by Jon Sharpe
By ten they reached timberline. Hardly had they emerged from the trees than Frank Toomey twisted back and forth in his saddle, threw out an arm, and exclaimed, ‘‘There! There! What did I tell you? Do you see? Exactly as I said it would be.’’
That it was. A stark, barren, rock peak, split by some cataclysm of yore, perhaps ten miles to the northwest as the raven would fly.
‘‘We won’t get there until late tomorrow,’’ Lester said. ‘‘How much more after that to the gold?’’
‘‘Another day, possibly two.’’
Fargo had been keeping an eye on their back trail. Now reining around, he surveyed the expanse of wilderness below and said, ‘‘No sign of whoever is following us.’’
‘‘They don’t know that we know they are dogging us, and they will want to keep it that way,’’ Earl remarked.
They worked their way around to the other side of the mountain and descended. Once they flushed a bevy of grouse. Later several elk disappeared into the pines, amazingly silent for animals so large. Later still an eagle winged overhead, so near that they heard the beat of its wings and saw it cock its head and study them.
By pushing hard, they were within two miles of the stony peak when the sun perched on the western horizon. Earl shot a doe, which he and Lester butchered, and that evening they dined on succulent venison and beans. Fargo did the honors. Everyone ate their fill and turned in early.
Morning came, and Earl and Lester were almost as excited as Toomey. They threw on their saddles and headed out, leaving Fargo to lead the pack animal. Since he was taking his time and paying attention to what went on around them, he was the one who spotted tendrils of smoke to the west and shouted to get the attention of the others.
‘‘Who the hell can that be?’’ Earl wondered aloud. ‘‘The ones who are following us are to the south.’’
‘‘It could be anyone,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘Hunters, fellow prospectors, anyone.’’
‘‘Just so they don’t show up at the claim,’’ Lester said, ‘‘or word will get back to Sitka and we will be in gold-crazed yacks up to our ears.’’
That night they camped at the base of the stone peak. As soon as the sun was up they were under way, Toomey practically giddy with glee. ‘‘Do you see this stream?’’ he asked when they came on a gurgling blue ribbon. ‘‘It is the most important landmark of all. I can’t possibly get lost now.’’
All they had to do was stick with the stream, he informed them, to where it flowed out of a long, winding valley, lush with grass. Lo and behold, they soon came to a valley, and rode up into it.
Toomey giggled with glee. ‘‘We are so close I can barely sit still!’’
A quarter of a mile in, they abruptly drew rein. Their way was barred by a herd of animals unlike any Fargo ever set eyes on. In size and shape they reminded him of buffalo. The males stood five feet high at the shoulders, whereas male buffalo stood six. In length they were slightly smaller, too, the males being about eight feet long, as opposed to twelve feet for a mature buffalo bull. They had broad heads, like buffalo, and dark, shaggy hair that was much longer, hanging down to the ground on some of the males. Both sexes had horns. Those on the females were short and curved. Those on the males had a spread of two and a half feet and were thicker than those of buffalo. They had big eyes, thin lips, and pointed ears.
‘‘Musk ox,’’ Earl declared.
The brutes were aptly named. Fargo caught a whiff of a strong odor. Urine, unless he was mistaken.
‘‘We better be careful and swing wide,’’ Earl advised. ‘‘They can be as cantankerous as moose.’’
There were over thirty in the herd. At a bellow from a male, the older males and females formed a protective ring around the younger ones, presenting a phalanx of horns.
‘‘I saw a wolf try to break through a line of musk ox to get at a calf once,’’ Earl related. ‘‘They gored it and tossed it into the air, then trampled it to a pulp. Gave me a whole new respect for anything with horns.’’
Both the males and females were snorting and stomping the ground, and some of the larger males were bellowing their challenge. Suddenly a male broke from the ring and came toward them with its head held low.
‘‘Damn!’’ Earl said, and brought up his rifle.
But the musk ox came only halfway, then wheeled and rejoined the line. A second bull imitated the first and again went back without attacking.
‘‘They are trying to scare us off,’’ Toomey said.
