Beartooth Incident (11 page)

Comparing the others to wolves wasn’t far from the mark. All were lean and sinewy with eyes that glittered with the promise of death. Five were white. The sixth, who happened to be in the lead, had some red blood, as evinced by a shock of raven hair and copper skin.

The outlaws were herding the cows along but they weren’t in any particular hurry. One man dozed in the saddle.

The half-breed was on a claybank. He came abreast of where Fargo was hidden and suddenly drew rein and leaned down.

Cud Sten stopped, too, rumbling “What is it, Rika? We’ve got us a ways to go yet and I want to be there by nightfall.”

Rika straightened and turned. “Tracks,” he said simply. “They puzzle me.”

“How can that be?” Cud said. “What you don’t know about tracking ain’t worth knowing.”

“A white man has come this way.”

“What’s that?” Cud said, and he and the rest glanced all about, most placing their hands on their revolvers.

“It’s a white man we know,” Rika said. “Or his horse, at least.”

“What are you babbling about, damn it?”

Rika pointed at the tracks. “These were made by the animal our friend Tull rides.”

“Are you sure?”

“As you say. What I don’t know about tracking is not worth knowing. And I know the tracks of our horses as I know my own.”

“But if it’s Tull, where did he get to?”

“I ask myself the same question.”

Cud gigged his bay up and the two of them climbed down and hunkered to examine the prints.

Fargo palmed the pearl-handled Colt. He knew what they would do next, and he was ready. They would mount and come after him. With luck he could drop half of them before they suspected where he was, and then it would be cat and mouse until he finished them off.

True to his prediction, Cud Sten and Rika whispered back and forth. They climbed on their horses and reined around to talk in hushed tones to the others. Then, drawing their six-shooters, all seven swung toward the forest.

They were so obvious Fargo had to grin. But he didn’t find what happened next the least bit funny.

The branches of the pine were laden thick with snow. Now and then clumps fell to the ground. But just as the outlaws reined toward the forest, a clump of snow the size of a washbasin fell with a loud thud, and the pine, relieved of the weight, suddenly whipped straight up into the air. The rest of the snow in its branches came raining down on Fargo. For a few seconds all he saw was falling snow. Then the whiteout ended, and he could see again.

The tree no longer hid him.

He was in plain sight.

For a few seconds the outlaws were riveted in surprise. Then Cud Sten bellowed, “That’s not Tull! Kill the son of a bitch!”

Fargo wheeled the sorrel and jabbed his spurs. Behind him six-guns blasted and lead sang a song of death. One buzzed his ear, another narrowly missed his shoulder. Then he was past more trees and at a gallop.

Cud Sten let out with another bellow. “After him!”

Fargo scowled. Thanks to a fluke he was riding for his life. He reined right to avoid a tree, reined left to avoid another. A few more shots were fired but none came close. Then the shooting stopped.

The outlaws were after him in earnest.

The snow muffled the thud of their hooves. Nearly everything was white, the trees so burdened that many hung low to the ground. Fargo hadn’t gone far when he discovered how precariously balanced they were. The sorrel brushed against one, and it snapped vertical as that first tree had done, raining snow all over him. .

“Don’t let that son of a bitch get away!” Cud Sten bellowed.

Fargo glanced back. Two of them were hard after him. One raised a revolver but lowered it again because he didn’t have a clear shot.

Minutes passed, and the sorrel’s lead began to widen. But Fargo could tell the sorrel was beginning to tire. The heavy snow was sapping its vitality.

Fargo had to try something. He looked for another large pine, bent low, and soon spied a huge one so covered with snow, it resembled a white hill more than a tree. Reining around it, he came to a stop and hunched low over his saddle. Now it was up to fickle fate, which had already betrayed him once.

Off to the right hooves drummed. One of the outlaws flew past without seeing him.

To the left, more hooves. That made two.

Tense with hope, Fargo waited. Another rider was briefly visible, staring straight ahead. He heard one crash through the growth and twisted his head. The man had bushy red hair and a bushy red beard and, like the others, didn’t notice him. That made four.

Only two to go and Fargo would be safe.

A man in a mackinaw went past.

Then it was Cud Sten himself, his club held high as if he couldn’t wait to bash in Fargo’s skull.

