Rocky Mountain Revenge

by Jon Sharpe

  That wasn’t entirely true. Fargo would bend the truth when it suited him.

  Throughout the afternoon he noticed Motomo giving him thoughtful looks. That evening when they made camp the aggrieved father didn’t glare as he usually did.

  Fargo got a good night’s rest. He had the last watch. As he was putting his coffee on just before sunrise he looked to the northeast and saw a bright spot of reddish-orange miles off. It was another campfire. Since Speckled Wolf and his friends had been heading southeast, Fargo reasoned it must be someone else. Hostiles, possibly. He mentioned it to the Nez Perce when they woke up.

  Small Badger wanted to go see who it was. “They near our land. Maybe they enemies.”

  “What if you’re right?” Fargo sought to dissuade him. “Say it’s a war party with twenty or thirty warriors?”

  “That not be good.”

  “It’d be even worse if they spot us.”

  “We be smart and not be seen.”

  “It’s too risky,” Fargo said. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “You think they have dogs?”

  “It’s another white expression,” Fargo explained. “It means you should never go around asking for trouble.”

  “I ever say how strange whites talk?”

  Fargo wasn’t done arguing. “Didn’t that fight with the Blackfeet teach you anything? We tangle with another war party and we could end up dead.”

  “How about just one go and see who they be.”

  “Let’s not stir up a hornet’s nest if we don’t have to.”

  “Now they bugs?”

  Fargo chuckled and reached for the coffeepot. He noticed that the Ovaro was staring intently into the trees with its ear pricked, and he swiveled to see why. “Damn.”

  Well off in the deep predawn shadows sat a rider. An Indian. The instant Fargo spotted him, he reined around and used his heels on his mount.

  “Something the matter?” Small Badger asked.

  “We just got stung.”

  12

  Fargo was careful to stay well back to keep from being spotted. He never rode into the open if he could help it. For half an hour he trailed the warrior until the tracks brought him to a sawtooth ridge. He caught the scent of wood smoke. Drawing rein, he swung down, shucked the Henry, and stalked to a point that overlooked a winding valley. The warrior he had followed was almost to the bottom.

  Other warriors waited for him. Fargo counted four, and was relieved. Even more so when he saw a dead buck had been slung over a horse. It was a hunting party, not a war party. Better yet, he took them to be Yakimas, allies of the Nez Perce. They posed no threat. That the warrior hadn’t shown himself to Small Badger and the others was probably out of caution brought on by the presence of a white man.

  Fargo mounted and headed back. He took his time. He’d told Small Badger to keep going and he would catch up. Motomo, for once, didn’t object. It felt great to be shed of them. He couldn’t wait to deliver the Appaloosas and get on with his life.

  The Nez Perce had not gone far. On a switchback Fargo drew rein and leaned on the saddle horn and watched them. It was nice to enjoy a few more minutes alone. Out of habit he scanned the slopes across the valley, and stiffened. Three horsemen were paralleling the Nez Perce, high up near the tree line.

  Fargo could guess who they were—Speckled Wolf, Rooster and Ferret Killer. He’d figured they were long gone by now but he was wrong. When they filed in among dense firs and were out of sight, he reined down the mountain, riding hard.

  Barely a quarter of a mile separated the mountain he had descended from the mountain the breeds were on. He circled around rather than expose himself, pushing the Ovaro to a gallop. He hoped the breeds were so intent on the Nez Perce that they wouldn’t spot him.

  Once he was in among heavy pines Fargo slowed and reined up the slope. He had a long climb ahead. He imagined that Small Badger must be wondering what was keeping him but it couldn’t be helped. He needed answers and this time he was going to get them.

  The tree line was so high up that when he reached it, the Nez Perce and their horses looked like ants. Fresh hoofprints showed that the breeds weren’t far ahead. With wary care Fargo closed on his quarry. He avoided patches of loose rock that might clatter and give him away. And there they were.

  Fargo reined into cover. When they stopped so did he. Rooster pointed at the Nez Perce and said something and Speckled Wolf nodded. The three of them then angled down the mountain.

