Beartooth Incident (19 page)

“Not yet I haven’t.” Fargo didn’t take his eyes off the tree line. He looked for patches of color against the white.

“It won’t be dark for hours yet,” Mary said, squinting up at the sun. “We’ll be safe until then, won’t we?”

“We won’t be safe until Sten is dead.”

Mary turned and gazed into the lodgepoles. “Do you mind if I check on Jayce and Nelly? I won’t be long. They must be scared, and I need to let them know everything is all right.”

“Off you go.” Fargo rested his chin on his forearm. He was cold lying there, and he imagined Sten and his killers were cold, too. Extra cause for them to end it quickly.

A hat poked from behind a pine. Fargo aimed but the head wearing the hat ducked back.

“Mary, you still there?” Sten called.

“She’s busy,” Fargo shouted.

“Ah. The simpleton speaks. What’s she doing, cooking your supper?”

Fargo kept the Henry trained on where the head had appeared. All it would take was a twitch of his finger.

“Simpleton?” Cud Sten shouted.

Fargo waited, with no intention of answering.

“Tell me something. What happened to Rika? That was his horse one of you was riding, wasn’t it? You were too far off for me to be sure.”

“It’s his horse,” Fargo confirmed.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Who was it? You? Had to be. Mary never harmed a soul her whole life. She told me so.”

Fargo saw no need to enlighten him.

“You must be good, mister, to have done in Rika. He was one of the best. He hardly ever made a mistake. All the years we rode together, I can count them on one hand and have fingers left over.”

Fargo grew suspicious. Sten was talking too much.

“How did you do it, mister? Did you take him by surprise somehow? Did you trick him?”

Movement out of the corner of his eye warned Fargo that Sten’s men were trying to flank him. One of them was crawling toward the stand from off to the left. Or maybe burrowing was a better word. The man was digging through the snow like an oversized rodent, and gave himself away when the top of his hat jutted up.

Fargo swiveled and fixed a bead, but the hat had disappeared. He aimed a few feet in front of where he saw it, counted off five seconds to give the man time to reach the spot where he was aiming, and fired. Nothing happened. He levered in another round and fired again.

Up bolted Howell. With remarkable speed he raced back toward the forest, weaving so it would be harder to hit him.

Fargo watched Howell’s legs and nothing else, and when they zagged where he expected them to, he stroked the trigger and had the satisfaction of hearing Howell yelp in pain and seeing him fall. But in another instant Howell was up and leaping like mad on one leg. Fargo fixed another bead, but before he could shoot, Howell gained cover.

Cud Sten wasn’t pleased. “Damn it, Howell. Can’t you do anything right? Did you have to go and get shot?”

From behind the tree Howell had dived behind came his pain-laced reply. “I tried, didn’t I? Just as you wanted. And now I’ve got a hole in me.”

“How bad is it?”

“I can still do what I have to, if that’s what you’re worried about. The bullet went clean through and it’s not bleeding much.”

“We’ll bandage you when we’re done here.”

Fargo congratulated himself. Sten had kept him talking so that Howell could sneak up on him, and he had spoiled their little scheme. Then it occurred to him that they were much too casual about it, especially Sten.

“A man just can’t find good help these days,” Cud shouted across to him. “That’s why I miss Rika so much.”

Fargo sought some sign of the other two. They had to be there somewhere.

“I’ve got my club with me,” Cud gabbed on. “Remember my club, mister? You’ll remember it real well when I start breaking bones.”

One of the others showed himself for a split second when he darted from one tree to another.

Now Fargo had accounted for three of them. But where was the fourth?

“I like to break bones. I like to hear them snap, hear the crack of an arm or the pop of an elbow. Knees now—they sort of crunch. Some say the knees hurt the worst, and I believe it. You should hear how they carry on. A woman one time, I broke one of her knees, just one, and she shrieked and flopped about like a fish out of water for a good hour or more. Then there was the old man I did once. I hanged him by his wrists from a tree and started at his toes and worked up his body. And do you know what? He didn’t scream until I got to his knees.”

