The Trailsman 317 Page 3

  Fargo wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Do you want the truth or do you want it sugarcoated?”

  “I am a grown woman. I will not fall to pieces.”

  “You told me in Denver that it has been three months since you heard from him.”

  “That is correct, yes.”

  “Then I would not get your hopes up.”

  “So you think he is dead?” Mabel went to take another bite but lowered the piece of pemmican. “Maybe he is. Maybe I have come all this way for nothing. But I need to find out. He and I have always been close. A girl could not ask for a better brother than Chester.”

  Fargo’s estimation of her rose a notch. “You are doing this out of love, then?”

  “Why else?” Mabel said. “If you have a brother or sister, you can understand my sentiments.”

  “I have a few friends,” Fargo said.

  “But no family? How sad.” Mabel held up a hand when he went to speak. “No. That is all right. It is none of my business. But I don’t mind baring my heart to you. My brother means everything to me. If he is indeed dead, I need to know. Do you understand? I need to be certain.”

  “I will do what I can,” Fargo promised. “I just wish you would listen to me once in a while.”

  Mabel had a nice smile. “I thank you for being so concerned. In my defense, I have always done as I see fit, and I am too old to change my ways.”

  “You can’t be much over twenty,” Fargo observed.

  “Twenty-three, to be exact. Chester is twenty-seven, soon to be twenty-eight.”

  “You are that old?” Fargo said. “And no husband, as pretty as you are? Do you intend to spend your days a spinster?”

  Her laugh pealed to the treetops. “Land sakes, no. I have not met the right man yet, is all. I suppose I am too particular, but better that than spend the rest of my life with someone whose habits would drive me to distraction.” She paused. “How about you?”

  Fargo thought of all the lovelies he had bedded, willing doves and others. He had lost count long ago. “I am not nearly as fussy.”

  “Chester hoped he would find a girl out here,” Mabel said. “He was of the silly opinion that Western girls are somehow more appealing than Eastern girls. Which is sheer hogwash.”

  “Says the girl from the East.”

  “Be honest. What do women out here offer that women back in the States do not?”

  “They are not as prissy, for one thing,” Fargo said. Which tended to make them more playful under the sheets.

  “They still step into their petticoats one leg at a time,” Mabel argued. “If you ask me, their allure is the same as the grass on the other side of the fence.”

  Fargo gave her more pemmican and they ate in silence, each alone with their thoughts. In Fargo’s case, he was thinking of the headaches Mabel’s presence would cause. The vermin at Skagg’s Landing would be delighted to set their lecherous eyes on a female of her ladylike caliber. They would be eager to try their luck, and the boldest would not be put off by feeble protests. “Stay close to me when we get to the Landing and maybe we can avoid trouble.”

  “What brought that up?” Mabel asked, and blinked. “Oh. Our talk about women.”

  “Talk about something else if you want,” Fargo suggested.

  She did. For the next hour Fargo listened to her prattle on about her childhood. She tried to get him to talk about his but he refused.

  “I must say, you are not much of a conversationalist,” Mabel remarked. “In polite society you would be considered a bore.”

  “I don’t give a damn what others think of me,” Fargo said. He rode his own trails, and always had.

  “I envy you, then. I was brought up to think of others first and myself second. The Golden Rule, and all of that.”

  “The rule I live by is simple,” Fargo said. “Step on my toes and I will shoot your foot off.”

  Mabel tittered. “In other words, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. If everyone thought as you do, no one would ever get along.”

  It was pushing midnight when she turned in.

  Fargo sat up awhile, listening to the bestial chorus of cries, squeals, and snarls. He heard nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest that the two men who had tried to kill him were anxious to try again.

  Still, when Fargo finally fell asleep, it was an uneasy rest. He tossed and turned and snapped awake at the slightest sound. Well before dawn he was up and kindled the embers of their fire.

  Mabel did not stir until a golden arch crowned the eastern horizon. Poking her tousled head from under her blankets, she smothered a yawn and languidly stretched, her breasts straining for release from her riding blouse.