‘‘And doing a good job of it.’’ Earl grinned. ‘‘I’d rather tangle with that brown bear we ran into than these critters.’’
Not Fargo. Bears were the most unpredictable creatures on earth, and the most formidable. Grizzlies were especially hard to kill. He had heard of a mountain man reputed to have slain close to thirty, but he figured that was whiskey talk. No one could run into that many and live to tell of it.
Reining to the left, they gave the angry musk ox a wide berth. Once they were past, the herd quieted and resumed feeding.
‘‘You never know what you are going to run into out here,’’ Earl remarked. ‘‘If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.’’
‘‘So long as we don’t run into hostiles,’’ Lester said. ‘‘They spook me some. It’s the carving they do. I’d rather be buried with all my parts than shy a few.’’
‘‘When I go I hope it is quick,’’ Earl said. ‘‘In bed would be nice. Maybe while I am diddling a dove.’’
‘‘What a thing to talk about,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘Dying.’’
‘‘We all do, sooner or later,’’ Earl replied. ‘‘Might as well accept it so when the time comes you don’t scream and bawl.’’
‘‘You are a bundle of surprises, Mr. Marsten.’’
Only then did it hit Fargo that he had not known Earl’s and Lester’s last names. Not that it mattered. As Earl had just pointed out, dead was dead.
The valley wound on, mile after mile, becoming more wooded. They were rounding a bend when something snorted and came crashing out of the undergrowth.
Instantly, they drew rein. Fargo was in the lead, Toomey and Earl behind him, Lester at the rear with the packhorse. ‘‘No one move,’’ Fargo said. He had his hand on his Colt but he doubted it would drop the engine of sinew and horn that confronted them.
It was a moose. A male moose, notoriously belligerent, and with the might to hold its own against any comer. This one stood almost eight feet at the shoulder and had to weigh close to three-quarters of a ton. Its antlers put those of a musk ox and a buffalo to shame. Five feet from tip to tip, they were broad and flat and could fling a wolf, or a man, through the air with a mere flick. A dewlap hung from under its chin.
Fargo waited for the moose to make up its mind whether it was going to attack. Reining around and riding off would do no good. Moose could run as fast as horses. They had been known to charge people without provocation. Males in rut would charge anything; one reportedly charged a steam locomotive once.
‘‘Why don’t you shoot it?’’ Toomey whispered.
‘‘No,’’ Fargo said.
Earl gigged his horse forward, saying, ‘‘Hell, if you won’t, I will. Moose jerky is as tasty as any other, and there’s enough meat on this one to last us a month of Sundays.’’
‘‘Stay still,’’ Fargo urged, but the harm had been done.
With an angry bellow, the moose lowered its head and charged. Earl was bringing up his rifle but he did not quite have it level when the moose slammed into his horse. Horse and rider spilled in a tangle of limbs and the moose went running on past.
Fargo hoped it would keep on running. It was doing just that when Lester’s rifle banged, and instantly the moose wheeled and charged again, this time hurtling toward Frank Toomey.
‘‘Help me!’’ Toomey squawked, slapping his legs against his mount in a frantic bid to escape.
Lester’s rifle boomed again as Fargo yanked the Henry from his saddle scabbard. He worked the leve
r, injecting a round into the chamber, but before he could aim and fire, the moose rammed Toomey’s horse and both crashed down, the horse squealing in fright.
Earl had scrambled to his feet. He had lost his rifle when he went down and was casting wildly about for it.
‘‘Shoot it!’’ Lester bawled at Fargo. ‘‘What in hell are you waiting for?’’
Fargo wanted to be sure. He had the Henry to his shoulder as the moose spun with surprising agility and bore down on them yet again. This time it was barreling toward the bay, its antlers held low to rip and disembowel. He fired at its head, banging off two swift shots.
At the second blast the moose veered aside. But it did not run off. It charged Lester and the packhorse.
Crying out in alarm, Lester hauled on his reins and tugged on the lead rope. Neither prevented the moose from slamming into the pack animal and upending it where it stood. The lead rope was wrenched from Lester’s grasp, nearly spilling him from the saddle.
