Rocky Mountain Revenge Page 6

  “Didn’t you explain about the shooter in the trees?”

  “We tell him. Father say about tracks. Motomo think maybe men in trees your friends. He want you dead. Father say no. Father say must catch men. Then Motomo know truth.”

  “That’s fair, I suppose,” Fargo said.

  “At dawn warriors track men in trees,” Small Badger said. “Father say Motomo go.” Small Badger paused. “You as well.”

  “Thank him for me.”

  Small Badger did, then glanced at the glowering Motomo and turned back to Fargo. “You my friend so I warn you. Be careful. Keep eyes sharp. Keep ears sharp. Motomo want you dead. He want you dead so much, maybe he not care other man not your friend. Maybe he kill you just to kill you. Understand?”

  “I savvy. And thanks.”

  “I know you not do bad thing like this. But others not know you same as me.” Small Badger sighed and shook his head. “My English is much bad, yes?”

  “You do fine for the short time the missionary was with your people, and how young you were,” Fargo complimented him. He didn’t mention how much better Many Clouds spoke it.

  As if that were a stage cue, the flap parted and in came the lady herself. She carried a wooden bowl heaped with chunks of cooked deer meat and boiled roots.

  She came around the three warriors and knelt and placed the bowl in front of Fargo.

  “I’m obliged,” Fargo said.

  Many Clouds smiled and stayed on her knees, her head bowed.

  Gray Bear rose. He addressed his son and Motomo and made for the flap.

  With a last glare at Fargo, Motomo followed.

  Small Badger stood. “You must stay in lodge tonight. Warriors watch that you not get away. I sorry but it for your good.”

  “What about my horse?”

  “I take care of him. I feed. I water.” Small Badger walked to the flap. “I go with you in morning. I try make sure Motomo not kill you. Sleep well, friend.” The flap closed behind him.

  Fargo sighed and picked up the bowl. He ate with his fingers. The meat was delicious, the roots tasted a lot like potatoes. After his fourth piece he asked, “Are you going to say anything or give me the silent treatment?”

  “Silent treatment?” Many Clouds repeated, looking up. “That is new to me. What does it mean?”

  “You’re not going to talk because you’re mad at me.”

  Many Clouds placed her hand on his knee. “Why would I be mad? You never said you would stay with me. You did not make a promise you could not keep. Some men do that. Some lie to trick a woman into spreading her legs.”

  “Men can be real bastards,” Fargo said with a grin.

  Many Clouds didn’t smile. “Small Badger picked me to bring your food. He knows you and I are friends. Some of the others, though . . .”

  She stopped.

  “I don’t want you in trouble on my account.”

  “You are the talk of the village. Running Elk was well liked. Why did the man in the trees do it?”

  “He was after me, not the boy. Running Elk charged him. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Do you know who the man in the trees was?”

  “I’ve seen him before,” Fargo admitted.

  “Why does he want you dead?”

  “I wish I knew.” The question had been burning at Fargo since the attack. “I aim to wring it out of him when I catch him.”

  “You might not have the chance. The other warriors want vengeance. Running Elk’s father wants those to blame dead most of all.”

  “I gathered that.” Fargo selected another piece of meat and put it in his mouth but the meal had lost its savor.

  “My people are not of one mind. Half think you killed the boy or were a party to killing him. Half think you did not.”

  “I’ll prove to them I didn’t.”

  Many Clouds slid her hand from his knee to his thigh. “Gray Bear picked three warriors to go with you tomorrow besides his son and Motomo. I know who they are. Two think you are not involved but the other is a good friend of Motomo’s. You must watch both of them.”

  Fargo put his hand on hers. “I appreciate the warning.”

  Many Clouds pulled her hand away. “I would do more for you if I could,” she said quietly.

  “You’re welcome to stay the night,” Fargo suggested.

  “As much as I would like to it would not be wise. Those who believe you are the killer would not like it.”

  “I understand.”

  “I do not care what they think but I have my parents and my brother and sisters to think of.”

  “Do what’s best for you.”

