Seminole Showdown

by Jon Sharpe

  The night was as quiet and peaceful as could be, though, and after they parted at the back door of the house with a quick, soft kiss, Fargo returned to the barn, climbed up into the hayloft again, and within seconds of stretching out, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He didn’t wake up until just before dawn the next morning, when Billy called from down below, ‘‘Hey, Skye! Time to rise and shine, amigo!’’

  Fargo crawled out of his blankets, stood up, and stretched, working the kinks out of stiff muscles. He pulled his boots on, strapped the gun belt around his waist, and settled his hat on his head before climbing down the ladder.

  Young Charley McCloud had come out to the barn with Billy. He sat on a stool milking one of the cows, the stream of milk hissing into a wooden bucket. He called, ‘‘Mornin’, Mr. Fargo. You sleep all right?’’

  ‘‘Morning, Charley,’’ Fargo replied, then thinking of Echo, he answered the young man’s question. ‘‘I slept just fine, thanks.’’

  Billy jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the house. ‘‘Go on in and get some breakfast, Skye. Time you’re done eatin’, the sun will be up and we can take a better look around in those trees.’’

  That sounded like a good plan to Fargo. He went in the house and found the place full of delicious aromas like coffee and pan bread and bacon. Echo sat at the table and smiled at Fargo as he came in. ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Fargo,’’ she said primly.

  Fargo tugged on the brim of his hat. ‘‘Ma’am,’’ he greeted her just as formally. He figured Echo would appreciate the discretion on his part. She might not be ashamed of what they had done the night before, but she wouldn’t want to flaunt it, either.

  Cam-at-so came into the room and gave Fargo a dignified nod. ‘‘The night passed peacefully,’’ he commented.

  ‘‘That it did,’’ Fargo agreed.

  ‘‘But peace is a fleeting thing,’’ Cam-at-so went on. ‘‘It never stays for long at a time.’’

  ‘‘That’s all too true,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Billy and I are going to do our best to see that it does, though.’’

  Cam-at-so shook his head. ‘‘My son has never been one to seek out peace. That is why he rode with the white man’s army, the same army that killed our people in Florida, in the old days. And even though he has returned, I can still see the restlessness in him. He was not made for the quiet, simple life of a farmer.’’

  Fargo thought that was probably true about Billy. He had the same fiddle-footed nature as Fargo himself, and the day would probably come when he rode away from the farm again. When he did, he might not come back.

  At the moment, though, with the crisis that gripped the area, Fargo knew that Billy wanted only to help his family and rescue his sister from whatever fate had befallen her. He could depend on Billy.

  The breakfast Mary Ann set before him was every bit as good as the supper the night before had been. Billy and Charley came in while Fargo was eating, and Billy said to Echo, ‘‘Charley is going to ride back over to your folks’ place with you, just in case.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure that’s necessary,’’ Echo replied with a frown.

  ‘‘I am,’’ Billy insisted. ‘‘Those varmints who’ve been snatching girls have never bothered any who had a man around.’’ Billy grinned and punched Charley lightly on the arm. ‘‘Charley may not hardly qualify, but I reckon he’ll do in a pinch.’’

  ‘‘And I’d be mighty pleased to ride with you, Miss Echo,’’ Charley said, a brick red flush creeping over his face. Fargo figured that Charley had a bit of an adolescent crush on Echo, and he couldn’t blame the boy a bit for feeling that way.

  She gave in and nodded. ‘‘All right. Thank you, Charley.’’

  A short time later, Fargo and Billy saddled their horses and rode out to the trees where the attackers had hidden the night before. The sun had risen by now, and rays of reddish gold light slanted under the spreading branches of the trees. Fargo dismounted and walked slowly over the area, peering at the ground as he did so. From time to time, he paused and hunkered on his heels to study something even more closely.

  Billy’s expression grew more and more impatient as he waited. Finally he said, ‘‘Finding anything, Skye?’’

  ‘‘Their horses were shod,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘In some places, that would mean they were white men. Not necessarily here, though.’’

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Billy agreed. ‘‘Putting shoes on our horses is one of the things the Seminoles have picked up from the white men. Anything else?’’