The moose tripped and almost went down but recovered and spun once more. Its long head swung toward Fargo and the antlers lowered for the spurt of speed that would precede impact.
Fargo squeezed the trigger, jerked the lever, squeezed the trigger again. The moose was forty feet out and he fired once more, thirty feet and he fired, and then twenty feet and Fargo sent yet another slug into its brow. He braced for the jarring jolt of its heavy form and slid his boots free of his stirrups so he could spring clear at the last instant, but that instant never came.
Its forelegs buckling, the moose crumpled. Momentum carried it to a sliding stop an arm’s length from the bay.
Fargo aimed at the head but he did not shoot. Instead, he lowered the Henry. Another shot was unnecessary.
The eyes of the moose were open but glazing and its tongue was lolling out.
Earl, lustily swearing, had recovered his rifle. Lester was worriedly examining the packhorse.
Toomey was still on the ground, flat on his back with an arm over his face. ‘‘Is it safe?’’ he asked.
‘‘You can get up,’’ Fargo said.
Toomey gazed fearfully about. When he saw the moose he smiled and slowly rose to his knees. ‘‘I thought I was done for. That was the scariest thing that ever happened to me.’’
‘‘Aren’t you forgetting the men who tried to kill you on the ship?’’ Fargo reminded him.
‘‘The cook wasn’t as big as this moose,’’ Toomey said.
Both his mount and Earl’s were back up and unharmed except for a gash on the buttermilk’s flank. The packhorse, though, was still down, and would stay down this side of the grave. Its belly had been opened and its insides were oozing out in a spreading pool of organs and gore. Weakly thrashing its legs, it tried to stand but lacked the strength.
‘‘Damn, damn, damn,’’ Earl fumed. ‘‘We don’t have a horse to spare, and this has to happen.’’ In his fury he stepped over to the moose and kicked it.
Some of the packs had been knocked loose, their contents spilled. Lester started to gather them up, heaping muttered oaths on all moose in general and the dead moose in particular.
Toomey was staring sadly down at the pack animal. ‘‘One of us should put this poor thing out of its misery.’’
‘‘You have a rifle,’’ Earl said.
‘‘I’d rather it was someone else,’’ Toomey told him. ‘‘I have always been squeamish when it comes to killing.’’
‘‘It’s a horse, not a person, for God’s sake.’’
‘‘I’m sorry. I was never much of a hunter.’’ Toomey turned away. ‘‘Please. Can’t one of you do it?’’
Fargo had listened to as much as he could abide. The horse was suffering, suffering greatly. It might be hours before it succumbed. He touched the Henry’s muzzle to its head.
‘‘Thank you,’’ Toomey said gratefully.
Earl shook his head. ‘‘Don’t get mad at me for saying this, Frank, but you are next to worthless sometimes.’’
‘‘I do what I can,’’ Toomey said.
‘‘What I want to know,’’ Lester said, ‘‘is what we are going to do about these packs. I would hate to have to leave the flour and sugar and the rest of our food to spoil or be eaten by varmints.’’
They talked it over and decided to divide the packs equally among them. Each man then tied those he was responsible for onto his horse. Within half an hour they were on the move again.
A lightning-charred spruce was cause for Toomey to rise in the stirrups and exclaim, ‘‘See that? We are almost there! Ten minutes at the most.’’
‘‘That soon?’’ Lester said. He looked at Earl, who shook his head. Both glanced at Toomey to see if he had noticed.
Fargo had. He was riding with the Henry across his thighs, his thumb on the hammer, his finger on the trigger. ‘‘How easy is it to spot?’’ he asked.
‘‘You have to know where to look,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘It’s why I have not been too worried about someone robbing me of what is rightfully mine.’’ He caught himself. ‘‘Right- fully ours, I mean, since you have as much at stake as I do.’’
Another bend brought them to the valley’s end. Slopes rose on either side to a peak high above.
‘‘What the hell?’’ Earl said, turning this way and that. ‘‘Where is this vein you keep bragging about?’’
Fargo looked, too. He was no prospector but it was plain as plain could be. There was nothing there.
8
‘‘O, ye of little faith,’’ Frank Toomey quoted, and gigged his horse to a stand of aspens. Dismounting, he beckoned.
