by Jon Sharpe
The brush behind them crackled. Fargo whirled as out of it shot a stocky shape with an upraised double-bladed knife. Fargo fired the Henry one-handed from the hip, and the stocky shape catapulted backward into the brush and did not stir.
Shouts came from the right and left. The Tlingits had him pinpointed and were converging.
Fargo nearly wrenched Kira’s arm from her socket. He rounded a spruce and crossed a small clearing and then was in among trees again. An arrow struck a trunk with a loud thunk.
Fargo veered to the left, went a dozen feet, and angled to the right. He had lost track of how far they had run but he would imagine it was a quarter of a mile if not more. If he had to, he could run for miles yet. But Kira could not. Her legs were giving out. She was stumbling more than ever, and she was breathing more heavily, not from fright but from fatigue. She confirmed it with her next gasp.
‘‘My legs much tired.’’
‘‘Keep going if you can,’’ Fargo urged.
‘‘I sorry,’’ Kira said, and slowed.
Fargo pulled but she did not have it in her. Just then a knee-high log appeared. He slid over it, helped her do the same, and sank to the dank earth, his arm around her shoulder. ‘‘Not a peep,’’ he whispered in her ear. ‘‘We are dead if you make a sound.’’
A bob of her head showed she understood the gravity.
Out of the night they came, bounding like two-legged wolves. Some passed close to the log, others farther away. None came right up to it. And when the last of them had gone by, when minutes had passed and no more appeared, Fargo slowly rose and sat on the log.
Kira sat beside him. She was breathing easier but she was exhausted and still scared.
‘‘Are us safe?’’
‘‘For the time being.’’
‘‘I be so afraid,’’ Kira whispered. ‘‘Hear many stories for savages. They do terrible things. Every should die.’’ In her extremity, her English was worse than ever.
Fargo looked at her. ‘‘Their women and children, too?’’
‘‘All,’’ Kira insisted, then frowned. ‘‘No. That not be right. Not women. Never little children.’’ Her brow knit and she pondered and finally said, ‘‘Why can’t all white and red be nice?’’
‘‘Hell if I know.’’ Fargo thought of his usual haunts, where hate was just as common. But he couldn’t wait to get back there. ‘‘I aim to take the first ship to Seattle,’’ he said to himself. From there he would strike off for the central Rockies. A couple of weeks in the high country sounded like heaven.
‘‘You miss America?’’ Kira asked.
‘‘I miss being alone,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘You no like people?’’
‘‘They wear on the nerves.’’ Fargo did not elaborate. Let her think what she wanted. ‘‘Have you caught your breath?’’
‘‘Caught it?’’ Kira said, then grinned. ‘‘Oh. You Americans be funny how you say things. Yes, I have my breath caught.’’
‘‘No talking. We will go slow. Keep your eyes peeled.’’ Fargo rose, clasping her hand in his. He started off but she did not move.
‘‘American?’’
‘‘I have a name,’’ Fargo said. Not that anyone in Alaska ever used it. ‘‘What now?’’
‘‘You mad with me?’’ Kira whispered.
‘‘No madder than I am at myself.’’ Again Fargo led her off and this time she fell into step. The forest was still but the stillness was deceptive. The Tlingits could be anywhere.
Kira was more sure-footed now that they were taking their time. She did not bump into things, and tripped only once. They had gone slightly over a mile by Fargo’s reckoning and were near the gurgling stream when she brushed against him and whispered in his ear.
‘‘Sabina say you be great lover.’’
Fargo stared at her.
Kira smiled coyly. ‘‘Maybe you and me do like her and you do.’’
‘‘Women,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘Sorry?’’
Whatever answer Fargo might have given was cut short by figures that rose up out of the high grass. A brawny hand gripped the Henry’s barrel before Fargo could raise it while at the same instant a pair of iron arms wrapped around his own, pinning them to his side. He kicked at the man holding the Henry but the man nimbly dodged. Then there were six or seven hemming him, and resisting was pointless.
Another figure appeared. He strode up to Fargo and relieved Fargo of the Colt. ‘‘Surprised to see me again, American?’’ Vassily Baranof asked with a sneer. ‘‘I promised you an early grave and I am a man of my word.’’