  Many Clouds rose and kissed him on the cheek. Cupping his chin, she said earnestly, “If I were you I would escape the first chance there is. Forget the men in the trees.”

  “I can’t.”

  Many Clouds straightened. “There is one other thing. It is all over camp how you came to buy a stallion and a mare for a white man to breed. Is this true?”

  Fargo nodded.

  “Many do not like this. Some who think you did not kill the boy are against you because of it. Your situation is . . .” Many Clouds stopped. “Complicated. Is that the right word?”

  “It fits as good as anything.”

  Many Clouds went to the flap. “Do your best to stay alive. I hold you dear in my heart and it would make me sad if they kill you.”

  “That makes two of us,” Skye Fargo said.

  8

  The day had dawned cloudy with the scent of rain in the air.

  Dappled by shadows, the Nez Perce rode in single file. Their tracker was exceptionally good.

  Fargo had offered to help but Motomo objected. He insisted that Fargo ride at the middle of the line with warriors in front of him and in back of him so he couldn’t try to flee.

  “I sorry,” Small Badger said as they started out. “Him cause much trouble if we not do as he want.”

  Motomo and Motomo’s friend were behind Fargo, arrows nocked to the strings of their bow. It made his skin prickle to think that they were looking for an excuse—any excuse—to sink a shaft into him.

  Fargo wished he had the Colt and the Henry. His guns were back in the village in Gray Bear’s lodge. He’d asked for them and Small Badger told him he would get them back after they found Running Elk’s killer and Motomo was convinced he had no part in the killing.

  Over the past hour the wind had picked up. Fargo reckoned the storm would break before the afternoon was out, and if the rain was heavy enough it would make tracking a lot harder, if not impossible.

  Small Badger slowed and let the Ovaro come up next to him. “How you be, Iron Will?”

  “How do you think?” Fargo wasn’t in the best of moods. To be held a prisoner rankled, even if he did understand why they were doing it. What he didn’t understand was the motive of the shooter. He needed to talk to him but the Nez Perce weren’t likely to give him the chance.

  “We find three men before sun go down,” Small Badger predicted. “Then this be over.”

  “Has your pa made up his mind about parting with a couple of horses?” Fargo brought up.

  “We talk last night. I say we should. Him worried whites let other tribes have m’a min to breed.”

  “What if the man who buys them gives his word he will only sell them to whites?”

  “My father say him decide by time we back at village. He let you know then.”

  “Provided I make it back,” Fargo amended.

  Small Badger glanced over his shoulder at Motomo. “I do what I can to protect you.”

  The woodland became strangely still. Normally birds would be singing and squirrels would scamper along the high limbs and rabbits would bound off at their approach. But not a single creature was to be seen or heard.

  The tracks showed that the shooter and his two friends had held to a gallop for almost two miles. Evidently they had expected the Nez Perce to come after them. When no pursuit developed they had slowed to a walk
.

  The tracker found where the three men had camped for the night. Mixed with the charred embers of the fire were a few rabbit bones. The warrior also discovered a clear track made by a moccasin.

  “The three be Indians!” Small Badger exclaimed.

  Not quite, Fargo thought.

  Hour followed hour. The whole time, Fargo swore he could feel Motomo’s eyes bore into his back. He hid his unease and was glad he still had the toothpick in his boot.

  Along about the middle of the afternoon the clouds darkened and the wind rose to a shriek. The Nez Perce were pushing hard to overtake the killers but they still hadn’t caught sight of them when thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Fargo noticed that Motomo and Motomo’s friend were riding side by side and talking in low tones. The looks they gave him would wither a cactus.

  “It rain heavy soon,” Small Badger stated the obvious.

  A flash split the sky far off. More thunder pealed, and the wind howled. Saplings bent and limbs thrashed.

  The warrior who was tracking drew rein. Sliding down, he sank to one knee and studied the ground. He said something.

  “The three men ride fast again,” Small Badger translated.

  “Maybe they know we’re after them,” Fargo speculated. “We should pick up the pace or we won’t catch them before the storm strikes.”