Fargo swung down. He cradled the Henry and followed Toomey into the stand. Earl and Lester were behind him.
‘‘I never did ask Gray Fox how he found the gold,’’ Toomey was saying. ‘‘But he did mention he has been all over these mountains. As old as he was, I believe him.’’
The stand was small. Thirty feet from where they entered it the aspens ended yards from a rock cliff not much higher than the aspens themselves and not much wider than a log cabin. The rock was laced with quartz. Not a lot, but enough to be promising. Gold was often found with quartz.
‘‘Where is it?’’ Lester impatiently demanded.
‘‘Hold your horses,’’ Toomey said, and sank to his knees at the base of the rock cliff. He began scraping at the dirt.
‘‘Don’t you want a shovel?’’ Earl asked.
‘‘I don’t need one,’’ Toomey said while continuing to scrape. ‘‘It’s not solid earth.’’
An inch down was a lattice of interwoven aspen branches. Roughly circular and about the size of a large basket, it had been fashioned with gaps so fingers could be inserted and the whole thing lifted like a lid. As he gripped it, Toomey said, ‘‘This was Gray Fox’s idea. He made it for me. Indians can do clever things with their hands.’’
The lattice covered a hole. In the shadow of the cliff it looked deeper than it was, as Fargo found when he stepped to the edge. Two feet deep was all, enough to expose a yellow vein. He could no longer doubt. Not when the evidence was before his eyes.
‘‘There it is,’’ Toomey said, beaming.
‘‘Gold!’’ Lester breathed.
Earl squatted, braced a hand on the edge, and slowly reached down to touch the precious ore. ‘‘I’ll be damned. You did it. You really did it.’’
‘‘I told you,’’ Toomey said.
‘‘Yes, you did, Frank, and I am sorry I did not entirely believe you,’’ Earl said, running his hand along the vein almost as if caressing it. ‘‘It is human nature, I reckon.’’
‘‘I suppose,’’ Toomey said, and glanced at the sky. ‘‘Do we start digging now or wait? The sun will set in less than an hour.’’
‘‘We should dig now,’’ Lester said.
‘‘No,’’ Earl responded. ‘‘We have been in the saddle all day, and we’re tired. The gold isn’t going anywhere. I say we rest up and start in the morning. We’ll be fresh and raring to work.’’
Fargo stripped and tethered the bay. By then Lester had a fire going and Earl was putting coffee on. Fargo placed his saddle and bedroll so his back was to the cliff face and not the aspens. Wearily sitting, he rummaged in his saddlebags for his tin cup.
Toomey was gazing blissfully at the hole. ‘‘We’re here! Finally and truly here.’’
‘‘Now comes the hard part,’’ Earl said. ‘‘All the digging and the pick work.’’
‘‘Between what we dig out and Fargo’s stake money, I can hire a crew and buy wagons and everything else I need, and in six months the mine will be in operation,’’ Toomey predicted. He looked at Fargo. ‘‘How does it feel to be rich?’’
‘‘I’ll tell you once I am.’’
Toomey chuckled. ‘‘You are not one to put the cart before the horse, are you?’’
‘‘Not until we know how big the vein is,’’ Fargo said. Some had been known to peter out after a few yards, in which case they would have gone to all this trouble for very little money.
Earl remarked, ‘‘A man should always keep a clear head. Speaking of which, one of us has to ride back down the valley in the morning and butcher that moose. Provided a bear or something else doesn’t get to it during the night.’’
‘‘I certainly am not going,’’ Toomey declared.
‘‘Lester and Fargo and me can draw straws,’’ Earl proposed. ‘‘Whoever draws the short one cuts up the moose while everyone else stays here and digs.’’
That is what they did. To make it fair, they had Toomey hold three blades of grass pressed between his fingers with just the ends poking out so they could not tell how long each was, and picked. As whim would have it, Fargo drew the short blade.
‘‘The moose is yours to do,’’ Earl said, ‘‘and you are welcome to it. I like fresh meat as much as the next man but I’m not too fond of the blood and gore that goes with carving it up.’’