Flathead Fury tt-321

  Flathead Fury

  ( The Trailsman - 321 )

  Jon Sharpe

  This town ain't big enough for the two of them...

  At the request of a friend, Skye Fargo heads to the town of Polson to see if there's trouble brewing. But it's already boiling over, with the entire area under the iron thumb of Big Mike Durn— a big-time hard-case with a gang of goons to back him up. And it doesn't take long for the Trailsman to realize that the only one way to stop Big Mike is to put him in a big grave...

  PARDON ME

  The saloon was bursting at the seams. Every table was filled. The bar was lined from end to end. Women flitted about, being as friendly as they could be.

  With a start, Fargo realized that few of the females were white. Most were Flatheads, but a few were from other tribes. He went to skirt a table when suddenly a man in a chair pushed back and stepped directly into his path. They bumped shoulders, hard.

  “Watch where you’re going, damn you,” the man complained.

  Fargo went on by, saying, “You walked into me, lunkhead.” He was brought up short by a hand on his arm.

  “What did you just call me?” The man was compact and muscular and had the shoulders of a bull.

  “Want me to spell it?” Fargo tore loose and took another step, only to have his arm grabbed a second time. He turned, just as a fist arced at his face….

  THE TRAILSMAN #321

  FLATHEAD FURY

  by Jon Sharpe

  The Trailsman

  Beginnings…they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

  The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

  Flathead Lake, 1861—where the poison of hate destroyed innocent lives.

  1

  The rider came down out of the high country and drew rein on the crest of a low hill. Below stretched a long, broad valley. Mission Valley, some called it. Beyond, to the north, gleamed Flathead Lake, the largest body of water between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.

  The rider’s handsome face was burned brown by the relentless sun. He was tall in height and broad of shoulder, and sat his saddle as someone long accustomed to being on horseback. In addition to buckskins, he wore a white hat turned brown with dust, and a red bandanna. On his hip was a well-used Colt. In the scabbard on his saddle nestled a Henry rifle.

  The splendid stallion he rode was often referred to as a pinto. A closer look revealed that the markings were different; the dark spots were smaller, and there were more of them. To those who knew horses, his was more properly called an Ovaro or Overo. But pinto would do.

  The heat of the summer’s day had brought sweat to the rider and his mount. The man removed his hat, swiped at his perspiring face with a sleeve, then jammed his hat back on and pulled the brim low. He was about to gig the Ovaro down the slope when movement drew his attention to a procession moving out of the hills.

  The rider’s eyes, which were the same vivid blue as the lake miles away, narrowed. Four men on horseback were strung out in single file. Trailing them were three shuffling figures in dresses, and unless the rider’s eyes were playing tricks on him, the three women had their arms bound behind their backs and were linked one to the other by rope looped around their necks.

  “It is worth a look-see,” the man said to the Ovaro, and tapped his spurs. When he was still a ways off, one of the four men spotted him, and shouted and pointed. The party promptly halted. Two of the men moved their mounts to either side of the women.

  The stockiest of the bunch came out and waited with the butt of his rifle on his leg and his finger on the trigger. He wore seedy clothes more common on the riverfront than in the mountains. On his left hip was a bowie. “That will be far enough, mister!” he called out when the tall rider had but ten yards to cover. “What do you want?”

  The tall man drew rein and leaned on his saddle horn. “Nothing in particular,” he answered. “You are the first people I have come across in over a week.”

  The stocky riverman’s dark eyes raked the other from dusty hat to dusty boots. “Mind if I ask your handle?”

  “Skye Fargo.”

  “I am called Kutler.” The man paused. “Haven’t I heard of you somewhere? Something about a shooting match you won? Or was it that you scout for the army?”

  “Both,” Fargo said. He noticed that the other three men had their hands near their revolvers.

  “What are you doing in this neck of the woods? Army work?” Kutler asked with more than a hint of suspicion.

  Fargo shook his head. “I have time to myself and wanted to get away by my lonesome for a while,” he lied. He gazed to the north. “The last time I was through this area, the only settlement had a handful of cabins and a lean-to and called itself Polson.”

  “Polson is still there, but near a hundred people call it home these days,” Kutler unwittingly confirmed the intelligence passed on to Fargo by the army. “By the end of next year, that number will be a thousand.”

  “Did you just say a thousand?” Fargo grinned. “Do you have a flask hid somewhere?”

  Kutler chuckled. “I do sound drunk, don’t I? But I am as sober as can be. Not by choice, mind you. The man I work for has his rules. He is the one predicting there will be that many.”

  “He is awful optimistic,” Fargo said. It was true more and more people were flocking west each year, but Mission Valley and Flathead Lake were so far north, it would be decades yet before the influx rivaled that of, say, Denver or Cheyenne.

  “Big Mike Durn has reason to be. He has it all worked out. If he says there will be a thousand, I believe him.”

  Fargo told his second lie. “I have heard of him but I can’t remember where.” The colonel had told him about Durn.

  “No doubt you have,” Kutler said. “Big Mike got his start running keelboats on the Mississippi. He became famous when he was in a tavern brawl and killed three men with his bare fists. Self-defense, the jury said. It was in all the newspapers.”

