The Trailsman 317 Page 10

  Morning Dove ran stiffly, wincing now and again, her legs wooden.

  “Can’t you go faster?” Fargo urged.

  “I am doing the best I can.”

  Men were running toward the trading post from the vicinity of the burning cabin. A rifle boomed but the shot came nowhere near them.

  They were almost to the trees when Morning Dove tripped and nearly went down. She did not cry out, and was immediately on the fly again. She was tough, this one.

  The forest closed around them. As it did, Fargo heard Skagg bellow, “Wound Fargo if you have to but I want him breathing!”

  Fargo could guess why. Skagg wanted the honor of killing him for himself.

  The night-shrouded vegetation lent a sense of security. A false sense, since the same darkness that hid them hid their enemies.

  Morning Dove slowed. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have no strength at all.”

  “It is not your fault,” Fargo said. Food would revitalize her but he had no pemmican or jerky with him.

  “You would be wise to leave me,” Morning Dove said.

  “Not on your life,” Fargo said. If anything happened to her, her father was liable to hurt Mabel. “Do the best you can. When you are winded, stop.”

  In the shape she was in, some people would not have lasted five minutes. Morning Dove ran for another quarter of an hour. She ran slowly, but she ran, and when, at long last, she could not take another step, she folded to her knees and apologized yet again. “I am sorry for my weakness.”

  “You are too hard on yourself.”

  Gasping for breath, Morning Dove shook her head. “You do not understand. My people are brought up to be strong, to be swift. We live in the deep woods, with its many perils. Perils that claim those who are weak.”

  “Chester Landry sure taught you good,” Fargo said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “English,” Fargo said. “You speak it better than I do.” He thought he heard rustling and motioned for silence. Although he listened intently, the sound was not repeated. He squatted next to her and whispered, “I reckon it is all right.”

  “Why are they not after us?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Fargo admitted. By rights every member of Skagg’s gang should be beating the brush for them.

  “Where is my father and the white woman he has taken?” Morning Dove asked.

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  Morning Dove mustered a smile. “What do you know, if you do not mind my asking?”

  “I know that if I can help it, Malachi Skagg won’t live out the week. Your people should have wiped out him and his whole outfit long ago.”

  “It is easy for you to accuse,” Morning Dove said, “but Skagg is the only white man to come this far into the mountains. He had been the only one willing to trade with us. From him we could we get knives with steel blades. From him we obtained fire steels and flints. Only thanks to him could we possess blankets and pots and pretty beads—”

  “I get the idea,” Fargo cut her off. He had seen it before. Tribes that had been doing just fine on their own for thousands of years were enticed by trade goods to the point where they grew to depend on the white man for things they did not really need but which made their lives easier.

  “Why do you sound so bitter?”

  “Your people have been under Skagg’s thumb and don’t even realize it,” Fargo said.

  Morning Dove’s lovely eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

  “All most whites care about is money. Those hides you trade Skagg for all those things you wanted? He got ten times as much for them as he allowed you in trade goods.”

  “You are saying he cheated us?”

  “I have met honest traders but they are precious few,” Fargo said. “Malachi Skagg is not one of them.”

  “He has a bad heart,” Morning Dove said. “I know that now. But until this happened, my people believed he could be trusted.”

  “Until what happened?” Fargo asked. “What is the big secret that cost Chester Landry his life?”

  Morning Dove seemed about to tell him, but caught herself. “Perhaps I should not say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do not take offense, but you are a white man. What makes you any different than Skagg? How do I know you are any more trustworthy than he proved to be?”

  “I saved you from him,” Fargo reminded her.

  “To save the life of Chester’s sister,” Morning Dove said. “She must mean a lot to you.”

  “You really won’t tell me?”

  “Not now. Not until I am sure I can trust you.” Morning Dove sat back. “I hope you are not mad.”

  “Disappointed,” Fargo said. “Here I am being shot at, and I don’t know the reason why.”

