by Jon Sharpe
‘‘Why haven’t the Tlingits dug out the gold for themselves?’’ Fargo wondered.
‘‘And have the whites take it from us and leave us nothing?’’ Gray Fox rejoined.
‘‘I still don’t get what you are up to,’’ Fargo said. Although, the truth be known, he had more than an inkling.
‘‘When one white finds yellow ore, many whites follow,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘Greed brings them. As greed brought these others. Now there are that many more to kill.’’
Fargo absorbed that. ‘‘You wanted more whites to come. The gold was bait.’’
‘‘The gold was bait,’’ Gray Fox admitted.
‘‘You intend to wipe them out?’’
‘‘Not one will leave this valley alive. I will have my revenge for my son.’’ Gray Fox shook with intense emotion as he said it.
‘‘But that was decades ago,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Why have you waited so long to get back at them?’’
‘‘So I can kill the one who leads them.’’
‘‘Vassily Baranof?’’ Fargo tried to make sense of that. ‘‘How does he fit in?’’
‘‘His name. Baranof. It was a Baranof who made slaves of the Aleuts those many winters ago. It was that Baranof who tried to make slaves of the Tlingits.’’ Gray Fox paused. ‘‘It was that Baranof who shot my son.’’
Fargo had it then. ‘‘After all these years, you aim to make the Baranof family pay for killing your boy by killing Vassily. Blood for blood. Is that how it goes?’’
‘‘One of my family for one of theirs.’’
‘‘But that still doesn’t tell me why you waited so long,’’ Fargo pointed out. ‘‘Why didn’t you kill the Baranof who squeezed the trigger?’’
‘‘I wanted to,’’ Gray Fox admitted. ‘‘I wanted to more than I have ever wanted anything. But he was protected. I could not get close. Later he left. His son came for a while but I could not get close to the son, either. Then, four months ago as you whites measure time, I learned of this new Baranof. I learned he loves money. It came to me that here was my chance.’’
Fargo had to marvel at the depth of the old warrior’s hate. It made him think of the hill clans of the deep South, where blood feuds were waged for generations. It was another reminder, as if any were needed, that in some respects the white man and the red man were a lot more alike than either was willing to admit.
‘‘But I was clever,’’ Gray Fox had gone on. ‘‘I did not try to strike at him directly. I led the other one, Toomey, to the gold. I knew Baranof would hear of it, and when he came, I would follow him.’’ He stopped and looked at Fargo as if to say, Do you understand now?
Fargo had to hand it to him. Odds were, no matter when or how Vassily heard about the gold, he was bound to investigate. So that part of Gray Fox’s plan had worked. ‘‘Weren’t you worried when Toomey left for Seattle?’’
‘‘No. He told me why he was going, and that he would be back. All I had to do was wait. As you say, I have been patient for years. What were a few more weeks or months?’’
‘‘And you kept watch on Vassily. So when he left Sitka, you could follow him.’’
‘‘Me or my friends,’’ Gray Fox said, and gestured at the ring of Tlingit warriors.
So there it was. Fargo’s high hand in a poker game had cast him smack into the middle of a vendetta involving Russians and Indians the Russians had clashed with sixty years ago. ‘‘Sometimes life is too damn ridiculous for words,’’ Fargo said.
Gray Fox leaped to the wrong conclusion. ‘‘Ridiculous? That means silly. Was the death of my son silly? Was it silly of the Bear People to make slaves of the tribes that had lived here since the dawn of forever?’’
‘‘That is not what I meant,’’ Fargo said, quickly adding, ‘‘You speak good English for someone who hates whites so much.’’
‘‘I speak eight tongues,’’ Gray Fox stated. ‘‘We Indians are not as stupid as many of you whites think we are.’’
‘‘I’m not one of them.’’
‘‘I would like to believe you,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘Your eyes do not hold contempt for me. They do not hold hate. If more whites were like you, there would not be so much killing.’’
‘‘Frank Toomey is like me,’’ Fargo stretched the truth. ‘‘He does not hate Indians, either.’’