  “You slept in your clothes?”

  “Not because of you,” Mabel said, and scanned the ground around her. “I am scared to death of snakes. If one should crawl over me in my sleep, I would die of a burst heart.”

  Fargo did not entirely blame her. Rattlesnakes were fond of warmth, as many travelers discovered when they woke up in the morning to find an unwanted blanket mate. “I knew a man down in the desert country who stuck his foot into his boot one morning without checking the boot first, and was bit by a sidewinder that had crawled into it during the night.”

  “Oh my. Did he die?”

  “No. He was bit in the big toe, and he chopped it off right away so the venom wouldn’t spread. From then on he made it a point to kill every sidewinder he came across.”

  Mabel sat up and vigorously shook her head while running her hands through her lustrous hair. “If you will excuse me, I will go into the woods and tidy myself up.”

  “It is better if you do it here,” Fargo said.

  “And have you watch me? No, thank you. Some things a woman must do alone.”

  “Give a holler if you need me.”

  Mabel smirked. “I am old enough to make myself presentable without help.” She cast her blankets off and stiffly stood. Taking her bag and a hairbrush, she walked off whistling.

  Fargo admired the sway of her hips and the suggestion of willowy legs. She had a natural grace about her, and he could not help but imagine how she would look naked.

  Smiling to himself, Fargo rolled up his bedroll. He saddled the Ovaro, and as a favor to Mabel, did the same with her mare. The whole time, the image of her stuck in his head.

  He wiped dust off the Henry, checked that his Colt was loaded, then hiked his pant leg and verified his Arkansas toothpick was secure in its ankle sheath. He was straightening when a scream pierced the brisk morning air.

  “Skye! Skye! Come here, quick!”

  Without a moment’s delay Fargo raced to Mabel’s aid. He half expected to find she had seen a snake or spotted another bear. Ten yards into the forest he came on her bag, lying untended in the grass, but not a sign of her anywhere. “Mabel?” he hollered. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer.

  Fargo glanced every which way. He called her name several more times and was mocked by silence. Not so much as a bird warbled. That in itself was ominous. Bending, he cast about for tracks. The ground was hard but in a patch of bare earth he found a footprint that sent a tingle of worry down his spine.

  Whoever made the print wore moccasins.

  An Untilla, Fargo guessed. Where there was one there might be more, and there was no telling what they would do to her. He broke into a run, guided by bent blades of grass and disturbed brush.

  “Mabel! Answer me, damn it!”

  More of that unnerving silence.

  Fargo ran faster. It could be the Untilla had slain her and were carting her body off. Ahead, a figure appeared. Someone in buckskins, running flat out. He poured on the speed, his legs flying. Intervening trees and undergrowth prevented him from seeing the figure clearly. He gained rapidly, though, and when he was only a few yards behind his quarry, he launched himself into the air and wrapped his arms around the other’s legs. Locked together they sprawled to the ground, and tumbled.

  Far
go pushed to his feet but the other was faster. He glimpsed long black hair and an oval face, and twin mounds molded by buckskin. It was an Untilla, all right, but a woman, not a warrior. Surprise rooted him in place, which proved to be a mistake.

  For woman or no, she was armed with a bone-handled knife, and as she rose, she drove the point at his throat.

  4

  In sheer reflex Fargo caught her wrist and stopped the knife a whisker’s width from his jugular. He twisted her arm to make her drop it, but instead she held fast to the hilt and tried to knee him. Sidestepping, he let go of the Henry and grabbed her other wrist. “Calm down! I am not out to hurt you!”

  The Untilla woman was short, no more than five feet tall, and slight of stature, which Fargo had heard was a trait of the tribe. But she was a wildcat. Hissing, she struggled fiercely to break free.

  “Damn it! Do you speak the white man’s tongue?”

  Her response was to suddenly open her mouth wide and attempt to sink her teeth into his arm.