Fargo waited. He didn’t hear the seventh. After a bit he decided the man must have gone by without him noticing and he gigged the horse around the pine.

Rika was barely ten feet away, the stock of a rifle wedged to his shoulder. The instant Fargo appeared, he fixed a bead on Fargo’s head and said quietly, “It’s up to you.”

Fargo had the Colt at his side. He could jerk it up and fire, but he had no doubt that even if he got off a shot, he was as good as dead. Rika wouldn’t miss, not at that range. “Don’t do anything I’ll regret,” he said, smiling. Then, holding the Colt by two fingers, he slowly raised his hand and slid it into his holster. “There. How’s that?”

Using only his legs, Rika goaded his horse nearer. “Turn so your back is to me and hold our arms out from your sides.”

Fargo did so, chafing inside at his run of bad luck. He felt a slight tug on his holster. The pearl-handled Colt was gone.

“You can turn around now.”

Rika had moved back out of reach and lowered the rifle to his waist, but it was still fixed on Fargo’s chest. He hefted the Colt. “This belonged to a friend of mine. That horse is his, too. How is it you have them?”

“I lost my horse in the blizzard. I about died from the cold and the snow, and then I came on this animal and a man lying dead with a broken arrow stuck in him.”

Rika’s face showed no hint of whether he bought the story. “And why is it you were hiding behind that tree when we came by?”

Fargo shrugged. “I was on my way out of the mountains. I heard you and your friends coming and didn’t know if you’d be friendly.”

Again Rika showed no emotion. He wedged the pearl-handled Colt under his belt, pointed the rifle at the ground, and fired two quick shots, which echoed off the high slopes like so much thunder.

Fargo tried another smile. “What are you doing here, anyway? And with a bunch of cows? Is there a ranch nearby I don’t know about?”

“Cud Sten will ask the questions. He’ll be here shortly.”

Fargo wore his best poker face. He was in for it unless they believed him.

His nerves tingling, he heard riders approach. Soon they were all there, ringing him, their revolvers out and cocked.

Cud Sten hadn’t drawn his. He reined up next to Rika and listened to a brief recital of Fargo’s account. Then Cud fixed his dark eyes on Fargo.

“That’s your story, is it, mister?”

Fargo nodded.

“It could be you’re telling the truth. Then again, it could be you’re an egg-sucking bastard. And if you killed my pard to get his horse and gun, you’ll die in more pain than you can imagine.”

“I’ve never stolen a horse in my life,” Fargo said. “If I’d know your ranch was nearby, I’d have guessed the man rode for you and gone there to tell you I found him.”

“My ranch?” Cud said, and glanced at Rika.

“The cows,” Rika said.

That seemed to amuse Cud Sten. “So you reckon I’m a rancher, huh? Do you hear that, boys?”

Some of the others laughed.

“Why else would you be herding cows in all this snow?” Fargo feigned ignorance.

“Makes you wonder,” Cud said.

“I’d be obliged if I could stay a night or two to rest up. As for this horse, I’ll pay for him, or another if you have one to spare.”

Cud’s interest perked and he leaned forward. “Have a lot of money on you, do you?”

“Hardly any,” Fargo said. The money that they had taken from Tull was wrapped up in his saddlebags. “You’d have to sell it to me cheap.”

The redhead gigged his mount closer and wagged his six-shooter. “I don’t believe a word this coyote says. I say we blast him and be on our way.”

Cud Sten’s features hardened. “Are you the boss now, Lear? Are you giving orders now?”

The redhead blanched. “No, Cud! Never. Not me. I wouldn’t ever do that. I’m just saying, is all.”

For a few seconds all eyes were on Sten as if they expected an explosion of violence.

“Is that a fact?”

“Please, Cud. I’ve been with you a long time. You know me.”

Cud Sten smiled, and the others visibly relaxed. “I’ll let it pass this time. But only because I’m in a good mood.”

“Lucky devil,” one of the others said.

Cud turned to Fargo. “I don’t rightly know what to do with you yet, so I’m taking you with me until I do. If it turns out you’re lying, I’ll do things to you that would make an Apache green with envy. If you have any objections, let me hear them.”