  The thunder grew louder, the wind was a constant banshee wail. A tree limb broke with a loud snap and went flying off. The brush rustled and crackled and popped.

  “We get wet soon,” Small Badger said.

  They pressed on over a sawtooth ridge and down a slope of heavy timber. The warrior in the lead abruptly drew rein and hollered.

  Fargo saw it, too—tendrils of smoke rising above a stand of cottonwoods on the other side of a valley.

  “We find killer!” Small Badger cried, elated.

  Eager to get down there, Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He went only a few yards when Motomo came up on his right and Motomo’s friend on his left. The friend thrust the tip of a lance within inches of his chest and Motomo motioned for him to stop.

  “What the hell?”

  Small Badger reined in next to the Ovaro and swapped a curt flurry with Motomo. “He think you go warn your friends. He say you to stay with us.”

  “They’re not my damn friends.”

  “Better you let us go,” Small Badger advised. “Better you stay back with Alahmoot.” He bobbed his chin at Motomo’s friend.

  Against his better judgment Fargo relented. Small Badger and Motomo and the other two warriors started down the mountain. He followed, conscious that Alahmoot was ready to hurl a lance if he made any sudden movements.

  The first raindrops fell, large and cold, spattering Fargo on the cheek and the neck.

  To the west a lightning bolt cleaved the heavens and a thunderclap rumbled, its echo rolling on and on.

  It took five minutes to descend and by then the drops were a drizzle. Fargo drew rein at the tree line. The Nez Perce were circling around rather than cutting across in the open.

  Fargo leaned on his saddle horn, and fumed. He should be with them. Too much could go wrong. The Nez Perce had bows and lances. Their quarry was armed with rifles and pistols. He looked at Alahmoot and said, “We should help them.”

  The warrior was a statue.

  Fargo resorted to sign language. The sign for “help” was a combination of the signs for “work” and “with.” “We must work with them.”

  Alahmoot didn’t respond or speak.

  Off across the valley the Nez Perce were closing in on the cottonwoods. Small Badger was in the lead. They dismounted and left their horses tied to trees and closed in on foot.

  Fargo could barely make them out for the drizzle. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, but he suddenly had a gut feeling that the Nez Perce were blundering into an ambush. The cottonwoods were too quiet, almost as if the smoke had been a ruse to draw them in. “God, no,” he said. Should anything happen to Small Badger, Motomo and Alahmoot wouldn’t hesitate to try to kill him.

  Figures moved in the cottonwoods.

  Fargo opened his mouth to shout a warning but it was too late. Rifles cracked, spitting lead and smoke. One of the Nez Perce dropped. War whoops rose and Fargo thought he saw arrows cleave the air. Hooves pounded and three riders burst from the far end of the cottonwoods and raced on up the valley. The killer and his friends were fleeing. It could be, Fargo guessed, that they weren’t sure exactly how many Nez Perce they were up against and decided to get gone while they could.

  The loudest thunderclap yet signaled Nature’s full tantrum. The storm erupted in all its elemental fury. The rain fell in torrents, a deluge so heavy, Fargo couldn’t see his hand at arm’s length.

  It was the moment Fargo had been waiting for. Instantly, he reined away from Alahmoot and made off through the woods in the direction the three riders had gone. He wasn’t worried about Alahmoot hearing him above the din of the storm, so he brought the Ovaro to a gallop.

  Some would call it reckless. All Fargo had was the toothpick, and here he was chasing three men who were well armed.

  From well behind him came a shout of alarm. Alahmoot had discovered he was gone.

  Fargo grimly smiled. He intended to find out what the hell was going on, provided the storm didn’t spoil everything. He had gone but a short way when he was soaked to the skin. The rain was a sheet of pebbles, battering him relentlessly. The smart thing was to find cover, but how, when he couldn’t see? To make it worse, he had to haul on the reins and take it slow or risk colliding with a tree.

