Range War (9781101559215) (20 page)

“We'll find out soon enough,” Fargo said.

It didn't. They waited for hours and the night stayed quiet. By two in the morning Fargo's eyelids were heavy and Billy-Bob was dozing. Griff offered to sit up for two hours and wake Fargo to take a turn and Fargo took him up on it. He was asleep almost immediately.

It seemed as if not ten minutes had gone by when Griff shook him.

To wake up, Fargo needed three cups of coffee. He was supposed to wake Billy-Bob after two hours but he let the kid sleep.

At the crack of dawn the cowboys were up and raring to take revenge on the killer of their friend. While Fargo stood guard they scooped a shallow grave and buried Jeffers.

Griff said the eulogy, such as it was. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We'll see you in the hereafter, pard.”

The blood trail led to the south. Fargo yanked the Henry from the scabbard and gigged the Ovaro.

“The hunt is on,” Billy-Bob said.

After half a mile the wound had stopped bleeding.

Fargo sought prints but the ground was hard. Often he had to stop and climb down to inspect possible tracks. By noon they had gone only another half a mile.

“This will take forever,” Griff complained.

“If you can do better,” Fargo replied, “you're welcome to try.”

“I'm just sayin',” Griff said. “I can't track half as good as you.”

“Me either. I couldn't track an elk in mud,” Billy-Bob joked.

On a rise that overlooked a ten-acre bowl of trees they stopped and drank from their canteens. As Fargo was pressing his to his lips a mournful howl rose out of the bowl, pregnant with pain and finality.

“What in the world?” Billy-Bob breathed.

“I've heard dogs do that when they're dyin',” Griff said.

They descended on foot, moving through dense thickets.

Fargo was in the center. He tried to be quiet but it was impossible. They were all making too damn much noise, and the wolf dog would hear them. He pushed through a web of branches, and there she was.

Esther was on her side. She raised her head and bared her teeth and growled.

Fargo snapped the Henry to his shoulder. He was set to shoot when she laid her head back down and breathed in great wheezing puffs. He lowered the rifle and hollered, “Over here!”

Crashing and crackling attended the rush of the two cowboys to his side.

Griff raised his rifle, and like Fargo, lowered it again. “You hit it good last night.”

“Why is she just lyin' there?” Billy-Bob said.

“The bullet is takin' its sweet time killin' her,” Griff explained.

Fargo edged closer. Her rear leg, he noticed, was badly mashed, probably from the stampede. Since he'd seen no sign of Rolf or the other wolf dog, he reckoned that she must have become separated and was on her own.

“Shouldn't we put her out of her misery?” Billy-Bob asked.

“She killed Jeffers, boy,” Griff said. “And she helped spook the cows that killed more of our friends. Let her suffer. Let her suffer from now until doomsday.”

“It don't seem right,” Billy-Bob said.

“If I had an axe I'd chop off her legs so she'd suffer more.”

Fargo shot her in the head. As the blast reverberated off the peaks, he levered another round into the chamber.

“What the hell?” Griff said.

“There's Rolf and the other one,” Fargo said, and hurried to their horses. Reining west, he covered several hundred yards before the cowboys caught up.

“Didn't you hear me back there about lettin' that freak suffer?” Griff demanded.

“I heard,” Fargo said.

“I don't much like it that you shot her anyway.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Billy-Bob came to Fargo's defense.

“Do you walk old ladies across the street, too, boy?” Griff mocked him.

“Don't call me that,” Billy-Bob said, and changed the subject by asking Fargo, “Why are we headin' west instead of huntin' around for more sign?”

“The only tracks have been hers,” Fargo answered. “And yesterday we checked the east side of the valley and didn't find a thing.”

“I get it,” Billy-Bob said. “You reckon Rolf headed west, away from his shack, to throw us off?”

Fargo nodded.

“He's mighty clever, that mountain man.”

“Don't take him lightly,” Fargo warned. Igmar Rolf had done all he set out to do, and then some.

“He'll have that other mongrel with him, won't he? The big one you told us about?”

“Odds are,” Fargo said.