  “Simmer down!”

  Fargo was wasting his breath. It was plain she did not know English. Since the Utes controlled a large territory to the south of the Untilla, he tried the Ute tongue, “I am not your enemy!” But again he saw no sign that she understood.

  Then a shout came from up ahead. “Skye! Where are you? I need you over here!”

  Reluctantly, Fargo released the Untilla woman and she bolted like a frightened doe. Scooping up the Henry, he ran in the direction of Mabel’s voice. “Keep yelling so I can find you!”

  Mabel did not respond. The woods were silent again. Fuming, Fargo bawled, “Mabel! Where the hell are you?” He kept running and casting about for some trace of her while shouting her name over and over. Just when he again thought the Untillas might have carried her off or killed her, there she was, standing stock still with her head tilted to one side. She motioned for him to stop, and put a finger to her lips.

  Fargo raised the Henry but there was no one to shoot. He waited over a minute, then growled, “Damn it. What is going on?”

  “I am trying to listen,” Mabel said. “I heard one of them going through the brush a bit ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Those devils stole it!” Mabel exclaimed. “I was sitting there doing my hair and a hand came from behind me and snatched it from my grasp. Can you believe the gall?”

  “Stole what?” Fargo said.

  “My hairbrush. I yelled for you and chased them but they were too fast for me.”

  “Them?” Fargo said. “How many were there? And how many were warriors?”

  “None,” Mabel said. “All three were women. Not much bigger than fifteen-year-olds but they were full-grown women. I could tell.”

  “We have to get out of here.”

  Mabel angrily shook her head. “I am not leaving without my hairbrush. It is the only one I have with me.”

  “You don’t get it,” Fargo said. “There must be a village nearby. When those women tell the others, we will have the whole tribe after us.”

  “What tribe are they?”

  Fargo told her what he knew about them while scouring the vegetation. The Untilla were partial to the bow and arrow, the men accounted to be skilled archers. Since he did not care to be turned into a porcupine, he plucked at Mabel’s sleeve. “Let’s go while we still can.”

  “But my hairbrush!”

  “It can’t do you any good if you are dead.” Fargo turned and hurried toward the clearing. He glanced back to see if she was following. She wasn’t. “Do I have to drag you or will you come of your own accord?”

  “Without my hairbrush my hair will become a tangle,” Mabel objected.

  “If the Untillas slit your throat, your hair will be the least of your worries.”

  “Oh, all right!” Mabel snapped, and stomped a foot.

  Fargo broke into a jog and she paced him.

  “These Untillas. How come I have never heard of them?”

  “They are a small tribe, and they keep to themselves,” Fargo answered. Even he knew little about them. Some tribes wanted nothing to do with whites, or as little as possible, and were as secretive as could be. They shunned contact. When whites strayed into their territory, the Untillas made sure the whites did not stray out. Yet another perilous aspect of life on the frontier that those who wanted to live to see the next dawn must never forget.

  “I can’t get over them taking my hairbrush. What a low-down thing to do.”

  “Did they try to hurt you?”

  “No. They only wanted the brush. They took it and ran. That was when I shouted for you, and chased after them. But they are fast little devils—I will grant them that.”

  “You were lucky you didn’t blunder into their village,” Fargo said. Some tribes tortured captives before they killed them, although he had heard nothing to suggest the Untillas were one of them.

  “If I had, I would have given them a piece of my mind and demanded they give my hairbrush back.”

  “You are a fool, Mabel Landry,” Fargo said.

  Mabel slowed, her face mirroring shock and hurt in equal degrees. “How can you say a thing like that?”

  “All you care about is your stupid brush when you should be worried for your life.”

  “You fret too much.”

  “And you don’t worry enough. We must light a shuck and put a lot of miles behind us before we will be safe.”

  After that, neither said a word until they reached the clearing. Fargo was relieved to find the horses still there. “Mount up.”

  Mabel, her arms folded across her bosom, glared at him and at the world in general. “Running scared, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. That is what you are doing.”