18
‘‘Vassily!’’ Kira cried, and threw her arms around his neck. ‘‘Oh, Vassily, I am sorry much for you.’’ Pressing her face to his chest, she began crying.
Vassily said something to her in Russian and when she did not respond he glanced sharply at Fargo. ‘‘What is she talking about? What does she have to be sorry about?’’
‘‘She is sorry about your sister,’’ Fargo said.
Stiffening, Vassily pried Kira from him. ‘‘Sabina? Something has happened to Sabina?’’
Sobbing and sniffling, Kira nodded.
‘‘What? Tell me, woman, before I lose my temper.’’
Kira wailed and pressed her tear-streaked face to his chest again.
Fargo girded himself. The Russians who were holding him were distracted by the exchange between their leader and Kira, and their grips had slackened. The man with the Henry was holding it loosely.
Vassily turned to Fargo again. ‘‘So help me, if one of you does not start talking—’’ He did not finish his threat.
‘‘Your sister is dead,’’ Fargo revealed. He was unprepared for what transpired next.
‘‘You killed her?’’ Vassily snarled. He reached out for Fargo’s throat but he was still holding the Colt. Tossing it to the man holding the Henry, he raged, ‘‘I will twist your neck with my bare hands!’’
Jerking his head back, Fargo said, ‘‘It was a brown bear, not me. I had no reason to kill her.’’
Vassily straightened in shock. Whirling, he shook Kira again, twice as hard. ‘‘Is this true? Speak, damn you, woman! I have had enough of your weeping.’’
‘‘It very true!’’ Kira got out between sobs. ‘‘Bear kill her. It kill also man who guard us. Indians kill other one.’’
‘‘Indians?’’ Vassily drew back, perplexed. ‘‘What Indians? We have not seen any. You do not make sense.’’
Kira nodded at Fargo. ‘‘Ask him. He saw.’’
‘‘The Tlingits killed Earl,’’ Fargo confirmed. ‘‘They trailed you all the way from Sitka.’’
Vassily was still confused. ‘‘Why would they do that?’’
‘‘They want you dead,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You and everyone with you. Something to do with something your grandfather did to them and the Aleuts.’’
‘‘How can this be?’’ Appearing dazed, Vassily took a step back. ‘‘My sister, dead? The Tlingits making war?’’
‘‘We shouldn’t stand here like this,’’ Fargo warned. ‘‘They can pick us off.’’ When he said ‘‘us’’ he meant him. ‘‘Get into the trees before it is too late.’’
It was already too late.
There was the swish of displaced air, and the Russian holding the Henry and the Colt was jolted by a hardwood spear that struck him below the sternum and transfixed his torso from front to back. The man had life enough left to glance down and bleat in Russian. Then he keeled over.
The rest of Baranof’s men were rooted in disbelief. But only until arrows and more spears started raining down. Some of the shafts did not find targets. Others did. Within seconds men were shouting and screaming and firing wildly in all directions.
One of the men holding Fargo took an arrow in the arm and let go. The other released him and leaped back to spray lead.
Artificial thunder pealed the length and breadth of the valley.
Vassily was bellowin
g in Russian, evidently for them to hold their fire, but most were too spooked to heed or did not hear him.
Kira had her hands to her ears and was screeching in terror.
In all the bedlam and confusion it was simple for Fargo to hunker and reclaim the Henry and the Colt. No one tried to stop him. None of the Russians were even looking at him. Kira turned and clung to Vassily.
Fargo holstered the Colt, swiveled, and spied the tree line. If the Russians wanted to stay in the open and be picked off one by one that was their business. He had other notions.
Staying low, Fargo zigzagged toward the pines. A lead hornet buzzed his head. He looked back thinking one of the Russians was trying to stop him. But no, they were still blistering the night with wild shots. He ran on and ducked behind the first trunk he came to.
Many of the Russians had emptied their rifles and were reloading. The hail of arrows and spears had stopped, and from the smiles and looks the Russians were giving one another, they thought they had driven the Tlingits off. They were mistaken.
