe. It must have taken him hours to die.”

  “You almost sound as if you admire them,” Rinson said.

  “I admire anyone who is good at what they do. And when it comes to carving on people, redskins have us whites beat all hollow.”

  Slag stopped puffing. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it now. You’re not right in your head.”

  The flames were spreading. Smoke coiled up into the sky, growing thicker by the moment.

  “I get it,” Fargo said. “You’re hoping the war party will spot the smoke and come find me.”

  “Oh, they’ll spot it, all right,” Rinson said. Raising the Remington, he fired three shots into the air, one right after the other. “We’re close enough; they’re bound to hear that.”

  Pleased with themselves, the three cutthroats climbed on their mounts and reined around. Rinson gave a little wave. “I’ll think of them cutting on you while I’m having my way with that filly you’ve been poking.”

  They cackled and were gone.

  Bending his back into a bow, Fargo sought to slide his fingers into his boot. The rope thwarted him. He pried at the knot, pried so hard he thought his fingernails would tear off, to no avail.

  Every second counted. The warriors were bound to have seen the smoke by now. They would come on warily, though, suspicious of a trick, and that would slow them some.

  Fargo figured he had five minutes, if that. There was no way in hell he could free himself before the warriors got there. They would find him bound and helpless, exactly as Victor Gore wanted.

  Crackling from the fire sparked an idea.

  Quickly turning so his back was to the flames, Fargo wriggled backward. The heat was excruciatin
g, and got worse. Gritting his teeth, he looked over his shoulder and thrust his wrists into the fire. He tried to burn the rope and only the rope but it was impossible. His sleeves were soon ablaze, and the smell of his burning flesh filled the air. He stood it as long as he could. Then, uttering a low groan, he jerked his arms from the flames and rolled back and forth on his back to smother them.

  Bunching his shoulders, Fargo exerted all his strength. But all he succeeded in doing was dig the rope deeper into his wrists. He tried again, exerting every sinew in his arms and shoulders, and felt himself grow red in the face. But once again the rope refused to break.

  Fargo was sure the flames had weakened it. Again his muscles bulged. If he failed this time, he would stick his boots in the fire and try to burn the rope around his ankles before his feet were charred and useless.

  A snap threw Fargo off balance. Although his hands and wrists were welters of pain, he rolled over and set to work on his ankles. Untying the knots now was easy.

  Fargo started to stand. A whinny off in the underbrush warned him the warriors were almost there.

  Fargo ran. He made it into the woods and threw himself to the ground just as the first warrior appeared—a Nez Perce with a bow, an arrow nocked. The warrior drew rein and gazed about. Presently he was joined by others, until fully twenty painted warriors were trying to make sense of the shots and the untended fire.

  Fargo reckoned they would spread out and search for sign. In which case they were bound to find the tracks of the shod horses, and would follow them to the canyon. But to his consternation, the warriors just sat there, talking. Not one climbed down to examine the ground.

  Then another Nez Perce arrived. Why he came so late, Fargo couldn’t say. But it was Winter Wolf. The others stopped talking and patiently waited while the old warrior did what they should have done. Dismounting, Winter Wolf walked in ever widening circles, his aged form bent. Finally he said something that excited the rest.

  Fargo wished he could see the expression on Victor Gore’s face when the Nez Perce blocked the mouth of the canyon and fired down on the white invaders from the canyon rim. The whites had rifles but the Indians had numbers.