Fargo starred at the ring of hard faces and the ring of revolver muzzles, and he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He smiled and spread his hands. “Where are we headed?”

Fargo’s luck wasn’t all bad. They didn’t tie him or search him. Two did ride on either side of him, their hands on their six-shooters. Rika was up ahead, the rest behind with the cows.

One of those guarding him was Lear, and Fargo tried to strike up a conversation.

“You don’t like strangers much, I take it?”

“I don’t like anybody. So shut the hell up.”

When Rika came to the tracks Fargo had discovered earlier, he drew rein. Cud Sten rode up and asked why Rika had stopped.

“Another shod horse,” Rika said, pointing at the hoof prints. “Not Tull’s. It went that way.” He pointed across the grassy flatland.

“
Another
white man hereabouts?” Cud Sten rubbed his club on his chin. “The Beartooths are right popular all of a sudden. It can’t be the gent we stole these cows from. We lost him and his hands days ago. Can’t be a lawman, either. The law never comes this far in.”

“Want me to have a look-see?”

“Of course. We’ll be at the cabin. Bring him back breathing. Maybe he’s a pard of simpleton here.” Cud waved his club at Fargo. “If so, they’ll have a heap of explaining to do.”

Rika nodded and trotted toward the far trees.

Cud rose in the stirrups and bellowed at the men tending the cows, “Keep ’em moving. I aim to reach her place before dark. If we don’t, it will rile me, and you don’t want me riled.”

Fargo clucked to the sorrel and brought it up next to Sten’s animal. Neither Lear nor the other guard tried to stop him. “Mind if we talk?”

Cud regarded him with a mix of contempt and curiosity. “What’s on your mind, simpleton?”

“What do you aim to do with me?”

“I’ve already done told you. I don’t rightly know. Could be you’re just passing through—in which case maybe I’ll let you live. Could be you told me a pack of lies—in which case I’ll break every bone in your body before I pound your skull in.”

Fargo nodded at the club. “I don’t see many of those.”

“They’re right handy.” Grinning, Cud smacked the club against the palm of his other hand. “As quiet as a knife and better than a pair of fists.” He patted the club.

“How’d you come to use one?”

“The first time was in a saloon fight. I busted a chair over a fella’s head and it broke. He had some friends, and I took a chair leg to them. I liked it so much, I had this made.” Cud fondled the thick end of the club. “Can’t tell you how many heads I’ve split open.” He gave Fargo a meaningful look.

“I heard you mention a cabin. Is that where you’re taking me?”

“A lady friend of mine lives there. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t go anywhere near her. I’ve got plans for that little lady.”

“To be hitched?”

“Hell, simpleton, I ain’t the marrying kind. No, me and her are going to live in sin, as church folk say.”

“The lady likes that idea, does she?”

“Whether she does or she doesn’t, she don’t have a say.” Cud licked his thick lips. “I’ve been after this filly for a long time now and she keeps putting me off. But not anymore. This time I’m having my way.” He stopped and scowled. “Why the hell am I telling you this? I don’t know you from Adam. Go back with the cows and don’t pester me.”

“One more thing,” Fargo said.

Cud swore and swung the club.

Fargo tried to dodge but he couldn’t pull far enough back. The club caught him on the shoulder and sent pain shooting through clear down to his toes. His boot came out of the stirrup and he was nearly unhorsed. Clinging to the saddle horn with his other hand, he managed to pull himself back up.

Sten’s men were hooting and laughing.

“That’ll learn you,” Cud growled. “When I tell you to do something, you damn well do it. Get back with the cows, and don’t let out a peep or you’ll lose some teeth.”

Fargo had no choice. Lear and the other man went with him, Lear chortling in sadistic glee.

The ride to the valley took an eternity. Fargo was afraid that when they got to the cabin Mary and the kids would rush out to greet him and Cud Sten would realize everything he had said was a lie. He wanted to try for the forest but he would be shot dead before he reached it. In a mental funk, he didn’t look around when one of the men yelled.

Cud Sten drew rein and twisted in the saddle. “Well, will you look at that? Today is full of surprises.”

Fargo stopped and turned.

Rika was trotting toward them, leading the Ovaro by the reins. The saddle was still on but it had shifted, and the Henry rifle was no longer in the scabbard. Rika was holding it.