Thunderhead Trail (11 page)

Fargo reined around to get the hell out of there.

Dirk Peters, though, was transfixed with astonishment. He sat there gawking as the bull rapidly gained speed, snorting angrily.

“Fan the breeze, damn it!” Fargo hollered.

His yell galvanized Peters into yanking on his reins and jabbing his heels.

The three hundred yards to the canyon mouth were some of the longest of Fargo's life. He raced out and bore to the north with Dirk not far behind. They went a goodly distance with their heads turned, expecting Thunderhead to come rushing out after them.

Another minute, and Fargo brought the Ovaro to a halt and Dirk Peters followed suit.

“Was that a close enough look for you?” Fargo asked.

“Jesus God Almighty,” Dirk exclaimed. “He's bigger than a griz.”

“We were damned lucky he let us go.”

“No wonder that rancher is so set on having him back,” Dirk said. “As breeding stock, that critter is worth his weight in gold.”

“And mean as hell.”

Dirk pushed his hat back on his head and rubbed his chin. “I don't see him letting us lead him to the ranch as gentle as a lamb.”

Fargo snorted.

“How in hell are we going to do this?”

“Carefully,” Fargo said.

“I've changed my mind,” Dirk said. “Let's look for a way to the top. I'd like to see the lay of that canyon. Maybe it will give us an idea of how to go about it.”

A series of boulder-strewn slopes brought them to where they wanted to be, high atop the north canyon wall. Taking off their hats, they flattened and crawled to the brink and peered over.

“I'll be damned,” Dirk said. “He picked himself an oasis.”

The canyon narrowed about midway and curved to the south. Past the bend the stream was wider. Its source was a spring that had formed a pond. There was enough grass to provide graze for fifty bulls, and acres of thickets.

“I don't see him,” Dirk said.

Nor did Fargo.

“As huge as he is, how can he hide so good?”

Fargo had known grizzlies to conceal themselves so they were impossible to spot. It was no surprise the bull could do the same. “What we need to work out is how to catch him.”

Dirk snapped his fingers. “I know. We get him to chase us all the way down to the ranch.”

“Be serious.”

Dirk chuckled. “If you don't like my brainstorm, let's hear yours.”

“I don't have one.”

“Well, damn. I hate to be licked by a bull.”

Fargo hated to be licked by anyone or anything but this had him stumped. He was studying on how to perform their miracle when Dirk stirred and said, “Uh-oh,” and pointed.

“Is that who I think it is?”

A rider wearing a wide-brimmed black hat was entering the canyon.

“Rafer Crown,” Fargo said.

The bounty hunter was paralleling the stream. Bent low from his saddle, he was intently studying the ground. He glanced ahead once and then back at the canyon mouth.

“He sees our tracks,” Dirk said. “He knows two riders went in and came out again.”

Fargo was watching for Thunderhead and was rewarded with a glimpse of brindle over in a thicket at the bottom of the far canyon wall. It was his turn to point. “The bull has seen him.”

“If we yell to warn Rafer, it might provoke the critter into charging.”

“If we don't warn him,” Fargo said, “Thunderhead will wait until Crown is so close he can't get away.”

“Damn it to hell.” Dirk suddenly stood and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Rafer! Get out of there! The critter has seen you!”

The bounty hunter drew rein and looked up.

“Get out of there!” Dirk repeated. “The bull! The bull!”

Fargo stood and extended an arm at the far wall.

Crown shifted in his saddle just as the longhorn broke out of the shadows at a full charge. Crown's hands swept to his pistols and he drew them with flashing speed.

“He's going to shoot it!” Dirk exclaimed.

Crown hesitated, then spun the revolvers into their holsters, grabbed his reins, and wheeled his bay. A rake of his spurs sent the horse fleeing down the canyon with Thunderhead hurtling after them.

“He's not going to make it,” Dirk said. “We have to do something.”

What could they do, Fargo realized, other than try to shoot Thunderhead? And that high up, with the bull moving so fast, they'd be lucky to hit it, let alone bring it down.

“God,” Dirk said. “The critter is gaining.”

Thunderhead had cut the distance by more than half. For something so huge, the bull was incredibly fast.

The bounty hunter was whipping his reins like a madman. He looked back and saw that Thunderhead was closing.

Fargo wondered if Crown would shoot rather than have his horse be bowled over and gored. He would, if it was the Ovaro.

Seconds of tense dread ensued. Then, unexpectedly, Thunderhead slowed and stopped and stood tossing his horns as Rafer Crown fled out of the canyon to safety.

“Wheeoooo!” Dirk happily declared. “That bounty hunter is one lucky coon. The same as we were.”

The thing with luck, though, Fargo mused, was that no one's held forever.

Rafer Crown was waiting when they descended. He'd got a fire going in an open space a safe distance from the canyon mouth and put a pot of coffee on and was seated on a log he'd dragged over, chewing jerky. “Thanks for the holler,” he said as they dismounted. “That damn brute almost had me.”