A howl uncannily like that of a wolf ululated on the wind. It was a signal. Out of the woods poured the Tlingits, their bows and lances set aside in favor of their double-bladed knives, clubs, and axes. Not hatchets, like the plains tribes commonly used, but long-handled axes that could sever a head or a limb with a single swing. And sever a head one did. Fargo saw it come sailing toward him. It bounced twice before rolling to a stop.
Fargo wedged the Henry to his shoulder. He did not want to take sides. But of the two, the Russians, in his estimation, were the lesser evil. So when he saw a Tlingit about to stab Pyotr in the back, he shot the warrior in the head.
Pyotr had been knocked down. Now he rose and glanced about, and since he had some idea which direction the shot came from, he spotted Fargo. If he was surprised he did not show it but instantly leaped up and ran toward him.
Pyotr was not the only one. Holding tight on to Kira’s hand, Vassily Baranof raced for the trees. He had a revolver but he did not use it.
A Tlingit rushed out of the night behind them. Vassily did not seem to notice him. Neither did Kira. Fargo did, and a hasty shot sent the warrior pitching to the soil.
Vassily and the girl made it. They crouched near Fargo, and Vassily said, ‘‘That was you who saved us?’’
‘‘I wasn’t thinking straight,’’ Fargo said.
The combat had become general. Man pitted against man, Russian invader against hate-filled warrior. Knives and axes flashed. Guns boomed. Men screamed and cursed.
Fargo got out of there. He had done what he could, and the way down the valley was open. He ran, counting on the Russians to keep the Tlingits busy. But he had not counted on some of the Russians fleeing with him, Vassily, Kira, and Pyotr among them.
It was hellacious, that flight. The dark and the press of vegetation and the uncertainty of never knowing when a Tlingit might rear up. They ran until they were spent and then they ran some more.
His lungs fit to burst, Fargo stopped and doubled over with his hands on his knees. The few warriors who had come after them had inexplicably fallen back. He did not like that. The Tlingits would not give up so easily.
Vassily and Pyotr and the other Russians were also bent over, some with spittle dribbling over their chins, all on the point of collapse. Kira was on her side on the ground, groaning.
Fargo could not resist. ‘‘So much for the gold,’’ he said.
Gulping air, Vassily shook his head. ‘‘I will come back,’’ he replied. ‘‘I will bring twice as many men.’’
‘‘Some folks never learn,’’ Fargo taunted. No amount of gold was worth dying for.
‘‘You would let primitives with bows and knives scare you off?’’ Vassily retorted. ‘‘You Americans, you are not bold enough. Your country will never amount to much.’’
‘‘We should be more like you, is that it?’’
Vassily was breathing a little easier, and straightened. ‘‘Now that you mention it. I am not timid, like you. When I see something I want, I take it, and I crush everything that stands in my way.’’
Fargo counted eleven Russians. ‘‘Seems to me the Tlingits are doing the crushing. Another attack and you won’t have any men left.’’
‘‘They caught us by surprise,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘They will not catch us by surprise again.’’ He sniffed in indignation. ‘‘I rarely make mistakes.’’
‘‘Tell that to your sister.’’
Vassily Baranof became a statue. When next he spoke, his tone was laced with resentment. ‘‘For that slight, when this is over, you will die in excruciating pain.’’
Fargo unfurled and trained the Henry on him. ‘‘I should drop you right here and be done with it.’’ But the shot might be heard by the Tlingits, who were bound to be searching for them.
Vassily laughed. ‘‘Go ahead. I do not fear death, American. I do not fear anyone or anything.’’
Fargo had had enough. Enough of the Russians, enough of the Tlingits, enough of the valley, and enough of Alaska. Covering them, he began to back away. ‘‘I’m leaving. I suggest you don’t follow me.’’
‘‘Do not worry. I refuse to tuck my tail between my legs and slink off like a cur,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘I will wait for daylight and then show the primitives why my grandfather was so widely feared by their fathers and their father’s fathers.’’
Fargo frowned in disgust. Whites who thought they had the God-given right to lord it over the red man had caused more sorrow and loss of life than could be calculated. About to back into the trees, he stopped when Kira said his name.