  Long minutes of wet and cold ensued. By Fargo’s best reckoning he was near the end of the valley when a dark shape hove out of the downpour. It was a bluff, the sides sheer and high. He rode up to it, and, sheltered from the worst of the tempest, gratefully drew rein.

  Fargo placed his hand on his empty holster and frowned. No matter what happened he must return to the Nez Perce village for his weapons. He supposed he could always buy a new Colt and a new Henry but he was used to the ones he had and reluctant to part with them.

  The storm proved to be a monster. It pummeled the earth for more than an hour. Then, abruptly, it ended. The rain ceased and the dark clouds floated off and dazzling sunlight splashed the drenched vegetation.

  Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He doubted he would find tracks. The rain had seen to that. But he was fairly sure the three would continue to the southeast so it was to the southeast he reined the stallion.

  He hoped to overtake them by sunset but it wasn’t to be. The golden orb was roosting on the rim of creation when he drew rein in a gully with high walls. Climbing down, he gathered wood for a fire. It took forever to find enough dry branches. Once flames were crackling, he put coffee on, then stripped down to his bare skin, spread out his wet buckskins and his socks, and sat close to the fire until he was dry. In his saddlebags were a spare set of buckskins and socks. The shirt was torn and the socks had holes but he put them on anyway.

  Fargo felt warm again. He felt even better after a cup of piping-hot coffee.

  His stomach growled, so he helped himself to pemmican.

  The night was alive with howls and shrieks and roars but none of the meat-eaters came near. Normally he would sit up until near midnight but he turned in early in order to head out early. His sleep was undisturbed. An hour before sunrise his inner clock woke him. He was up and in the saddle as the sky to the east brightened.

  Fargo brought the stallion to a trot. There was a good chance the three hadn’t broken camp yet. He constantly sniffed the air and soon was rewarded with the scent of wood smoke. Ahead, the slopes of two mountains converged, blocking his view. He rode through the gap and beheld a wooded strip—and an orange glimmer off through the pines.

  Fargo reined up. He tied the stallion, patted it, and crept toward the fire.

  From trunk to trunk and bush to bush he worked his way closer until he was within a stone’s throw of a clearing. Crouching, he took in e
very little detail.

  Two of the three half-breeds were still asleep. Only the one with the bushy eyebrows, Speckled Wolf, was up. He was cutting strips of squirrel meat and skewering them.

  Fargo slid his hand under his pant leg and into his boot. Palming the Arkansas toothpick, he stealthily glided nearer. He wouldn’t kill them until he had some answers.

  Speckled Wolf stretched and yawned and scratched himself. His Sharps was next to him. His revolver, a Volcanic, was tucked under his belt. He also had an antler-handled knife on his hip.

  The trick was for Fargo to get close without being shot. Flattening, he crawled, his chin brushing the ground. He came to a log, took off his hat, and carefully peered over.

  Speckled Wolf had stopped slicing squirrel. He glanced to the east and said gruffly, “Get up, you two. The sun will be up soon.”

  Neither stirred.

  Scowling, Speckled Wolf went over and kicked each of them in turn.

  “I won’t tell you again. I want to be in the saddle at day-break.”

  The other two half-breeds sat up. One rubbed his leg where Speckled Wolf had kicked him.

  “What the hell is the hurry? They’ll never catch us. That storm wiped out our tracks.”

  “Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. Either way, I won’t rest easy until we’re shed of their territory.”

  “You spook too easy these days.”

  “Go to hell, Rooster,” Speckled Wolf said.

  The third breed said, “I don’t blame you for wanting to get the hell out of here. The Nez Perce will be out for your hide after you went and shot that kid.”

  “I told you, Ferret Killer. I had no choice. He saw me. He came at me with an arrow ready to fly.”

  “I know. I was just saying, was all.”

  “What about Fargo?” Rooster asked.

  “Nothing has changed. We still have to stop him. I tried the easy way by taking his horse but he caught us. I tried to wing him at the Nez Perce village and missed. So now we do it the hard way.”

  Rooster said a strange thing. “I sort of feel bad about it. It’s not his fault. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t know what we know.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Speckled Wolf replied.