Rocky Mountain Revenge Page 2

  Both Fargo and the half-breed looked at him and said, “What?”

  “I spotted them yesterday, south of you a ways,” the puncher explained. “They were shadowing you and keeping well hid. It’s why I rode hard to catch up today. I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Well, now.” Fargo shifted so he could watch all three and said to the man who’d had the reins, “You’re a liar as well as a horse thief.”

  “You’re taking his word over mine? Why? Because he’s a white and I’m not?”

  “No. I’m taking his word because you were fixing to steal my horse, you goddamn idiot.”

  The man with the caterpillar eyebrows scowled. “I don’t take kindly to insults,” he said, and dropped his hand to his six-gun.

  2

  Fargo rammed the Henry’s muzzle into the man’s gut hard enough to double him over. Hissing through clenched teeth, the breed staggered and tried to draw. Fargo wasn’t about to let him. He swung the Henry in a tight arc. There was the thud of the hardwood stock against the breed’s head and then the thud of the man’s unconscious form when he struck the ground. Instantly, Fargo leveled the Henry at the other two but it wasn’t necessary.

  Jim Stoddard had already drawn and was covering them. “I don’t like to see anyone shot in the back.”

  “I’m obliged.” Fargo relieved the man he had knocked out of his hardware, then did the same with the two still on their mounts. “Climb down,” he commanded.

  “What for?” the scrawniest of them asked.

  Fargo motioned. “Sling him over his horse and get the hell out of here.”

  “You’re letting us live?”

  By rights Fargo was justified in blowing them from the saddle. He was sure they were horse thieves but there was always the chance, however slight, that they were telling the truth. “I can remedy that if you’re disappointed.”

  “We’ll do as you want.”

  The pair glared at Fargo at they lifted and hoisted. Then they swung back up and the scrawny one said, “You shouldn’t ought to have done that to Speckled Wolf. When he comes around he’ll be madder than a wet hen and out for your blood.”

  “He’ll have a hard time blowing out my wick without his guns.”

  “That won’t stop us. We can always get more.” The scrawny man reined around.

  “Speckled Wolf won’t let you do it,” the third breed said.

  “Won’t let me do what?” Fargo asked, but the pair was departing with their unconscious friend dangling limp like so much wet wash.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Fargo wondered.

  “Who can say with breeds?” Jim Stoddard said. “They’re all half loco.”

  “They are no different than you or me.” Fargo didn’t take his eyes off them.

  They might have concealed weapons and take it into their heads to come back and try to do him in.

  “Are you an Injun lover?” the cowboy asked.

  “They’re people like everyone else.”

  “That must come from living with them,” Stoddard said. “I hear tell a lot of your kind do.”

  “My kind?”

  “Plainsmen. Scouts. Whatever you call yourself. A lot of them live with Injuns and take up Injun ways and before you know it are part Injun themselves.”

  “You make it sound like a disease,” Fargo observed.

  “I don’t much care about redskins. But so long as they leave me be, I leave them be.” Stoddard chuckled. “Mr. Bell says there will come a time when the tribes will rise up and try to drive us out. Do you believe that will happen?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me any.” Although Fargo hoped it never came to that. He had as many red friends as white.

  “The prairie and the mountains will run hip deep in blood, was how Mr. Bell put it,” Stoddard said.

  “You put a lot of stock in what he says.”

  “You will too once you meet him,” Stoddard predicted. “He’s awful smart. He went to school until he was near twenty and he reads books and everything.”

  The three would-be horse thieves were almost out of sight. Fargo felt safe in lowering the Henry and gathering up their weapons. He put their pistols in his saddlebags and slid their rifles into his bedroll and retied the bedroll. As he climbed on the Ovaro he caught the cowboy studying him. “Something on your mind?”

  “I’m a mite surprised you didn’t shoot the one who went for his six-gun. I would have.”

  “I’m surprised myself,” Fargo said.

  “Why didn’t you then? Any court in the land would hang him for what he did. You let him off easy.”