“Almost had us, too,” Dirk Peters said. He sank down cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

“I caught sight of five Blackfeet earlier,” Crown mentioned. “They appeared to be hunting someone.”

“That would be me,” Fargo said as he eased to the ground.

“Come across any dead bull hunters?” Dirk asked the bounty man.

“I have, in fact,” Crown said. “A storekeeper who had his throat slit.”

“How do you know he was a storekeeper?”

“I went through his saddlebags.”

“Was anything taken?” Fargo asked. “His guns? His horse?”

Crown shook his head. “His horse was there and he had a rifle beside him.”

“Then it wasn't the war party,” Dirk said. “No Blackfoot in his right mind would pass up a gun or a horse.”

Fargo and Peters told Crown about the bodies they'd found, and Fargo gave a brief account of his run-in with the Hollisters.

“You've had it worse than me,” Crown said. “The only difficulty I've had was that bull.”

“Skye and me were thinking of joining forces,” Dirk Peters revealed. “How would you two feel about a three-way split?”

“I don't know,” Crown said.

“You've got your heart set on the full five thousand,” Dirk said, nodding. “I don't blame you. I did too. But my pa taught me to use my head, and tackling that bull by my lonesome is the same as sticking one foot in an early grave.”

“I still don't know,” Crown said.

“Ponder on it some. Take all night,” Dirk said. “I don't reckon that ornery bull is going anywhere.”

“There's four or five hours of daylight left,” Crown observed. “I'd hate to waste it.”

“You're welcome to go try and catch the bull by yourself,” Dirk said. “We'll bury what's left after he's done goring and stomping.”

“There has to be a way,” Crown said.

“I'm all ears.”

Fargo noticed that the Ovaro had raised its head and was staring down the mountain. He looked and said, “We're about to have company.”

Glyn and Aramone Richmond were climbing toward them. Aramone rose in her stirrups to wave.

“Hell,” Dirk said. “This mountain is damn crowded.”

“We're all after the same animal,” Crown said. “We're bound to bump into each other.”

“I know what I'd like to bump against,” Dirk said, grinning and winking and thrusting his hips.

“That gal is right pretty,” Crown said. “But she's not likely to fool around with her brother along.”

“What do you think, Skye?” Dirk asked.

“You never know with females,” Fargo said dryly.

As the Easterners came closer, Fargo noticed that Glyn's suit was as spotless as it had been at the ranch, while Aramone's dress didn't have a speck of dust. She rode sidesaddle and was twirling her parasol across her shoulder.

“Will you look at them,” Dirk Peters declared. “They're clean enough to eat off of.”

“That was a silly thing to say,” Crown said. “Who eats people?”

Fargo coughed.

“They might as well be strolling down a street,” Dirk said.

“They won't do any strolling when that bull lights after them,” Crown said.

Fargo stood and stepped around the fire to greet them.

“We meet again,” Glyn said. “Had any luck? We know the bull is close by somewhere.”

“Closer than you think, dandy man,” Dirk said, and laughed.

“We're holding a bull-hunters convention,” Fargo said to Aramone. “Care to join us?” He held up his arms to help her down.

“Aren't you the gallant gentleman,” she replied, playfully batting her eyelashes. Sliding off, she pressed flush with his chest and legs while smiling in seeming innocence.

Fargo felt himself stir, and stepped back. “Had any trouble?”

“There was a fly that was bothersome,” Aramone said.

Dirk let out with a bleat of amusement. “Lady, pretty near half of the people who started out after Thunderhead have been murdered and all you've had to fret about was a fly?”

“What was that about murder?” Glyn said.

Once again Fargo had to recite all that had happened. When he was done, it was Dirk's turn. Rafer Crown mentioned that he'd found “a dead one” and that was it.

“And you say the bull is in that canyon?” Glyn said, staring off.

“Is that all you can think of?” Dirk said. “Didn't you hear us about all the folks who have been killed?”

“I heard you fine,” Glyn said, “but they don't mean anything to me. I didn't know any of them.”

“How about you, lady?” Dirk said. “You don't look broke up about them, either.”

“Why should I shed a tear over complete strangers?” Aramone replied.

“At least you could frown in their memory, you silly hen,” Dirk said.

Glyn Richmond colored with resentment. “Be careful how you address my sister.”

“Or what?” Dirk bristled. “You'll beat me to death with your bowler?”

“I have half a mind to thrash you,” Glyn said.

“Commence if you are man enough,” Dirk taunted.

It was then that Rafer Crown got their attention by loudly clearing his throat. “If you two infants can stop your squabbling, there's someone else who wants to join our party.”

“Who?” Dirk said.

Rafer extended an arm at the canyon. “Not who,” he said. “What.”

It was Thunderhead.