  “I would very much like to say. But I must talk to my father first. Please do not hold it against me.”

  Fargo sighed. He might do the same if he were in her moccasins. But it would be a hell of a note if he died before he could unravel the mystery.

  “I am happy to be free,” Morning Dove was saying. She gazed at the myriad of stars. “Worse than the beating, worse than not being allowed to eat, was the loss of being able to do as I want, when I want.”

  “Where is your village?” It had occurred to Fargo that that could be where the Untillas had taken Mabel.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “This is getting to be a habit,” Fargo said.

  “No white person has ever set foot in our village, or even set eyes on it. No white person ever will. It is our most closely guarded secret.” Morning Dove smiled. “You see, we are not quite as stupid as you seem to think we are.”

  Fargo’s temper flared. “I never said any such thing.”

  “Sometimes it is not what people say but what they do not say that says a lot.”

  “Say that again real slow and maybe it will make sense.”

  Morning Dove laughed for the first time, a soft, throaty purr that made Fargo wonder what it would be like to spend a night under the blankets with her.

  Then a new sound was borne on the breeze out of the forest to the west, a sound that eerily wavered as it rose to a high pitch. A sound that could never come from a human throat.

  “What was that?” Morning Dove whispered.

  “A hound,” Fargo said. “A dog bred to hunt.” Now he knew why Skagg had not given chase. Why should Skagg have his men blunder around in the dark when there was a better way? “That howl was a sign the dog has our scent. It has been sicced on us by the man who owns it, and his friend. They are killers, the both of them.”

  “What do we do?”

  The only thing Fargo could think of was, “We run like hell.”

  So run they did. Fargo stayed by her side in case she needed help. It was plain she would not last long. She was still weak, and worn from their flight.

  “How are these killers called?”

  Fargo did not see where the name would mean anything to her but he answered, “Cyst and Welt.” Their hound had a name, too, as he recollected. He had to think a bit before it came to him. “Their dog is called Devil.”

  “I think I saw them once, several moons ago. They are friends of Skagg’s.” Morning Dove avoided a tree. “What will this hound of theirs do when it catches up to us?”

  “Knowing the man who owns it,” Fargo answered, “his dog is likely as not trained to rip people to pieces.”

  “I am suddenly afraid.”

  “You should be,” Fargo said. But she did not look it. Since he found her, she had not shown the least little fear, and was bearing up under the ordeal with remarkable poise. She was exceptional, this Untilla maiden. “Save what breath you have left for running.”

  Another bray from the hound warned them it was gaining. Its master and its master’s friend would not be far behind it. Fargo regretted not shooting them when he had the chance.

  Fleeing flat out, they did not have the luxury of picking their way with care. They barre
led blindly through the underbrush, branches plucking at their clothes and cutting their hands and faces.

  They had gone less than a half mile when Morning Dove grimaced and pressed a hand to her side. Her knees started to give but she straightened and plunged on.

  Taking her arm, Fargo said, “Slow down.”

  “We can’t.”

  “You are hurting. You will be of no use to me when they find us if you are too weak to defend yourself.”

  Morning Dove slowed and smiled that warm smile of hers. “You remind me of Chester Landry. He was nice to me, too. He always thought of others before himself.”

  “I am not all that nice,” Fargo set her straight. “I just don’t want either of us dead.” He would like to get to know her better after it was all over. A lot better.

  “I wish I had a weapon,” Morning Dove said. “A bow would be best. Untillas are taught to use one as soon as they are old enough to stand.”

  “The women too?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Fargo shouldn’t have been. Among some tribes, the women were every bit as formidable as the men. They were hellcats in the defense of their village and their loved ones. “How are you with a spear?”

  “It is better than nothing at all.”