  Wondering what they were up to, Fargo followed. They were making for the Nez Perce. Or rather for the end of the valley, apparently seeking to reach it before the Nez Perce did. An ambush, Fargo figured, and rode faster.

  The afternoon was waning. In another hour or so the sun would set and the Nez Perce would make camp. Fargo suspected the breeds intended to wait until then to strike.

  Now and then he caught sight of Small Badger and the others. Motomo was leading Thunderhoof and the mare.

  A belt of firs opened onto a steeper slope sprinkled with spruce. Fargo had lost sight of the breeds and kept rising in the stirrups to try to spot them. He rounded a blue spruce and started to rise, and swore.

  Not thirty feet away stood Ferret Killer. He was off his horse, examining a front hoof.

  It was hard to say which of them was more surprised. Fargo instantly drew rein but the harm had been done. Ferret Killer hollered and brought his rifle up, an older percussion model, the stock decorated with brass studs. Fargo reined behind a spruce just as the rifle boomed. Vaulting down, he peered between the branches.

  He thought Ferret Killer might come after him, but no, the man was on his bay and racing to catch up to his companions.

  Fargo swung onto the Ovaro and jabbed his spurs. He rounded tree after tree. He rounded yet another and a blow to the chest lifted him clear out of the saddle. He feared for a moment he had been shot but he didn’t hear the crack of a rifle or pistol and then he was on his back, the breath knocked out of him, his chest a welter of pain.

  Over him loomed Ferret Killer. The breed had dismounted and waited for him and swung the rifle like a club.

  Ferret Killer drew his knife.

  Fargo rolled as the blade flashed down. Ferret Killer stabbed at his chest but a sweep of Fargo’s leg sent the half-breed tumbling. They were both on their feet in a heartbeat, Ferret Killer’s knife gleaming in the sunlight. Fargo drew his Colt.

  “Drop it or die.”

  Ferret Killer hesitated but only until he heard the click of the hammer. The knife fell to the grass and he raised his arms. “Go ahead and shoot, white-eye. I am ready to die.”

  “Good for you,” Fargo said. “But first I want some answers. What are you and your friends up to? Why did you follow me all this way?”

  “Haven’t you guessed? To stop you from buying the Appaloosas.”

  “The same question. Why?”

  “If I told you it would make no difference.”

  “Make more sense than that.”

  Ferret Killer glanced down the mountain and then stared at the Colt. “You will kill me whether I answer or not so go ahead and get it over with.”

  Fargo took a gamble. He lowered the hammer and twirled the Colt into his holster. “There. Now will you tell me?”

  “Is this a trick?” Ferret Killer asked in some amazement.

  “I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Very well. I will—”

  Ferret Killer got no further. The undergrowth crackled and out of it crashed Speckled Wolf and Rooster. Both jerked rifles to their shoulders and took swift aim.

  Fargo flung himself behind a spruce. Only Rooster’s rifle boomed, and he missed. Quickly, Fargo snaked out his Colt. More crashing and crackling told him the breeds were fleeing. He darted out but didn’t have a clear shot. The Ovaro had stopped a stone’s throw away and he ran to it and vaulted into the saddle. Jabbing his boots into the stirrups, he gave chase.

  Fargo was confident he could catch them. Few ho
rses were as fast as the Ovaro; fewer still had its stamina. But the slope was so steep he couldn’t ride flat out. He had to hold the pinto in for its own sake. The half-breeds were more reckless. As a result, he lost ground.

  Fargo was fit to be tied. Nothing seemed to go right of late. He kept the three in sight until without warning they seemed to be swallowed by the earth. A dry wash was the reason. They had ridden down into it and raced away along the bottom. He stayed after them, the Ovaro’s heavy hoofs churning clods of dirt. He went around several bends and couldn’t understand why he didn’t see them. Then he glanced down and wanted to howl in frustration.

  There were no tracks.

  Fargo reined around. He knew what he would find before he found it. They had left the gully and he had missed it. Cleverly, they had done it at a bend.

  He went up and over and pursued them into dense forest. He had lost precious time and now they were farther ahead than ever.

  Fargo chased them for two miles and finally had to rein in. The Ovaro was lathered with sweat and growing winded. He had been outwitted and left to eat their dust. His chance to find out the truth had slipped away.