  Fargo reached down and picked up something from the ground. He held out his hand and showed Billy the empty cartridge case that lay on his palm.

  ‘‘They left some of their brass behind. They were firing Henry rifles, like mine. Those rifles are new enough, and expensive enough, so that we can say the gang is well armed. They’ve got money.’’ Fargo scratched at his jaw as he frowned in thought. ‘‘And hombres who have money are usually pretty interested in acquiring more.’’

  Billy waved a hand. ‘‘This isn’t really telling us anything.’’

  ‘‘Sometimes little things add up to quite a bit,’’ Fargo pointed out. ‘‘A few of those horses have distinctive nicks and scratches in their shoes. I’ll know the hoofprints if I ever see them again.’’

  Billy accepted that claim with a nod. Fargo had a phenomenal memory for such details.

  ‘‘Let’s ride up to the top of the rise where those two varmints tried to grab Echo,’’ Fargo said as he reached for the Ovaro’s dangling reins. ‘‘I want to take a look at any tracks they might have left.’’

  As they circled the farmhouse and rode in the direction of the rise, Billy said, ‘‘They had already broken off the attack on the house when they jumped Echo. A couple of them must have spotted her and looped around like we’re doing. We were in the house, so we wouldn’t have seen them. They went after her because they wanted to get something out of the raid.’’ He caught his breath suddenly. ‘‘Oh, hell, Skye. I just figured it out. They wanted Daisy, and they were ready to kill the rest of us to get her. Everybody’s scared and keeping their womenfolk under guard now, so there aren’t any gals out on their own for the gang to kidnap.’’

  ‘‘Except for Echo,’’ Fargo pointed out.

  Billy rolled his eyes and said, ‘‘Yeah, except for gals like Echo who are too blasted stubborn and independent for their own good. Anyway, since those bastards can’t get women one way, they’ve started attacking out in the open now and are willing to kill to get what they want.’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘Could be,’’ he allowed. ‘‘Let’s take a look at the tracks they left.’’

  Fargo found the spot where Echo’s wagon had been parked and dismounted to scrutinize the ground around it. Billy joined him and pointed. ‘‘There are the hoofprints they left. They probably match up with some of the ones you saw over yonder in the woods.’’

  ‘‘Hard to tell,’’ Fargo murmured. ‘‘There’s nothing too unusual about these.’’

  ‘‘Maybe not, but when we find one of those sons o’ bitches, I’ll bet we find them all.’’

  ‘‘Let’s hope so,’’ Fargo said with a nod. He swung back up into the saddle. ‘‘We’ll see how far we can follow this trail.’’

  When the two would-be kidnappers had fled the day before, they hadn’t been trying to conceal their tracks. All they had cared about was getting out of there with their hides intact before Fargo ventilated them. Because of that their trail was easy to follow as it led west toward a low range of hills. The two riders had crossed several creeks along the way, but each time Fargo was able to pick up the trail again on the other side of the stream.

  ‘‘I’m pretty good at reading signs,’’ Billy said, ‘‘but I think they would’ve lost me by now, Skye. I’m sure glad you were able to ride down here and give us a hand.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t accomplished much yet,’’ Fargo said.

  They rode on, and after a while Billy commented, �
��‘I’m a mite surprised these hombres haven’t joined up with the rest of the bunch yet. I figured they would have done that after they failed to grab Echo. Maybe they all make a habit of splitting up and heading back to their hideout by different routes, though.’’

  ‘‘Some gangs will do that,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘It’s harder to follow the trail of one or two men than it is that of a big bunch.’’

  As if to confirm what he said, the tracks they were following disappeared a short time later while crossing a rocky stretch of ground. Fargo and Billy searched for the trail for another hour before admitting they had lost it.

  ‘‘Damn!’’ Billy said as he pounded his right fist into his left palm. ‘‘I was hoping they’d lead us right to wherever they’ve been holding those girls they snatched.’’

  ‘‘You knew it couldn’t be that easy,’’ Fargo said with a grim smile. ‘‘These hombres have had their own way around here for several months. They’re not fools.’’