‘‘He does not hate us,’’ Gray Fox conceded, ‘‘but he thinks we are slow and primitive. His very words to me one night.’’ The old warrior chuckled. ‘‘He tried to get me to give up my heathen ways and accept his white god as the one true god.’’
‘‘He does not know any better,’’ Fargo defended him.
‘‘He does not know much at all,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘But you are right. It is not him I hate. We will spare him if we can. Him, and the one with the belly and the chins.’’
‘‘Which brings us back to me.’’
‘‘Yes. It does.’’ Gray Fox absently fondled his knife. ‘‘I will sleep on what to do with you. Until then you will sit by the fire. I will not have you tied but do not try to run. My friends would stop you, and some of them have a saying they are fond of. You would find it most interesting.’’
‘‘Care to tell me what it is?’’
‘‘More of my kind should live by it.’’ Gray Fox grinned. ‘‘The only good white is a dead white.’’
14
Skye Fargo faced a dilemma. There was a chance Gray Fox would convince the other Tlingits to let him go. If he sat there quietly until morning, they might let him take the bay and ride off down the valley. But come the morning something else was going to happen. The Tlingits intended to massacre the Russians. Toomey might be spared, or he might not.
Then there were the women. Fargo did not give a lick what happened to Vassily and the rest of his crew. But the women were another matter. The simple fact that they were female brought out in him the protective impulse it would bring out in most any male.
The interlude in Sabina’s tent did not persuade him one way or the other. She had bedded him, not the other way around. To her, he was a plaything, a dalliance she could discard once she had her way with him.
But Sabina was female, and Kira was female, and that made all the difference. Fargo could not let them be slaughtered. Nor did the notion of what the warriors would do with them before the warriors killed them sit well with him. He was not a red-hater. It was just that there were some things that were not done, or should not be done, by red or white. Raping women was one of them. He would no more stand still for red men raping white women any more than he would stand still for white men raping red women.
So it was that Fargo sat quietly as if he had been cowed by Gray Fox’s threat, but the whole time he watched the Tlingits from under his hat brim. Watched and waited.
The warriors held a counsel. Afterward, six of their number headed into the forest while the rest lay down to rest. They had no blankets. They curled up where they were and went to sleep, their weapons close at hand.
Gray Fox came over to Fargo. ‘‘Are you scared, white man?’’ The prospect seemed to please him.
‘‘Where did the others go?’’
‘‘To watch the Russians, who are searching for their horses. But they will not find them. Some of us caught the horses you ran off and are bringing them here.’’ That, too, pleased the old warrior. ‘‘You have done us a great favor, American.’’
‘‘I did?’’
‘‘We planned to run off the horses ourselves. You saved us the trouble.’’ Gray Fox grinned. ‘‘On foot the Russians cannot escape. They do not know it yet but they are trapped. We can do with them as we want.’’ He stopped and raised his gaze to the stars. ‘‘Tomorrow, after all these winters, my son will be avenged.’’
‘‘Will you sleep better then?’’ Fargo asked.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I had no idea the Tlingits were so bloodthirsty.’’
‘‘We do not kill just to kill. We do not make war just to mak
e war,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘But we fight when we have to and we go to war when we have to. Tomorrow we have to.’’
Fargo swept a hand toward the other Tlingits. ‘‘Do all of them want to kill the Russians because of your son?’’
‘‘Oh, no,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘But they have grandfathers or fathers or cousins or friends who have suffered at Russian hands.’’ He swept his own hand as Fargo had. ‘‘All of them, like me, want revenge. All of them, like me, will be satisfied with nothing less than blood.’’
Fargo had to try, so he asked, ‘‘Is there any chance I can convince you to spare the women?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘They are females.’’
‘‘The Russians have treated our females and females of other tribes in ways that make me hot with anger.’’
‘‘You like sayings. There is one in my country. Two wrongs do not make a right.’’
Gray Fox grew thoughtful. ‘‘Interesting. So if someone is wronged, they should not seek vengeance?’’
‘‘That is the idea, yes.’’