  Fargo shrugged. “I can’t rightly say.” He wanted to drop the subject but the cowpoke had more to say.

  “You’re not one of those live and let live gents, are you? I’d as soon know now so if we’re attacked I know whether I can depend on you or have to do all the killing myself.”

  “If it comes to that I’ll do my share,” Fargo promised.

  “Good. There is nothing more worthless in a shooting affray than a man who won’t shoot.”

  Fargo let Stoddard lead. He’d rather have the cowboy’s back to him than his back to the cowboy.

  A day and a half of beeline travel brought them to Sweetwater Station. It consisted of the stage relay and a corral, a log saloon and three cabins. They rode in just as the sun was going down. Fargo thought it a good idea to stay the night and head out at first light.

  “Oh? Didn’t I tell you?” Stoddard said. “Mr. Bell figured it would be quicker and easier for you to meet him here. He’s waiting for us.” The cowboy nodded at a hitch rail. “That’s his bay yonder. He should be in the saloon.”

  Fargo alighted and wrapped the reins around the rail. He strolled in and over to the bar and gave it a hard thump to get the bartender’s attention.

  The barkeep was as wide as a Conestoga and wore an apron that had never been cleaned. He set a bottle of whiskey in front of Fargo, and pointed. “That gent there said you’d be back and he was right.”

  Most ranchers Fargo had met were brawny blocks of muscle bronzed by the sun. The man eating steak and potatoes at a corner table was a pale mouse in a brown suit with spectacles on the tip of his nose. He looked up as Jim Stoddard brought Fargo over.

  “Took you long enough.”

  The cowboy colored slightly. “He hardly ever stops. I was in the saddle pretty near fifteen hours of the day.”

  Clarence Bell shifted his mouse-brown eyes to Fargo. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you what you’re to do.”

  Fargo swigged a mouthful and smacked his lips. “Mister, if you were any more full of yourself, your head would be as big as a melon. I’ll take the hundred and I’ll listen to what you have to say but that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Fair enough.” Bell indicated a chair. Stoddard went to sit in another but the rancher said, “Wait at the bar. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Bell.”

  Fargo stretched out his legs and upended the bottle. The coffin varnish burned clear down to his gut. “You sure have him well trained.”

  “Any man who works for me does as I want him to do or he can seek employment elsewhere.” Bell set down his fork and knife and adjusted his spectacles. “We’ve gotten off to a bad start. That’s my fault. I took it for granted that you wouldn’t have come back unless you wanted the job.”

  “Your puncher didn’t know what the job is.”

  Clarence Bell sat back and made a tepee of his hands. “I read the newspapers, Mr. Fargo. I know a few things about you. For instance, you’re considered one of the best scouts on the frontier. You’ve lived with Indians and fought Indians and know their way of life better than just about any white man alive.”

  “This job has something to do with them?”

  “I’ll get to that in a moment.” Bell paused. “I’ve also read that you are a keen judge of horseflesh. That you, in fact, ride as fine an animal as can be found. A type of pinto that those who
know horses call an Overo or an Ovaro. Am I correct?”

  “In all that reading you did, did you come across the fact that I’m fond of fillies, red-eye, and poker?”

  Bell smiled. “Your vices did merit mention, yes. But it is your affinity with Indians and horses that make you ideal for what I have in mind.”

  Fargo swallowed and felt himself relaxing. “I’m listening. Just don’t get long-winded.”

  “You are a man who likes to get to the point. So am I.” Bell removed his spectacles and held them toward the window. He took out a handkerchief and wiped them and put them back on. “My business acumen, I can immodestly boast, is second to—”

  “Whoa there, hoss,” Fargo interrupted. “Spare me the fifty-cent words. You have something to say, you say it plain.”

  “Very well,” Bell smirked. “I am good at business. My instincts have led me to start one of the first ranches in the territory. I’ve brought in a few hundred head and intend to bring in thousands more. But cows are only part of it. I’d also like to breed horses. Not just any horses. The finest to be had anywhere.” His smirk widened. “The finer they are, the more money in my pocket. Follow me so far?”