  “Stick close to me.” Soon Fargo spotted a spruce that would serve his purpose and angled toward it. Stopping, he bent and drew the Arkansas toothpick. He worked swiftly but it took some doing. The toothpick was light and barely longer than his hand. It was not made for chopping, but he presently had a long, straight limb in either hand. He bid Morning Dove hold them while he trimmed the shoots and then sharpened the ends. He tested each tip by pressing his thumb against it. “Here.” He handed one of the spears to Morning Dove.

  Hefting it, she planted her legs wide and thrust and jabbed at an imaginary enemy. “It will do nicely.”

  Fargo thought so too. He swung his own a few times. “Now we set our trap.” He ran until he came to a large pine with overspreading boughs. “Up you go.”

  “You want me to climb?”

  “That is the idea, yes,” Fargo grinned. “I will be right behind you.”

  “But we cannot use our spears very well when we are up a tree,” Morning Dove objected.

  “Trust me,” Fargo said.

  Morning Dove hesitated, then complied. The spear made it awkward but she managed.

  Fargo ascended right behind her. When they were fifteen feet up he announced, “This is as far as I go.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  Fargo told her what he had in mind.

  “I like your idea but I should be with you,” Morning Dove replied.

  “No. You are too weak. You said so yourself.”

  Yet another wavering bray, much closer than before, galvanized him into swinging around to the opposite side of the tree and hurriedly descending. Once he reached the bottom, Fargo circled so as to hide his scent until he came to a cluster of high grass barely a yard from their back trail. Crouching, he held the spear ready to thrust.

  Now all Fargo could do was wait. He glanced at the tree but could not see Morning Dove.

  Suddenly the short hairs at the nape of Fargo’s neck prickled. Something was coming toward them. Something low to the ground, sniffing as it came. A living mass of sinew and bone and fangs and claws.

  Devil had arrived.

  14

  Fargo’s every nerve tingled. A lot depended on slaying the hound before Cyst and Welt got there. But the hound would not be easy. Its sense of smell and hearing were sharper than a human’s. He must not move; he must not so much as blink.

  The dog stopped. Raising its head, it sniffed loudly several times, then lowered its nose to the ground once more and advanced. But it was moving slower than before, as if it sensed that something was amiss.

  Fargo wanted to glance at the tree to make sure Morning Dove was doing as he had told her, but he dared not risk it. He told himself not to worry. She had proven to be reliable.

  Devil stopped again. This time the hound stared at the tree they had climbed.

  Frozen in the high grass, Fargo held his spear ready to thrust. Eight more feet and the dog would be close enough for him to strike.

  Devil sniffed, then turned his great head to gaze back the way he had come. Looking for his master, Fargo reckoned. But there was no sign of Cyst and Welt, yet.

  Rustling in the pine tree caused the dog to whip its head around and stiffen.

  Fargo resisted an urge to swear. He had told Morning Dove to stay completely still. What in God’s name was she doing?

  Devil took a couple of steps. He was suspicious, no doubt about it. Turning his great head from side to side, he used that incredible nose of his loudly and repeatedly.

  Thankfully, the wind was blowing from the dog toward Fargo and the pine, and not the other way. He realized his mouth had gone dry and his palms were sweating. He hoped the sweat would not impair his grip on the spear.

  Devil’s long legs moved with tortoise slowness. He advanced only a couple of feet, sniffing, his head moving to the right and the left. He was good, this dog. Damn good.

  A bead of sweat trickled from under Fargo’s hat and down over his brow into his eye. It stung like the dickens but he did not blink it away.

  From far off came the faint thud of hooves. Cyst and Welt were on their way.

  Fargo’s original idea was to slay the dog and get out of there before the two killers showed up. He had figured they were on foot. Their being on horseback changed things. Morning Dove and he could use those horses.

  Devil was almost to the high grass. The dog started to lift a paw, then glanced sharply at the spot where Fargo was crouched, and growled.

  Fargo’s blood turned to ice. The dog could not possibly see him. And since he had circled around from the other side of the tree, his scent should not have carried to where the dog stood. Yet Devil was staring right at his hiding place. Somehow, the hound knew.