  “So he is that Big Mike,” Fargo said as if impressed.

  “The one and only,” Kutler said proudly. “The scourge of the Mississippi, they used to call him. But he had to leave the river and wound up here.”

  Fargo studied the women. Indian women, they were, and not one had seen twenty winters. All three wore finely crafted doeskin dresses and moccasins.

  “That was six months ago,” Kutler was saying. “Now Big Mike pretty much runs Polson as he pleases.”

  Indicating the women, Fargo asked, “How do they fit in?”

  “Their fathers or husbands borrowed money from Big Mike and can’t repay him, so these squaws have to work off the debt.”

  Fargo was about to ask how when the man behind Kutler gave a harsh bark of impatience.

  “Damn it, Kutler, how much longer are you two going to jaw? I want to get back. Another day without whiskey and my insides will shrivel.” He was a small man with a hooked beak of a nose, a scar on his pointed chin, and a perpetual scowl. Like Fargo, he wore buckskins. Cradled in his left arm was a Sharps. A revolver adorned his hip.

  Kutler glanced sharply over his shoulder. “That will be enough out of you, Tork. Big Mike put me in charge. We will ride on when I say we ride on.”

  Tork
looked at the two men who were on either side of the women and made a show of rolling his eyes.

  Fargo saw Kutler’s hand drift toward his revolver, but for whatever reason, Kutler let his hand drop and muttered something under his breath. “Good friends, are you?” Fargo remarked.

  Kutler snorted. “Tork doesn’t like me and I don’t like him. But so long as we both work for Big Mike, nothing much will come of it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because if one of us kills the other, Big Mike will kill whoever lives.” Kutler lifted his reins. “If you are ever in Polson, look me up. I am usually at the Whiskey Mill.”

  Fargo had to ask before they rode off. “You say these women are to work off a debt? How do they do that, exactly?”

  “How do you think?” Kutler rejoined, with a wink and a leer. “They would run off if they could but we do not give them the chance.” He clucked to his horse. “If any of these squaws strike your fancy, they will be at the Whiskey Mill, too.”

  The women filed past with their heads bowed. Judging by the way they wore their hair and the styles of their dress, two were Flatheads and one was a Coeur d’Alene. The youngest Flathead was quite pretty, with nice lips and full cheeks and beautiful eyes that fixed on Fargo’s as she went by in what he took to be mute appeal.

  “Get along there!” snapped one of her guards.

  Fargo sat and watched them until they were stick figures. “Hell,” he said to the Ovaro. His gaze drifted to the range of mountains to the northwest. Several of the peaks were so high, they were mantled with snow all year long. If he wanted to be by his lonesome, that was the place to go.

  Fargo reined toward the lake. He held to a walk. There was no hurry, and the Ovaro was tired. The image of the pretty Flathead seemed to float in the air before him. “Now I have even more reason,” he said aloud.

  Fargo was looking forward to a hot meal, a bottle of whiskey, and a card game. He must remember to keep his ears pricked. As his friend, Colonel Travis, had made plain the night before Fargo left the fort: “Your orders are to find out if the rumors are true. If they are, get word to me, and I will take whatever measures I deem necessary. Unfortunately, since this is largely a civilian matter, I must be careful how I proceed or the newspapers will be clamoring for my hide.”

  Fargo had said that he understood.

  “I wouldn’t ask this of you but there is no one else I trust half as much as I trust you,” Colonel Travis remarked. “But be careful. Don’t get involved if you can help it.”

  “I will try my best not to,” Fargo had responded.

  Now, with the sun well past its apex, Fargo reckoned he would reach Polson about twilight. He came on an isolated cabin, and shortly after, a second homestead. They were not there the last time he was here, and each brought a frown of disapproval.

  The West was growing too damn fast for his liking.

  Fargo rounded a bend and suddenly had to rein up to avoid riding into an old man in shabby homespun who was staggering down the middle of the trail, a nearly empty whiskey bottle clutched in his bony hand. “Watch where you are going, old-timer.”

  The man stopped and swayed, peering up at Fargo through bloodshot eyes. Taking a swig, he testily demanded, “What are you trying to do? Ride me down?” He was so drunk he slurred every syllable.

  “If you don’t want to be trod on, you shouldn’t hog the trail.”

  Sniffing in resentment, the old man put his spindly arms on his bony hips. He wore a Colt Navy in a scuffed holster but he made no attempt to draw it. “For your information, I am almost out of bug juice and I am on my way into Polson for more.”

  “I reckon you have had enough,” Fargo mentioned.

  “What makes you say that, you busybody?”

  “You are going the wrong way.”

  The old man gave a start. “How’s that?”

  “Polson is to the north. You are walking south.”

  “The hell you say!” The oldster glanced about him in bewilderment, then cackled and exclaimed, “I’ll be damned! Somehow or other I got turned around.”

  “I wonder how,” Fargo said drily.

  The old man smiled and held out a hand. His teeth, the few that were left, were yellow. “Thaddeus Thompson, sir. Thank you for pointing out my mistake.”

  Fargo bent down. It was like shaking hands with dry bones. “It will be dark soon. Maybe you should go home.”