‘‘It is a stupid idea, fit only for the weak and the timid. A man must have his revenge when he is wronged or he is not much of a man.’’ Gray Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘Tell me. Are you one of those whites who carry a big book around? If someone walks up to you and hits you in the face, do you turn your face so they can hit you again?’’
‘‘If someone hits me, I hit them harder,’’ Fargo answered honestly.
Gray Fox laughed. ‘‘You think like a Tlingit. In the morning my people will hit hard at those who have hurt us.’’ He turned and went off to talk to another warrior. Shortly thereafter, he eased to the ground, and with his hands for a pillow, he was soon asleep.
Fargo lay down, too, but he only pretended to sleep. He saw that only two sentries had been posted, one on the north rim of the hollow and the other on the south rim. That made it easier for him.
Unfortunately, he could not take the bay. The Tlingits had produced a rope and tied it to a stake. Warriors slept quite close to it, some so close it was a wonder the bay did not step on them.
Having made up his mind, Fargo inched his fingers into his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. Half an hour went by. An hour. By then he was convinced that every Tlingit except for the sentries was asleep.
Easing onto his stomach, Fargo slowly pushed into a crouch. He was closer to the west rim than the east rim so he crept west, threading through the sleeping figures with extreme care. Some of the warriors were snoring. Others muttered or smacked their lips as if eating something, or made other noises. He watched their eyes, always their eyes, for any telltale hint that they were about to wake up. His skin constantly prickled, as if from a heat rash, and several times he narrowly avoided being touched when a sleeping figure unexpectedly rolled over and flung out an arm or a leg.
He also had to keep an eye on the sentries. Both were intent on the surrounding woods and only rarely glanced into the hollow. When they did, he instantly froze.
Fargo skirted a warrior who had thrust out an arm that nearly brushed his leg. Cautiously stepping over it, he looked up to find the sentry on the north rim peering down at the sleepers. He flattened, hoping he had not been seen.
The sentry raised a hand to his mouth as if to shout an alarm, and Fargo tensed, preparing to bolt. But the sentry only rubbed his chin and then turned toward the forest.
Ten more minutes it took. Ten minutes for Fargo to reach the west rim and crawl up out of the hollow. Once he was in among the spruce, he rose and ran, circling wide so the sentries would not hear him. When he was sure he was out of earshot, he ran flat out for the Russian camp. He had miles to cover. It would take hours. But he should get there well before dawn and would warn Vassily so Vassily could protect the women. That, and somehow get Frank Toomey out.
Preoccupied with thoughts of the Russians and the Tlingits, Fargo belatedly realized something was shadowing him. He distinctly heard the crackle and snap of underbrush. Suddenly stopping, he listened. Whatever was out there also stopped.
Fargo’s mouth went dry. Judging by the sound it might be a bear, and if it was, he stood no chance in hell, not when all he had was the toothpick. The next moment the thing grunted, and there could be no doubt. It was a bear, and it was stalking him.
Fargo thought of another saying. When it rains, it pours. He glanced about and selected a nearby spruce. Darting over, he began to climb. None too soon. With a tremendous crash of rending limbs and torn vegetation, an enormous bulk hurtled out of the night toward him. He was barely ten feet off the ground when the bear struck the trunk with an impact that nearly sent Fargo plummeting. Spurred by the image of four- to five-inch claws shredding his body, Fargo clambered another ten feet, then looked down.
His nocturnal stalker rose onto two legs. The thing was gigantic. Another Alaskan brown bear, and this one was hungry.
‘‘If I didn’t have bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all,’’ Fargo muttered.
The bear let out with a roar that silenced the entire valley. From end to end, the wolves and coyotes and night birds and other animals fell quiet as the ferocious challenge echoed off the mountain slopes and was borne on the wind.
Enough starlight filtered through the canopy for Fargo to see a pair of baleful eyes staring up at him. The eyes seemed to glow with inner fire. The brown bear reached up a giant paw and swiped at the tree, its claws raking furrows in the bark.