  “Insult me all you want,” Fargo said. “I am only doing what I have to do to keep you alive.”

  “You will earn no thanks from me. You don’t seem to realize how important that hairbrush is.”

  If Fargo lived to be a hundred he would never fully understand women. He grinned at the thought, and forked leather. “I won’t ask you again.” The Untillas could show up at any moment.

  “You did not ask. You ordered me.” Deliberately moving slowly to annoy him, Mabel climbed on her mare. “I will not forget this. I will not forgive you, either.”

  Tired of her carping, Fargo responded with, “This is the reason I doubt I will ever marry.” He pricked the Ovaro with his spurs, heading south. He did not look back this time. If she followed, fine. If not, the consequences were on her shoulders, not his. But after a bit he heard the drum of the mare’s hooves.

  Alert for movement or warriors concealed in ambush, Fargo rode with his hand on the Colt. He would rather avoid the Untillas than fight them, but fight he would, if forced.

  Fargo was not an Indian hater. He was not one of the countless whites who despised Indians simply because they were red. He did not look down his nose at them as inferior, or deem them savages, or heathens. They had their way of life, and the whites had theirs. But strip away beliefs in the Almighty versus the Great Spirit, and some of the different customs, and the red man and the white man were a lot more alike than either was willing to admit.

  They had been riding for an hour when Mabel coughed and called out, “Slow up a minute, will you?”

  Fargo obliged, and she came up next to him. “I warn you,” he said. “It better not be about that damn hairbrush or I will take you over my knee and spank you.”

  Mabel, surprisingly, grinned. “I might like that. But no, I want to say I am sorry for how I acted back there. Now that I have had time to think, I see I treated you unfairly.”

  “There is hope for you yet.”

  “I have a temper, yes, and I tend to speak my mind when I shouldn’t. But I am mature enough to admit my mistakes.” Mabel looked at him. “No hard feelings, I trust?”

  “No hard feelings,” Fargo set her at ease. “But if you still want to be spanked, remind me tonight.”

  Mabel laughed.
“I was beginning to think you might be a monk in disguise. It is good to know we are both of us human.”

  The slope they were climbing brought them to a sawtooth ridge. From the crest Fargo could gaze out over a broad valley. At the far end reared the backbone of the Sawatch Range, several of the peaks gleaming white with snow. Down the middle of the valley wound a river, visible here and there through gaps in the trees. It curved close to the bottom of the ridge.

  “How very pretty!” Mabel declared. “We do not have anything nearly as grand back home.”

  “Do you see that smoke?” Fargo asked, pointing at gray wisps that rose toward the sky.

  “Skagg’s Landing?”

  Fargo nodded.

  “At last!” Mabel excitedly exclaimed. “Soon I will have word of my brother.”

  It took them two hours to get there. Fargo stuck to a well-worn trail that paralleled the river. At one point Mabel inquired, with a nod, “Does this waterway have a name?”

  “The Untilla River.”

  “I should have guessed. Is the river named after the tribe or is the tribe named after the river?”

  “You ask the damnedest questions.”

  “Here is another. How is it the tribe hasn’t wiped out the people at Skagg’s Landing, or driven them off?”

  “Skagg’s Landing is the only trading post for hundreds of miles. Malachi Skagg gives them things they can’t get anywhere else so they let him and his friends stay.”

  “You say his name as if you were talking about the plague.”

  “Do I?” Fargo shrugged. Maybe he did. He disliked Skagg. He disliked Skagg a lot. But then, he never thought highly of anyone who lorded it over others. It did not help that Skagg had the temperament of a rabid wolf and no scruples whatsoever.

  “I pray he knows where my brother is,” Mabel said. “I can’t wait to see Chester again.”

  Fargo was afraid she was getting her hopes up, only to have them dashed. “Remember,” he cautioned. “It has been three months since you heard from him.”

  “I know, I know,” Mabel said. “But when you love someone, what can you do?”