Fargo was puzzled by why Sten was telling him all this. He was puzzled, too, that Mary was taking so long. He twisted around, and there they were: Mary and Nelly and Jayce, the children pressed to her in fear. Behind them, holding a revolver to Mary’s head, was Lear.

“I’d let go of that rifle if I were you, mister. Or would your rather have me splatter her brains?”

Mary said quickly, “Don’t do it, Skye. Not on my account.”

Fargo set the Henry down and it sank an inch into the snow. He slowly elevated his hands.

Lear chortled. “That was right noble of you. I wouldn’t have done it, but then I don’t give a good damn about anybody but me.” He tilted his head. “Cud! It worked! I’ve got them covered! Get over here!”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said to Fargo. “He snuck up on us. I was going to shout to warn you, but he said he’d shoot Nelly and Jayce if I didn’t do exactly as he told me.”

“Shut up,” Lear barked, and rapped her above the ear.

Mary cried out and nearly collapsed. She stared to raise a hand to her head, and he hit her on the elbow.

“Did I say you can move?”

Tears welled in Jayce’s eyes. He balled his fists and shook one at Lear. “Leave my ma be!”

“Or what, boy? You’ll cry me to death?”

Nelly gripped her brother’s shoulders to keep him from hurling himself at Lear. “No, Jayce. He’ll hurt us if we do anything.”

“That I will, girl. At least one of you has brains.” Lear grinned. He was relishing the torment he caused.

Feet crunched in the snow.

“At last it has gone my way,” Cud Sten said. After him came Howell, who was limping, and the last outlaw.

“It was easy as could be,” Lear boasted.

Cud had a revolver in one hand and his club in the other. He shoved the club nearly in Fargo’s face, saying, “Scared yet? You should be. The breaking is about to begin.”

Fargo was amazed at how careless they were. Not one had demanded he shed his Colt. But then, he was partly on his side, propped on an elbow, his holster hidden by his arm.

Mary suddenly stepped close to Cud. Lear went to strike her, but Cud shook his head and Lear reluctantly lowered his revolver.

“I have a proposition for you. It involves him.” Mary pointed at Fargo. “Let him live and I’ll agree to be your woman. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

“Bitch,” Cud said.

“You’ve wanted me for a long time, haven’t you? I’m yours. All you have to do is let him get on his horse and ride off.”

“Is that all?” Cud made as if to strike her, himself. “You rub my nose in it, gal. You offer yourself for him. And you expect me to let him waltz away?”

All eyes were on Sten and Mary.

Fargo slowly sat up, careful to keep his holster hidden. He propped his hand on the ground and went to rise, but a rifle was pointed at his chest.

“Stay right where you are, mister,” Howell warned.

“Whatever you say.” Fargo shrugged and started to sink back down. In reality, he was girding himself, and when Howell glanced at Sten and Mary, he exploded into motion. Drawing as he rose, Fargo fired from the hip and shot Howell smack between the eyes. He swiveled and put lead into the chest of the outlaw whose name he didn’t know. He swiveled again, saw Lear jerk his rifle, and fanned two swift shots that jolted Lear off his feet.

That left Cud Sten.

Fargo swiveled toward him—just as a streak of brown slammed against his gun hand, knocking the Colt from his grasp. He lunged for it but the club was faster. His entire arm flared with searing pain. He tried to grab the club with his other hand, only to have Cud Sten step in close and club him over the head. Snow rushed up to meet his face, and for a few seconds, he was too dazed to move. A hand gripped the back of his shirt and roughly flipped him over.

“God, I’m going to enjoy this,” Sten said.

“No!” Mary cried, and threw herself at Cud Sten. He backhanded her with the club, and down she went.

“Ma!” Jayce leaped at Sten, Nelly a step behind him.

Cud clubbed them both. “Damn gnats,” he growled. Then, looming over Fargo, he raised the club on high. “Don’t worry. I didn’t kill them. I aim to have fun with them first. After I’m done with you.”

Fargo tried to push to his feet, but he couldn’t make his body do what he wanted. A blow to the shoulder flattened him. Another rendered his legs next to useless. Again he was grabbed and turned.

“I’m just getting started,” Sten said.