Fargo was safe enough. The bear was too heavy to climb, and the tree was too big for the bear to push over. But every minute the bear kept him there was a minute less he had to reach the Russians and warn them about the Tlingits. Breaking off part of a branch, he threw it at the bear’s face, saying, ‘‘Shoo! Scat! Go pester someone else, you hairy bastard.’’
Another roar, louder than the first, shook the very air, and the bear tried unsuccessfully to scale the trunk. Its massive weight caused two limbs to break and it gave up. It was content to stand and glare.
Fargo looked at the toothpick in his hand and laughed. A knife was a poor substitute for a gun. Only a heavy-caliber weapon could drop a monster like the one below. Arrows could not do it. Spears could not do it. A slug to the brain pan, the heart, or the lungs was the only sure method, and even then the bear’s indomitable will and unrivaled stamina might keep it alive long enough to slay its slayer.
Fargo made himself as comfortable as he could. The bear had begun pacing, circling the tree. It plainly was not inclined to go after easier prey.
That worried him. Fargo had heard tales of men treed for hours, even days, by bears that would not relent. He did not have hours, let alone days, to spare. He must get to the Russian camp before dawn or a lot of people were going to lose their lives, among them Sabina and Kira.
Time dragged. The brown bear paced and paced and paced some more, as tireless as a steam engine. Every now and again it would look up at Fargo and growl.
Fargo had to do something but he was at a loss as to what. He could swing down and run for it but he would not get ten yards before the bear overtook him.
Then the wind shifted. The brown bear stopped pacing and raised its muzzle. Sniffing loudly, it moved toward a thicket. A startled yelp burst from the thicket’s depths, and a second later so did a two-legged form in a tunic and leather headband, fleeing as if the hounds of hell were after it. Only in this instance, it was something worse.
Voicing another roar, the brown bear gave chase.
Fargo did not linger to see the outcome. Swiftly descending, he struck off for the valley’s end. He stayed alert for other Tlingits but did not see any. After much hard travel fraught with the uncertainty of not knowing if the brown bear would come after him, or some other predator might pick up his scent, he spied fingers of flame dancing in the dark ahead and slowed.
Now that he was almost to the camp, Fargo had another problem. He would not put it past Vassily’s underlings to shoot him on sight. Somehow he must get to Va
ssily himself, or the women. Sabina would keep him alive long enough for him to warn them. Then it was in their hands.
Fargo bore to the right. If he remembered correctly, Vassily’s tent was near the trees on that side. With a little luck, if no guards were near, he could slip in without being shot at.
The camp was as still as a cemetery. It occurred to Fargo that most of the men, Vassily included, must be out searching for the horses. He came to the edge of the trees. So far he had not spied a single soul, but Vassily would not go off and leave the camp unprotected.
The fires still blazed, so someone had to be tending them. Fargo scoured the shadows. He scanned the tents. Nothing moved, and there were no sounds, not even snoring.
Puzzled, Fargo glided into the open. He had the toothpick in his hand but it would be next to useless against a rifle or a revolver. He cat-footed to Vassily’s tent. The flap was closed but it was not tied. Opening it, he peered in.
Vassily was not there.
Growing more perplexed by the moment, Fargo moved to the next tent, and the one after that. No one, anywhere. He stopped and was debating whether to give a holler when muffled sounds from over near the aspens caught his attention. Warily venturing closer, he saw someone on the ground among the trees. Someone bound hand and foot and gagged.
Hastening over, Fargo knelt. ‘‘I’ll have you free in no time,’’ he whispered, and carefully cut the rope looped around Frank Toomey’s ankles.
Toomey was frantically trying to say something. A sock had been stuffed in his mouth and secured in place with a piece of rope.
‘‘Hold on,’’ Fargo said, and pried at the knots. It took some doing but presently they parted.
Toomey promptly yanked the sock from his mouth and commenced spitting and coughing. ‘‘Dear God, that was awful! The stink! It about made me gag.’’
‘‘Hush up or they’ll hear you,’’ Fargo warned.
Still coughing and spitting, Toomey shook his head. ‘‘I think they all left. They went after the horses.’’
‘‘They left you unguarded? Left the tents and all their belongings?’’