  “And not get my refill?” Thaddeus took a step back in indignation. “How do you expect me to make it through the night? When I am sober the nightmares are worse.”

  “Why would a gent your age have nightmares?”

  Thaddeus grew even more indignant. “What does my age have to do with anything, you ornery pup? I have nightmares for the same reason anyone does. Because things happened that seared my soul. Because in the dark of night, the dead haunt us.”

  “For a drunk you have a way with words,” Fargo complimented him.

  Sorrowfully hanging his head, Thaddeus said, “They blame me, so they come back to remind me.”

  “Who does?”

  “My wife, Martha, and my brother, Simon. They were murdered and there was nothing I could do.” Thaddeus upended the last of his whiskey into his mouth, then uttered a low sob.

  “Someone killed them?”

  “I swear, you do not have enough brains to grease a pan. Isn’t that what I just said? But I don’t have proof so there is not much I can do.”

  “I would like to hear about it,” Fargo said.

  “Go to hell. It hurts too much. It is bad enough Martha and Simon crawl out of their graves at night to point fingers at me.” Wheeling, Thaddeus staggered in the direction of Polson, swinging the now empty bottle by its neck.

  Fargo kneed the Ovaro and came up next to him. “How about if we ride double? You will reach the settlement a lot sooner.”

  “When I get there, I get there,” Thaddeus declared. “I would not go at all if I did not need more gut-warmer.”

  “It is a long walk,” Fargo tried again.

  “I am no infant. Kindly take you and your horse elsewhere so I can suffer in silence.”

  “I am in no hurry.”

  The sun was poised on the rim of the world. Soon only a golden crown remained. Then that, too, was gone. The sky gradually darkened, giving birth to stars, which multiplied like rabbits.

  Thaddeus Thompson had been plodding along mumbling to himself, but he abruptly jerked his head up and wagged a finger at Fargo. “I thought I told you to mosey on. I do not need your company.”

  “It isn’t smart to be out alone at night,” Fargo observed. “The Blackfeet have been acting up of late. And there are grizzlies hereabouts.”

  “Hell, the Blackfeet have held a grudge since Lewis and Clark. As for the silvertips, most stay up in the mountains these days. To come down here is an invite to be stuffed and mounted.”

  “So the answer is no?”

  “If your head were any harder, you would have rock between your ears.”

  Fargo had taken all of the old man’s barbs he was going to. “And you called me ornery, you old goat. Have it your way,” he said, and applied his spurs. But no sooner did he do so than the undergrowth parted and onto the trail strode the lord of the Rockies, the very creature Fargo had been concerned about. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, drawing rein.

  Apparently Thaddeus had not noticed the newcomer because he asked, “What has you in a dither, sonny?”

  Fargo did not have to answer. The grizzly did it for him by rearing onto its hind legs, tilting its head, and growling.

  2

  Grizzlies were living mountains of muscle with razor teeth and claws. Immensely strong, they could rip a man apart with one swipe of an enormous paw. They were unpredictable; nine times out of ten they ran at the sight or smell of a human being, but the tenth time was to be dreaded, for stopping a griz was next to impossible. Their skulls were so thick, the bone was virtual armor. To hit the heart or a lung was almo
st as difficult owing to their huge bodies.

  But that did not stop Fargo from yanking the Henry from his saddle scabbard. Levering a round into the chamber, he pressed the stock to his shoulder, saying quietly to Thaddeus Thompson, “Don’t move.”

  The old man did not heed. Flapping his arms, he walked toward the bear, bawling, “Go away! Shoo! Bother someone else, you consarned nuisance!”

  Fargo braced for a charge. He would do what he could but he doubted he could bring the grizzly down before it reached Thompson and reduced him to a pile of shattered bones and ruptured flesh. “Stop, damn it,” Fargo hollered.

  Thaddeus glanced back, and laughed. “Don’t shoot! It’s only old One Ear. He has been around nearly as long as I have.”

  Fargo looked, and sure enough, the bear did appear to be past its prime. Splashes of gray marked the muzzle, and it was more gaunt than a grizzly should be. The left ear was missing, apparently torn off, leaving a ridge of scar tissue. But Fargo did not lower the Henry. An old bear was still dangerous. “It might attack,” he warned.

  Thaddeus Thompson dismissed the notion with a wave. “Shows how much you know! One Ear never hurt anybody. He comes and goes as he pleases, and hardly anyone ever sees him except me. I think he likes me.”

  “You are an idiot,” Fargo said.

  “Think so, do you? Just you watch!” Thaddeus squared his thin shoulders and boldly marched toward the bear, saying as if greeting a long-lost friend, “How do you do, One Ear? How have you been? If you drank coffin varnish I would share mine if I had any left.”

  Then and there Fargo decided the old-timer was more than a few bales short of a wagon load. He took a bead on the grizzly’s chest.

  One Ear was regarding the old man as if it could not quite make up its mind what to do. Suddenly the bear dropped onto all fours, ponderously wheeled, and crashed off into the underbrush. Within moments the racket faded and the woods were still.

  “See?” Thaddeus gloated. “I told you he wouldn’t hurt me.”