  Angry at himself, Fargo headed down the mountain. He wasn’t in any hurry. As a result, the sun was almost down when he came on the Nez Perce. They had chosen a large clearing by a narrow stream for their camp. Kicking Bird was watering the horses. Small Badger was kindling the fire. Motomo had brought down a rabbit with an arrow and was butchering it. None of them noticed him until he entered the clearing.

  Small Badger was delighted he had made it back safe. Fargo related what had happened and Kicking Bird asked the question, through Small Badger, that was plaguing Fargo.

  “What these half-breeds want? Why they follow us?”

  Fargo didn’t know. Speckled Wolf and his friends weren’t out to steal the Appaloosas; they were out to stop him from delivering them to Clarence Bell.

  Why, was anyone’s guess.

  That night, as usual, they took turns keeping watch. Fargo had from about midnight to two. He sat by the fire and listened to the cacophony of bestial cries and screams and roars and came to a couple of conclusions. First, that Bell and the breeds must be enemies. Second, that the breeds weren’t killers. Initially, they had tried to steal the Ovaro rather than kill him. Speckled Wolf had shot Running Elk in self-defense. Ferret Killer had tried to kill him but that was because he was after him.

  Whatever their motive for wanting to stop him, Fargo had taken half the payment and promised to see the job through, and he was a man of his word.

  Kicking Bird relieved him.

  Fargo lay on his back, propped on his saddle, his blanket to his chest, and tried to sleep. Once again it proved elusive. He tossed and shifted from side to side and finally succumbed.

  The next day they were on the lookout for the half-breeds but saw no sign of them. The same with the day after. Fargo was sure Speckled Wolf and his friends were still out there and still shadowing them but they had learned from their mistake and were being extra vigilant not to be caught.

  Fargo and the Nez Perce took turns leading Thunderhoof and the mare. He grew fond of the stallion. It was the one horse he’d come across that he admired almost as much as he did the Ovaro.

  Appaloosas were a fine breed. They were noted for their calm dispositions as well as their keen intelligence. Their endurance was exceptional. Besides which, the manner in which Thunderhoof carried himself, the way he stood and moved, showed that here was no ordinary horse. Thunderhoof was notches above the common herd, an animal that any man who knew anything about horses would be proud to own.

  The mare was mild and easy to handle. At night she stood by the stallion’s side. During the day she meekly followed him.

  Four days after Fargo’s clash with the breeds, the Nez Perce climbed a series of benches toward a pass. Fargo was leading the Appaloosas. When he glimpsed movement higher up he thought it must be Speckled Wolf and his friends. All he saw was a shadowy bulk that he mistook for a horse. Then a shaft of sunlight splashed brown fur and he knew it for what it was, and he called out a warning.

  The Nez Perce stopped and looked back at him and Fargo raised his arm and pointed.

  A grizzly had lumbered out of the firs. As big as buffalo, with pronounced humps and massive heads, grizzlies were the lords of the Rockies. Vicious claws and razor teeth rendered them supreme shredding machines. Normally grizzlies shied from humans but this one was curious. It stared and raised its nose to the wind and sniffed.

  Fargo swore. It could be the grizzly was hungry and was trying to figure out if they were something it would like to eat.

  Small Badger was notching an arrow to his bowstring. “Don’t even think it,” Fargo warned.

  “Eh?”

  “You’ll only make him mad.”

  Grizzlies were enormously difficult to kill. Their thick bones, their heavy layers of muscle and fat, were virtually bullet- and arrow-proof.

  “But what if him attack?”

  “Let’s hope to hell he doesn’t.” Fargo started to reach for the Henry but thought better of it. He must hold on to the lead rope and be ready to get out of there.

  The grizzly did more sniffing.

  “Sometimes bears run when people yell,” Small Badger mentioned. “You want I yell?”

  “Give it a try,” Fargo said. He had used the same trick himself. Black bears nearly always turned tail. Grizzlies were more unpredictable.

  Cupping a hand to his mouth, Small Badger let out with a war whoop that rolled down off the mountain.

  The bear rumbled deep in its chest.

  “Don’t do that again,” Fargo cautioned.