Fargo got an arm up to protect himself but it did no good. The club connected with his wrist, with his ribs, with his hip. Through a haze of pain, he watched Cud raise the club overhead for the most brutal blow yet. And a strange thing happened. Cud’s left eye sprouted feathers. A second later his right eye did the same. Cud’s mouth opened and he tottered back, tripped, and keeled onto his back. He twitched once, and would never twitch again.

Fargo turned his head.

There were three of them: the old Indian he had shared his pemmican with and two young warriors. The younger ones held bows. The old Indian looked at Fargo with kindly eyes and smiled. Then he said something and the three of them turned and walked off, just like that.

It took every ounce of will Fargo possessed, but he made it to his hands and knees and over to the Harpers. All three had bumps on their heads, but they would live. Mary was already coming around, and he helped her to sit up.

“What happened?”

Fargo stared at the arrows sticking out of Cud Sten’s face. “Three pieces of pemmican saved our lives.”

 

 

 

 

The Black Hills, 1861—woe to the white man who
invaded the land of the Lakotas.

 

 

 

 

It was like looking for a pink needle in a green-and-brown haystack.

Or so Skye Fargo thought as he scanned the prairie for the girl. She would be easy to spot if it weren’t for the fact there was so
much
prairie. A sea of grass stretched from Canada to Mexico, broken here and there by rivers and mountain ranges.

North of him, not yet in sight, were the Black Hills.

Fargo didn’t like being there. He was in Sioux country, and the Sioux were not fond of whites these days. More often than not, any white they came across was treated to a quiver of arrows or had his throat slit and his hair lifted so it could hang from a coup stick in a warrior’s lodge.

Fargo was white but it was hard to tell by looking at him. His skin was bronzed dark by the relentless sun. He had lake blue eyes, something no Sioux ever had. He wore buckskins. A white hat, a red bandanna, and boots were the rest of his attire. A Colt with well-worn grips was strapped around his waist. In an ankle sheath nestled an Arkansas toothpick. From his saddle scabbard jutted the stock of a Henry rifle.

Rising in the stirrups, Fargo squinted against the glare of the sun and raked the grass from east to west and back again. It wasn’t flat, not this close to the Hills. A maze of gullies and washes made spotting her that much harder.

“Damn all kids, anyhow,” Fargo grumbled out loud. He gigged the Ovaro and rode on, vowing that there would be hell to pay when he got back to the party he was guiding.

A shrill whistle drew his gaze to a prairie dog. It had spotted him and was warning its friends.

Fargo swung wide of the prairie dog town. The last thing he needed was for the Ovaro to step into a hole and break a leg. He intended to keep the stallion a good long while. It was the best horse he had ever ridden. Often, it meant the difference between his breathing air or dirt.

“Where could she have gotten to?”

Fargo had a habit of talking to himself. It came from being alone so much. He was a frontiersman or, as some would call him, a plainsman, although he spent as much time in the mountains as he did roaming the grasslands. Wide spaces, empty of people, were what he liked it.

He came to the crest of a knoll and drew rein again. Twisting from side to side, he still couldn’t spot her. Frowning, he indulged in a few choice cuss words. He began to regret ever taking this job.

About to ride on, Fargo glanced down, and froze. Hoofprints showed he wasn’t the first on that knoll. The tracks were made by unshod horses, which meant Indians, and in this instance undoubtedly meant Sioux. There had been five of them. They had passed that way several days ago. That was good. They were long gone and posed no danger to the girl.

There was a lot of other danger: Bears, wolves, cougars, and rattlesnakes called the prairie home. Most times they left people alone, but not always, and it was the not always that worried him. To a griz the girl would be no more than a snack. A hungry wolf might decide to try something new. As for cougars, they’d kill and eat just about anything they could catch.

“The ornery brat,” Fargo groused some more. He kept riding and was soon amid a maze of coulees.

Fargo could see the headlines now.
Senator’s Daughter Ripped Apart by Wild Beast!
Or
Hunting Trip Ends in Tragedy
. Or
Famous Trailsman Loses Child to Meat Eater
. That last one was the likeliest. Journalists loved to write about him, often making stories up out of whole cloth. The more sensational the tale, the better. All to boost circulation. Were it up to him, he’d take every scribbler alive and throw them down a well.