Fargo had been running his eyes over Aramone and thinking how nice it would be to go for a stroll later. He was as surprised as everyone else to discover that Thunderhead had emerged from the canyon and was staring at them.

“God Almighty!” Glyn Richmond exclaimed. “Look at the size of him.”

“That's what I said,” Aramone said, and gave Fargo a wink the others didn't catch.

“I didn't hear you say it,” Dirk Peters said.

Rafer Crown had risen and was sidling toward his bay. “We'd best light a shuck while we can.”

“Hold on,” Dirk said. “Look yonder.”

Thunderhead had turned and was walking away in the opposite direction.

“He's not going to try and kill us?” Dirk said in amazement.

“Longhorns are like buffalo,” Rafer Crown said. “They're as unpredictable as hell.”

“The same as people,” Aramone said.

“This is our chance. We should go after him,” Glyn excitedly proposed. “He's out in the open. Even big as he is, he should be easy to catch.”

“You go right ahead,” Dirk said, “and I will laugh when we bury you.”

“There are five of us,” Glyn said. “That should be enough.”

“Mister, have you ever tried to rope a bull?” Dirk asked.

“No.”

“Have you ever even roped a cow?”

“I'm no farmer or rancher.”

“It takes a knack. And what do you reckon Thunderhead will be doing while we're trying to toss a loop over him? I'll tell you. He'll be trying his damnedest to gore us and our horses. Which will make roping him that much harder.”

“I never said anything about using a rope,” Glyn said.

“How else?” Dirk said. “Are you fixing to walk up to him and say, ‘Pretty please, come with me'?”

Rafer Crown laughed.

“There has to be a way,” Glyn said.

“I'm all ears,” Dirk told him.

Fargo hadn't taken his eyes off Thunderhead. The bull was almost out of sight. On an impulse, he stepped to the Ovaro and swung up.

“Where the blazes are you going?” Dirk Peters wanted to know.

“I'd like a look at that canyon.” Fargo was curious about why the bull kept coming back to it.

“We already had one,” Dirk said, “and nearly got killed, remember?”

“I want another look anyway.”

“Suit yourself. But once was enough for me.”

Thunderhead had disappeared around a bluff.

Fargo reined past the fire but stopped when Rafer Crown said his name.

“I'll tag along if you don't mind,” the bounty hunter offered.

“We all should go,” Aramone said.

“The fewer, the better,” Fargo said. “Stay out here and fire a couple of shots if you see him coming back.”

“That we can do,” Dirk said.

Crown brought his bay alongside the Ovaro and nodded, and together they trotted to the canyon. As they started up it, Crown said, “In case you're wondering why I came, when I go after a bounty, I like to learn all I can about the man I'm after. What he wears. What he likes. What he does. His haunts.” Crown gestured at the high walls. “A good hunter does that whether what he's after has two legs or four.”

That was the most the bounty hunter had said to Fargo since they met. It prompted him to say, “I take it you go after bounties for the hunt as much as the money.”

“The money makes it worth my while,” Crown said, “but you're right. It's the hunt I care about. I get a thrill I wouldn't get clerking in some store.”

Fargo was examining the ground as they went. He had stuck close to the stream but now he reined wide and roved back and forth.

Crown stayed with him. “What are you looking for?”

“I'm getting a feel for his habits.”

“Like where he beds down? Are you figuring to jump him in his sleep?” Crown chuckled.

They came to where the canyon narrowed and went around the bend.

Fargo was beginning to think he was wasting his time when he spotted something that brought him to a stop.

“What?” Crown said.

Dismounting, Fargo sank to a knee. “Look at these.”

More hoofprints. But not Thunderhead's. These were considerably smaller. There were a lot of them, and they led from the stream to the acres of thicket and back again.

“A cow?” Crown said in surprise. “He's got company up here?”

“He may have more than that.” Fargo swung back on the Ovaro and rode slowly toward the thicket.

A trail in and out had been flattened by the repeated passage of the canyon's new occupants.

Drawing rein again, Fargo alighted and held his reins out to the bounty hunter. “We need to know for sure.”

“If you hear their shots, you come running,” Crown said.

The path of crushed vegetation was as wide as Thunderhead. Dry, broken stems crunched with every step Fargo took, but it couldn't be helped.

It brought him to the middle where half an acre had been trampled flat. Crouching so he wouldn't be seen, he peered out.

And there, her legs tucked under her and peacefully chewing her cud, was a brindle cow. Beside her, dozing, was a calf.

“I'll be damned,” Fargo said under his breath. He recollected the rancher telling him about a heifer the bull had been partial to, and how Tyler used the heifer to lead the longhorn along like a little kitten. This must be the same heifer, Fargo realized, only now that she'd given birth, she was more rightly called a cow.

It explained why Thunderhead was so protective of the canyon. The bull regarded anyone who came near his family as a threat.

The very next moment, the high walls echoed to the boom of gunfire.