Griff broke in with, “I hope you two won't mind if I make
him
suffer.”

“I never knew you were so spiteful, Wexler,” Billy-Bob remarked.

“Why don't you head back to the Bar T and ask Mrs. Trask how she feels about her husband havin' his face blown off?” Griff said testily. “I bet she's
spiteful
. Or ask their kids how they feel about their pa bein' killed? I bet they're
spiteful
. Or ask the other hands how they feel about losin' so many of our own. I'll bet they're
spiteful
.”

“I get the point,” Billy-Bob said.

Thankfully for Fargo, they stopped bickering. Once he reached the valley floor he cut straight across to the other side and reined north along the edge of the timber. For half an hour he strained his eyes for the slightest sign, and finally his hunch paid off. A set of hoofprints went up into the trees, prints he recognized. “These were made by Rolf's mule.”

“We've got him, then,” Billy-Bob exclaimed.

“Not by a long shot,” Griff said. “This hombre might be old but he's as dangerous as those beasts of his.”

Fargo agreed, which was why he rode with one hand always on the Colt and his eyes darting from the ground to the woods and back again.

“How soon do you reckon we'll catch up?” Billy-Bob wanted to know.

“It could be a day or more,” Fargo guessed. Rolf had about a twenty-four-hour lead and by now must be forty to fifty miles ahead.

The hours crawled. By twilight they were over the range that framed Hermanos Valley and crossing another. Not once had Fargo seen evidence that Rolf stopped to rest. But then, mules were known for their stamina.

They made camp at the base of a short cliff high on a mountain. The cliff sheltered them from the wind and hid their fire from unfriendly eyes.

For supper Fargo chewed pemmican and drank coffee. The cowboys had jerky.

When the stars blossomed, Fargo climbed a game trail he'd noticed earlier to the top of the cliff.

Far to the west an orange pinpoint danced.

Spurs jangled, and Billy-Bob joined him. “That's Rolf, ain't it?”

“Odds are,” Fargo said again.

“Careless of him to make a fire we can see.”

“I doubt he thinks anyone is after him.”

Billy-Bob grunted. “It must be, what, thirty miles or better?”

“Hard to tell at night, but thereabouts, I'd say.” Fargo squatted. “We'll be on our way at first light.” Maybe, just maybe, they'd overtake Rolf before nightfall.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“If you have to,” Fargo said.

“Is Griff right? He says I'm too soft-hearted for my own good. He says it's likely to get me killed.”

“I've known men as hard as iron who went toes up younger than you,” Fargo said. “It's not being hard or soft that gets a man killed.”

“What does?”

“Being stupid.”

It was early afternoon before they found the charred circle of Igmar Rolf's fire. Rolf was long gone. They let their horses rest a bit and were on their way again.

The country had changed. It was less mountainous but still rugged.

They were nearer the haunts of the formidable Apache, and Fargo was on the lookout for sign of them.

Griff and Billy-Bob didn't talk much all day. Billy-Bob was in a sulk over how the foreman had treated him, and Griff was in a killing mood.

The sun described its westward arc and was an hour shy of setting when Fargo drew rein in surprise. Not a mile ahead gray tendrils curled into the sky.

“A campfire, by God,” Billy-Bob declared. “Do you reckon it's him?”

“Why would have he have stopped so soon?” Griff wondered.

“He reckons he's gotten clean away,” Fargo speculated, “and he's resting up.”

“We should be so lucky,” Billy-Bob said.

Griff palmed his six-shooter. “Let's go find out.”

The smoke came from a cluster of low hills. Fargo climbed to near the top of the first, dismounted, and crawled to the crest to peer over. Another hill stood between them and their quarry, if it was, in fact, Igmar Rolf and not Apaches or someone else.

“We should go the rest of the way on foot,” Griff said. “He's less likely to spot us.”

“Not with Goliath around,” Fargo said.

“I don't savvy.”

“Our horses can outrun it. We can't.”

“You're afraid of a dog?” Griff scoffed.

“Part dog, part wolf,” Fargo corrected him, “and it's the wolf part we have to worry about.”