  Billy gazed off toward the hills. ‘‘I’ll bet they’re up there somewhere. That’s pretty rugged country. Plenty of places for folks to hide who don’t want anybody finding them. We might search for a month and not come across them, Skye.’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘That’s why we have to come up with some other way to get at them. Let’s head back to your folks’ place.’’

  It was past noon when the two men reached the farm. Billy’s mother had kept food warm for them, though, so they were able to enjoy a late lunch and let their mounts rest for a while before they rode out again.

  Charley was there and reported that Echo had reached her parents’ farm without any trouble. ‘‘Didn’t see anybody except a few folks who have farms between here and there,’’ the youngster said. ‘‘Did you have any luck trailing those fellas who tried to carry her off?’’

  Billy shook his head. ‘‘We followed them toward those hills west of here but then lost their trail.’’

  Charley stared at Fargo in surprise. ‘‘You lost a trail, Mr. Fargo?’’

  ‘‘Happens to the best of us, son,’’ Fargo told him with a smile. ‘‘The trick is not to let that keep you from trying again. This afternoon we’re going to follow those hombres who were hiding in the trees and taking potshots at you folks yesterday evening.’’

  Charley’s eyes widened with excitement. ‘‘Can I come along?’’

  Billy spoke before Fargo could reply to the boy’s question. ‘‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Charley,’’ he said. ‘‘Even if we do find the gang, we don’t plan on taking on the whole bunch by ourselves. Still, it could be dangerous, and I’d rather you stayed here.’’

  ‘‘Aw, Billy, I can take care of myself,’’ the young man protested. ‘‘And I’m a good shot—you know I am.’’

  Billy shook his head. ‘‘I know it, but you’re staying here anyway.’’

  Charley turned to Cam-at-so. ‘‘Don’t you think it’d be all right for me to go along?’’ he insisted.

  The older man said, ‘‘I agree with At-loo-sha. You should leave this task to him and Mr. Fargo. They know what they are doing.’’

  Charley clearly didn’t like it, but he gave up the argument. ‘‘You’re gonna wind up tangling with those varmints, I just know you are,’’ he muttered. ‘‘And I’m gonna miss the whole thing!’’

  A short time later, Fargo and Billy saddled up and rode out again, this time heading for the trees that had provided cover for the bushwhackers. Picking up the trail proved to be no problem, because at least a dozen men had ridden away from there in a hurry. The tracks stood out clearly on the ground.

  The trail started out heading west, although not along the same exact route as the one Fargo and Billy had followed that morning, but after a short distance it curved rather sharply south. Fargo reined in to look at it and frowned. ‘‘I never saw the tracks of those other two veering off from this bunch. That’s a mite odd.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we just missed their tracks,’’ Billy suggested.

  Fargo shook his head. ‘‘Nope, I was watching for them. It looks like the two who went after Echo weren’t with this bunch after all, like we thought before.’’

  ‘‘But they had to be,’’ Billy said. ‘‘Maybe they didn’t take part in the attack on the house, but they still have to be part of the same gang.’’

  ‘‘Seems likely,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Come on, let’s see where this group was going.’’

  They followed the tracks south. Fargo knew that if they kept going in that direction, eventually they would come to the Canadian River. It was a small stream where it crossed the Texas panhandle, a long ways west of here, but this far downstream it was a good-sized river as it wound its way eastward to the point where it merged with the Arkansas River not far from Fort Smith. The river also formed the southern boundary of the Seminole lands in Indian Territory.

  Around midafternoon, Fargo and Billy came out on a high bluff overlooking the river. The tracks they had been following turned east to follow the bluff. ‘‘Must be a trail down to a ford somewhere in that direction,’’ Fargo mused. He and Billy turned their horses and began riding slowly along the bluff, their eyes on the tracks.

  They hadn’t gone very far when Billy suddenly reined in and said, ‘‘Damn it, my horse’s gone lame.’’ As Fargo brought the Ovaro to a stop, Billy dismounted and lifted his mount’s right front leg. He took a clasp knife from his pocket, opened the blade with his teeth, and started digging at the hoof. After a moment he nodded grimly. ‘‘Yeah, he picked up a rock under his shoe. I guess we’d better head back.’’