  “Just because talking dictionaries annoy me doesn’t make me dumb,” Fargo said.

  “My apologies. No insult was intended. If you don’t mind my saying, you are a prickly individual.”

  “The point of all this?”

  “To make my cattle herds the best they can be I am bringing in cattle from as far away as Texas. To make my horses the best they can be, I must bring in horses from far away, too.” Bell placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I want to be the first white man to own and breed Appaloosas.”

  Fargo turned to stone with the bottle almost to his mouth.

  “You heard right,” Bell declared. “Appaloosas. That means I must send someone to the Nez Perce. Now do you see where you fit in?”

  Fargo lowered the bottle to his lap. The Nez Perce were widely regarded as some of the best horse breeders west of the Mississippi. The Comanches also prided themselves on fine horses but the Nez Perce bred a type of horse no one else did, a horse so exceptional that many would give anything to own one: Appaloosas.

  The Palouse Horse some called them. Exactly when the Nez Perce started breeding them, no one could say. But it was well known that for years now the Nez Perce had been winnowing out unwanted traits by gelding inferior animals and mating the best strains.

  “What do you think of my idea, sir?”

  Fargo regarded Clarence Bell with a smidgen of new-found respect. “It’s a fine notion. But the Nez Perce might not like the idea of a white man breeding their horses.”

  “You are familiar with the tribe, I take it?”

  “I’ve been to their country a few times, yes.”

  “Excellent.” Bell excitedly rubbed his palms together. “Then you are just the man to go to them and offer whatever it will take on my behalf to buy the best Appaloosas they have.”

  Fargo sat back. It was a long ride to Nez Perce country, ten days to two weeks through rugged country wandered by hostiles and home to grizzlies and other beasts. “How high are you willing to go?”

  “Didn’t Jim Stoddard tell you? I will pay you a thousand dollars for your services, half in advance if you would like.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “I meant how high for the Appaloosas?”

  “Oh. Money is no object. I am quite wealthy. But just so they know I am in earnest, I authorize you to offer them five thousand dollars.”

  Fargo nearly fell out of his chair. “For one Appaloosa?”

  “Of course not. I need two to breed. Five thousand dollars for a stallion and a mare. Do you think that’s reasonable?”

  “Hell, it’s more than reasonable,” Fargo said, and then was struck by a troubling thought. “You want me to tote that much money to Nez Perce country in my saddlebags?” If word got out, he’d be the target of every badman and greedy bastard in the territory.

  “What do you take me for? I’ll give you a thousand dollars to give to them as a token of my sincerity. The rest they can have when they bring the horses to me at the Circle B.”

  “Two thousand,” Fargo said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You want me to go all the way to Nez Perce country, talk them into parting with two of their best animals, then bring those animals all the way back. It will cost you two thousand or you can find someone else.”

  Bell’s thin lips twitched. “You’re taking advantage of the fact I need you. I resent that, sir.”

  “Resent it all you want. It’s my hide. And it will take at least a month. Two thousand isn’t asking so much considering how much you stand to gain.”

  The rancher drummed his fingers on the table. “Tell me. Is it true you are good friends with a Nez Perce chief?”

  “His name is Gray Bear. I saved his son a while back and he’s been grateful ever since.” Fargo cocked his head. “You didn’t read that in any newspaper.”

  “No, I did not. I heard it from an army captain. I’ve asked around about you, you see. I needed someone the Nez Perce would trust. I needed someone that I could trust. You would do the same in my shoes.”

  Fargo grunted.

  Bell sat up. “Very well. Seeing as how you are exactly the man for the job, and seeing as how I need the two Appaloosas more than I have ever needed anything, I’m willing to pay you two thousand dollars for your services. But I’ll still only pay you five hundred in advance. I give you a thousand, you might take it into your head to take my money and go on to San Francisco or someplace else and squander it gambling and whoring.”

  Fargo resented the insult. “When I give my word,” he said harshly, “I keep it.”