“I know I'm worried,” Billy-Bob said.

“All it took was one shot to kill the other one,” Griff said to Fargo. “Quit scarin' the kid.”

“I ain't no kid and I ain't no boy,” Billy-Bob objected. “I am as much a growed man as you.”

“I'm twice your years and twice your size.”

They might have gone on arguing if Fargo hadn't descended to the Ovaro and stepped into the stirrups. He wound around to a narrow flat and across to the next hill. From there on he was careful not to make any more noise than he could help. He climbed halfway, slid down, shucked the Henry, and cat-footed to the crown.

Below, a stand of oaks and cottonwoods covered half an acre. The smoke came from the thickest part of the growth.

“We can't see who it is,” Billy-Bob whispered.

“Stay here,” Fargo said, and started down on his belly.

“Like hell,” Griff declared, sliding after him.

“You're not leavin' me here,” Billy-Bob said, and dropped to his stomach, too.

Fargo had a reason for wanting to do it alone; one man stood less chance of being spotted. He continued to the bottom and crouched behind an oak. He looked through the trees but still couldn't see the fire.

Motioning for the cowboys to stay there, Fargo glided toward the smoke. But once again the pair did as they pleased and slunk in his footsteps.

Ahead, red and orange flickered.

Fargo spied the mule, tied to a tree. There was no sign of Rolf, though, and that bothered him. Where could the man have gotten to? he wondered.

The answer came in a snarl behind him.

Fargo spun and saw Goliath leap on Billy-Bob and bear him to the ground. Billy-Bob yelped in fear and Griff's six-gun banged.

About to shoot, Fargo was slammed into from behind. The forced knocked the Colt from his hand and sent him to his hands and knees.

“You couldn't leave well enough alone,” Igmar Rolf said in his ear.

Fargo drove his head back. The crunch of Rolf's nose was simultaneous with another cry from Billy-Bob. But there was nothing Fargo could do for the young cowboy. He had his own dilemma. His head was struck a glancing blow and he rolled onto his back, dazed.

Rolf sneered down at him. “Now I finish you,” he said, and raised the Hawken to hit him again.

Fargo kicked Rolf in the knee. The mountain man bellowed and nearly buckled, and staggered back.

Glancing right and left, Fargo saw the Colt. He lunged and grabbed it and was turning to shoot Rolf when a shriek snapped him toward the cowboys. Billy-Bob was on his back, clutching his right arm, which was torn open from the wrist to the elbow. The young puncher was gaping in shock at Griff Wexler, whose throat was clamped in Goliath's maw. The giant beast was on its hind legs, its forepaws on Griff's shoulders, and it was shaking the foreman as dog might shake a stick.

Instinct made Fargo whirl.

Igmar Rolf was taking aim with the Hawken.

Fargo fired as Rolf fired, fired as Rolf rocked onto his heels, fired as Rolf's eyes rolled up into his head.

“Skye! Look out!” Billy-Bob screamed.

Fargo pivoted on a heel. Goliath had let go of Griff and was almost on him. He fired a split second before the brute slammed into him. He went down hard, the wolf dog's blood-flecked teeth straining for his throat, his left arm all that kept it at bay. He had one shot left in the Colt and he jammed it against Goliath's throat, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed. Hair and blood burst from the wolf dog's neck but it had no more effect than if Fargo had pinched him except that Goliath snarled and strained harder to reach his jugular.

Fargo pounded the Colt against Goliath's head. It, too, had no effect. He smashed it against an eye. Goliath's fangs were so close that Fargo could feel the beast's hot breath on his skin. He tried to hike his leg so he could get at the Arkansas toothpick in his boot but his leg was pinned.

Fargo sensed that in another moment Goliath would rip into him. Goliath seemed to sense it, too. Fargo would swear the wolf dog's mouth spread in a grin. And then a pistol muzzle was shoved into Goliath's ear and there was the boom of a shot.

Goliath's great body sagged.

Fargo lay gasping for breath, eye to eye with the four-legged devil that had almost killed him. Anger welled, and he shoved the heavy body off.