‘‘I want going with you.’’
‘‘What about your friends?’’
‘‘Yes, what about us,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘You belong by our side. I would take it poorly, most poorly indeed, if you run off with this American.’’ He added something in Russian.
Kira wrung her hands. ‘‘Please, Vassily, do not be so. You and me be close.’’
‘‘Is that what you think?’’ Vassily snorted. ‘‘You were Sabina’s friend, never mine. To me all you were and all you will ever be is a way to keep warm on a cold night.’’
‘‘Oh, Vassily,’’ Kira said.
‘‘Oh, Kira,’’ Vassily mimicked her. ‘‘Surely you did not think I cared for you? Any more than I would care for any other tart? That is where my sister met you, was it not? In a saloon?’’
Kira’s eyes were glistening with tears. ‘‘All this time,’’ she said softly. ‘‘How could I so mistake you?’’
‘‘As always, your English is atrocious, my dear,’’ Vassily said, and launched into more Russian. She responded a few times, mostly in monosyllables. Finally Vassily spat on the ground and barked in English, ‘‘Fine, then. Go with the American. I wash my hands of you. I hope the savages get their hands on you. Maybe after they have tortured you and you are close to dying, you will realize the mistake you made.’’
Hanging her head, Kira came to Fargo. ‘‘Thank you. I try keeping up.’’
Fargo took her hand. He kept one eye on the Russians but Vassily did not try to stop them. When they were out of sight and out of earshot, he asked, ‘‘What did he say to you back there?’’
‘‘He call me whore,’’ Kira said sorrowfully. ‘‘He call me ugly things. Him say he never like me. Only tolerate me.’’ She paused. ‘‘ ‘Tolerate,’ that be the right word?’’
Fargo nodded.
‘‘He only tolerate because Sabina like me,’’ Kira went on. ‘‘Now she am gone, he not want me near.’’
‘‘But he wanted you to stay with him.’’
‘‘Only so not be with you.’’ Kira raised her eyes to the stars. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. ‘‘I want be in Sitka again. I want drink. I want sleep in soft bed.’’
Fargo could use a drink himself. But on foot it would take weeks to get there. Weeks of hard travel over some of the most rugged terrain anywhere. That the country-side was crawling with man-eating
beasts and hostiles only made a bad situation worse.
Now that Fargo thought about it, he would not mind Kira’s company half as much as he thought he would. Those cold nights Vassily mentioned were all too real in the wild, and they did not have any blankets. They did not have any supplies at all. But that did not worry Fargo nearly as much as the Tlingits. He was accustomed to living off the land. He had been doing it for so long that it was second nature. They would not go hungry. They would not lack for water. But it would still be rough going on foot.
‘‘Wish I had gun,’’ Kira said out of the blue.
Fargo would not mind if she did. Two rifles were better than one, even if she could not hit the broad side of a charging moose.
‘‘You not say much,’’ Kira remarked.
‘‘I am listening,’’ Fargo said. And he was. The Tlingits were bound to be after them, and the brown bear he had slain might not be the only one that roamed the valley. But so far he had not heard anything out of the ordinary.
‘‘I sorry,’’ Kira said. ‘‘Me not think.’’
Fargo thought of all she had been through, and sought to soothe her by saying, ‘‘It’s all right. You are doing fine.’’
They picked up the pace, but not so fast as to wear them out before morning. The hours crawled by. By the position of the North Star it was about one when Fargo led her to the stream and announced, ‘‘We will rest a spell.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ Kira gratefully sank down and immediately began cupping water to her mouth.
‘‘Not too much,’’ Fargo cautioned. ‘‘It might make you sick.’’
‘‘I be careful,’’ Kira responded. ‘‘I not be water pig.’’
Fargo was beginning to take a shine to her. She had an earnest simplicity he liked. He thought of the shapely contours of her body, and promptly banished the image from his brain. Now was not the time for that.
From up the valley came the cry of a night bird that was not a night bird. It was answered by another night bird that was not a bird, only much closer to them.
Kira’s head shot up. Water dripping from her chin, she asked, ‘‘Are they—?’’