  “So I’ve heard. Yet another of your attributes that persuaded me to offer you the job. What do you say? Do we have an accord? Will you go to the Nez Perce for me and bring back two horses?”

  Fargo thought of his nearly empty poke.

  “Well?” Bell impatiently prodded. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Is it yes or is it no?”

  “It’s yes,” Skye Fargo said.

  3

  Fargo was four days out of Sweetwater Station when he ran into trouble.

  He was crossing a valley lush with grass and wildflowers. A goldfinch and its mate flew past. A meadowlark called. The sun was bright and warm, the day as perfect as a day could be.

  A pungent scent tingled Fargo’s nose. A scent that surprised him, given its source. He rose in the stirrups to see over the grass just as a rumbling snort heralded the rise of a behemoth from out of the very earth. Instantly, Fargo drew rein.

  Back during the beaver trade the mountains had been home to a brute seldom seen now. The beaver men and those who came after had killed most of them off. Most, but not all. On occasion Fargo came across one, and he never knew how they would react. They were as unpredictable as bears and every bit as dangerous.

  Mountain buffalo were shaggier than their prairie cousins. Shaggier and leaner although they stood as high at the shoulders—nearly six feet—and their curved horns were just as wicked. This one was a bull. It had been lying in a wallow, and the odor Fargo had smelled was its urine.

  To make a wallow, buffalo gouged out clods of grass to expose the bare dirt and then urinated and rolled on their backs to cake themselves in mud, all in an effort to ward off the hordes of insects that plagued them.

  The bull snorted and pawed the ground and tossed its head, its dark eyes fixed intently on Fargo and the Ovaro.

  Fargo hoped to God it wouldn’t charge. His Henry was in the saddle scabbard and the Colt would be next to useless. Besides which, he didn’t want to kill it if he could help it. He had no need of the meat and couldn’t afford the time to cure the hide. All he could do was sit quiet and wait for the buffalo to make up its mind.

  Then the grass to his right moved and out stepped a cow. She wasn’t as agitated as her mate. All she did was stare.

&
nbsp; The Ovaro, thankfully, didn’t whinny or shy. The slightest movement, the slightest sound, might provoke an attack.

  Unexpectedly, the grass moved a third time, and from behind the cow pranced a calf. It came straight toward the stallion.

  Inwardly, Fargo swore. Should the cow or the bull perceive him as a threat to their young, they would be on him in a flying fury. To his consternation the calf came up to the Ovaro and eyed it quizzically.

  The bull and the cow came closer, too, the bull continuing to rumble in irritation. Fargo gripped the reins with both hands and tensed to use his spurs. If he reined away quickly enough and if the bull and the cow were slow in coming after him, he might get away.

  The calf playfully skipped about the stallion, its tail bobbing, and uttered a short bleat. Unconcerned, it moved off into the high grass, and in a few seconds its mother followed. The bull gave a last snort and lumbered after its family, not once taking its eyes off the intruders.

  Fargo let out a long breath, and laughed. Moments like these were the spice that made the wilds so appealing. He liked the new, the unexpected, life on the razor’s edge. The humdrum of city life wasn’t for him.

  On Fargo rode. About four in the afternoon he shot a rabbit. Toward sunset he stopped for the night below the crest of a high ridge. It sheltered him from the wind and gave him an unobstructed view of his back trail for many miles. He gathered fallen branches and got a fire going. After putting coffee on to boil, he drew his Arkansas toothpick from its ankle sheath, skinned the rabbit, and cut the meat into chunks. He sharpened the end of a long stick, skewered several pieces, and held them to the flames.

  The aroma made his mouth water. Once the outside of the meat was brown, he tore into the first piece with relish. About to take another bite, he checked his back trail and stiffened.

  Far to the southeast a pinpoint of light had flared.

  It could be anyone, Fargo reflected. The trail he was following was used by Indians, and others. It could also be someone following him. He would find out soon enough. For now he was content to sit back and enjoy his meal.

  A wolf howled and was answered by another. An owl hooted, and wings fluttered in the dark.