  Belatedly, Fargo felt a breeze on the back of his neck. The wind had shifted! It was blowing from him to the dog. No wonder, then. And since Devil knew he was there, there was no reason to hide. Uncoiling, Fargo gripped the spear firmly and said, “Come and get it.”

  Devil did. Throwing back his head, the hound howled, then hurtled forward, a four-legged embodiment of primal savagery. Fangs glistened whitely as its maw gaped to bite.

  Fargo lanced the spear at the dog’s throat. He thought it was a sure thing, that he could not possibly miss. But to his amazement the hound darted aside, then sprang at him.

  Suddenly Fargo was in a battle for his life. He raised the spear between them, crosswise across his chest. It took the brunt of the dog’s leap. Teeth snapped a hairsbreadth from his throat. He knocked the animal to the ground and reversed his hold to stab.

  Devil was faster. Scrambling erect, the hound came in again, low and quick and oh-so-deadly.

  It was going for his legs! Fargo realized. He sidestepped barely in time to avoid having his calf torn open. He stabbed at Devil’s neck but the tip glanced off the dog’s bony shoulders, doing no real harm.

  Devil crouched and howled, his floppy ears lending the hound a comical aspect belied by his glittering fangs.

  Fargo circled, and the hound circled with him. He thrust at Devil’s eyes but Devil jerked his head back. He feinted at Devil’s neck and went for the eyes again but the hound was too smart for him.

  All the while, Cyst and Welt were drawing closer.

  Out of nowhere flew Morning Dove. She held her spear at shoulder height, and she leaped straight for the hound. She nearly did it, too. The tip sheared into Devil’s side but even as she struck the dog was springing to one side to evade her. The spear glanced off Devil’s ribs, drawing blood and a yip, but the wound was not fatal.

  “I told you to stay in the tree!” Fargo said as Morning Dove placed herself next to him.

  “Untilla women do not cower in trees when there is fighting to be done,” was her
rebuttal.

  “Untilla women listen as well as white women,” Fargo got in, and then there was no chance to talk.

  The pain-racked hound closed on them with a bestial vengeance, out to repay them for its agony. Razor-tipped teeth ripped into Fargo’s pants but only pricked his skin.

  Morning Dove drove her spear at Devil’s neck. She missed. Before she could pull the spear back, the hound had it in his mouth and with a powerful wrench tore the spear from her grasp. She lunged to reclaim it but Devil darted well out of her reach, dropped the spear, and coiled to spring.

  Fargo moved between them. In the near distance Cyst was shouting the hound’s name. The damn dog would be the death of them unless he killed it, and killed it quickly. Since silence was no longer essential, he said, “To hell with it,” and drew his Colt.

  Devil’s reaction was not what Fargo expected. The instant the revolver cleared leather, the dog spun and raced into the night. There was only one explanation—Cyst had taught it to be wary of guns, and to run rather than take a slug.

  “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “What is the matter?” Morning Dove asked.

  “Everything that can go wrong is going wrong,” Fargo responded. The dog was still alive, and they had lost the element of surprise.

  “I think we should run,” Morning Dove said.

  “I think you are right.”

  Fargo’s ploy had accomplished nothing except squander precious time and enable Cyst and Welt to get that much closer. He was fit to pound a tree, or Devil’s skull.

  As if she could read his thoughts, Morning Dove said, “It was a good plan. If it had worked we would be safe.”

  “You always look at the bright side, don’t you?”

  “What other side is there?”

  Fargo pumped his legs and arms. He still had his spear, although it seemed pointless to hold on to it.

  “The short rest did me good,” Morning Dove puffed between breaths. “My side does not hurt nearly as much.”

  “Save the talking for later,” Fargo said.

  “As you wish,” Morning Dove replied. “But I must say, you can be a—what is the word? Oh, yes. A bit of a grump.”

  “This is nothing,” Fargo said. “You should be around me when I have a hangover.”