  ‘‘You go on back to the farm,’’ Fargo told him. ‘‘I’m going to follow this trail a ways farther and try to find how they get down to the river, anyway.’’

  Billy frowned. ‘‘Damn it, Skye, you can’t go after those bushwhackin’ bastards by yourself. You’d be outnumbered at least a dozen to one!’’

  ‘‘I don’t plan to get in a gunfight with them,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I just want to find out where they went and maybe where they’ve been holing up. A group that size can’t go gallivanting all over the countryside at night and then disappear during the day without a pretty good hideout.’’

  Clearly, Billy didn’t like the decision, but after a moment he shrugged and nodded acceptance of it. ‘‘Be mighty careful, though,’’ he warned Fargo. ‘‘They’ve made it plain they don’t mind killin’. After you came down here to help me and my family, I don’t want you windin’ up like those other two fellas who went looking for the missing girls.’’

  ‘‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’’ Fargo promised.

  He rode on eastward along the river while Billy turned back north, leading the lame horse to let it rest for a while before mounting up again. Within a few minutes, some trees screened Billy from Fargo’s sight.

  The Trailsman turned his attention to the tracks they had been following. He could see the river below to his right, broad and slow moving, and the bluff overlooking it was dotted with trees and brush.

  The sandstone slope dropped off steeply, but Fargo knew it was only a matter of time before there would be a place where riders could get down to the river. The question was, would the gang he was following take that trail, cross the Canadian, and continue on south, or would they keep riding east toward Arkansas?

  Like all the land between here and the Arkansas state line, the country up ahead had been set aside for the Indians. Fargo knew that if he kept going in this direction, he would wind up in the Creek Nation, and he was aware of the long-standing hostility between the Creeks and the Seminoles. The tribes had been allies once in their fight against the white men, but many in the much larger Creek Nation looked down on the Seminoles, probably because of their prolific intermarrying with other races. When the tribes were first removed here to Indian Territory, Fargo recalled, the Creeks and the Seminoles had shared a reservation, until the abuses heaped on the Seminoles by the Creeks had led the government to set up a separate Seminole Nati
on.

  At least, that was the way the Seminoles told the story, Fargo thought with a faint smile. The Creeks probably had a completely different perspective on the matter, and the actual truth was probably somewhere in between. That was how such things usually turned out.

  As for Fargo, he didn’t care about tribal politics. He just wanted to find those missing girls and women and see that those responsible for kidnapping them were brought to justice. If the trail led into Creek territory, though, he would have to wonder whether members of the rival tribe might be responsible for all the trouble.

  About a mile from the spot where he’d parted company with Billy, Fargo reached a place where the bluff had eroded and formed a trail down to the river, just as he expected. And also as he expected, the hoofprints he’d been following led down that gentler slope.

  The sure-footed Ovaro went down the path with ease, and Fargo found himself riding along a grassy bank about forty feet wide. The sandstone cliff loomed above him, bulging out in an overhang. Flooding in years past had probably been responsible for that formation, he thought. Water flowing swiftly along the base of the bluff had eaten away at the relatively soft sandstone.

  A few cottonwoods grew along the riverbank, and when some birds suddenly exploded out of the top of one of them about fifty yards ahead, Fargo tensed. He had just started to reach for his rifle to pull the weapon from its sheath when a shot roared. Fargo had instinctively swayed to the side as he reached for the Henry, and that move saved his life. A bullet whistled past his ear, so close he seemed to feel the hot breath of its passage.

  He kicked his feet free of the stirrups and rolled out of the saddle, snagging the rifle as he fell. With an agile grace unusual in a man so big and muscular, he landed lightly on his feet and threw himself behind a large sandstone boulder that had split off from the bluff and rolled down to the riverbank sometime in the past. Another bullet hit the rock and threw dust and stone fragments into the air just as Fargo ducked behind the boulder.

  He levered a round into the Henry’s firing chamber and then waved his hat at the Ovaro, signaling the stallion to get back. The well-trained animal whirled around and galloped back along the bank, out of harm’s way. He would return when Fargo whistled for him.