  Kicking Bird said something to Small Badger and slapped his legs against his mount and moved toward the patriarch of the wilds.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  “Him say he lead bear off.”

  “Stop him.”

  “Do not worry, Iron Will. He very good rider and have quick horse. He know what to do.”

  “He’ll provoke it,” Fargo said.

  Suddenly the grizzly reared onto its hind legs. Its maw parted and it let out with a roar.

  Kicking Bird kept on going.

  “Call him back,” Fargo urged Small Badger.

  “It do no good. Him can do what he want.”

  Fargo’s gut churned. Every instinct he had told him this was a mistake and his instincts were seldom wrong. “Do it for me. Tell him to stop and let the bear wander off on its own.”

  Small Badger called up to the other warrior. Kicking Bird glanced down at them and kept on climbing.

  “Damn it.”

  The bear dropped onto all fours and charged.

  13

  Small Badger was right. Kicking Bird was a good rider and his horse was quick. He reined around and used his heels and his mount exploded into motion.

  So did the grizzly. And grizzlies, for all their immense size and huge bulk, were incredibly swift. Over short distances they were as fast as a horse, or faster. This grizzly, although enormous, had the speed of a cougar. It was on Kicking Bird so swiftly the warrior had no time to react.

  A giant paw slashed. Red streamers spewed and a squeal of agony was torn from the horse. Down it crashed. Just in time, Kicking Bird threw himself clear.

  The grizzly could easily have finished both off but instead it ran past them and locked its eyes on the first thing it saw.

  “Oh hell.” Fargo wheeled the Ovaro, hauled on the lead rope, and fled down the mountain. Thunderhoof and the mare pounded after him.

  So did the bear. A mighty roar and a burst of muscle and it was almost on top of the mare.

  Fargo threw caution aside. To save the Appaloosas he must ride like a madman. He glanced back and saw the grizzly gnash at the mare’s tail. Its teeth missed by inches.

  Small Badger was shouting but Fargo couldn’t hear him over the din of pounding hooves. A Douglas fir reared and he swept around it, clipping a branch. Thunderh
oof and the mare were right on the Ovaro’s flanks. Fargo realized that should he suddenly stop they would plow into him and all three animals would go down with the bear there to rip and rend.

  Small Badger and Motomo were galloping after them but there was nothing the two Nez Perce could do. Their arrows would only enrage the bear more.

  Fargo knuckled down for the ride of his life. He reined right, he reined left, avoiding obstacle after obstacle Thunderhoof and the mare matched the Ovaro’s every move, their manes flying.

  The grizzly didn’t relent. It pressed after them, snapping and growling, a living behemoth of destruction, an embodiment of all that was savage and primal in the wild.

  A boulder the size of a covered wagon hove out of the earth. Fargo swept around it and had to jerk on the reins to avoid another, smaller boulder directly in his path. Thunderhoof vaulted over it. The mare, pulled off-balance by the rope, narrowly missed breaking her legs.

  The bear raked a paw and the mare squealed.

  Fargo spied a thicket of brambles. Blackberries, so delicious to eat, the plants lined with sharp thorns that tore at any man or beast that ate them. He rode straight for it. At the last possible split second he reined to the right and once again Thunderhoof and the mare imitated the Ovaro as if they were living shadows.

  The grizzly snapped at the mare as she turned, and missed. Unable to stop, it hurtled into the briars. Its fur and thick hide protected it from the worst of the thorns but not all of them, and in a frenzy of rage it tore at the source of its hurt.

  Fargo was able to increase his lead but not by much. The bear was after them within moments, its fury lending it added speed.

  The slope grew steeper but Fargo couldn’t slow, couldn’t stop. Leaning back, he thrust his boots against the stirrups. The rope grew slack. Thunderhoof was almost next to the Ovaro, the mare only a little behind.

  Fargo risked another glance. The grizzly was almost on top of them. He faced front just in time to see a log. As thick around as his hips, one end lay on top of a boulder a good three feet off the ground. It gave him an idea. He used the same trick he had with the brambles. He waited until the last possible instant and hauled on the reins. The Ovaro and the Appaloosas veered aside barely in time.