Black Hills Badman

3

The black bear lumbered along in search of food. It was following its nose, as bears always did. It had no idea it was being watched.

The broken country was ideal for game. Bear and deer were plentiful. So were antelope but they were hard to spot and a lot harder to shoot. The wariest critters on God’s green earth, was how an old-timer once described them. Fargo agreed.

“What do you think? Do you want to take a shot or not?”

Senator Fulton Keever was studying the bear through a spyglass. “It’s a big one, Mr. Owen. I’ll grant you that. But I’m after trophies. I want a head I can hang on my wall and boast about to my colleagues.”

Fargo frowned. He’d spent the better part of an hour tracking that bear. Most hunters would rate it more than big enough.

“I suppose I could use it for practice.” Senator Keever held the spyglass out to Lem Owen and Owen took it and handed Keever his hunting rifle.

Fargo saw no need for Owen to be there but the senator wanted him along. One of Owen’s pards came too, a weasel called Lichen. Skinny and sallow, Lichen wore a broad-bladed knife high in a brown leather sheath, and carried a Sharps. He had the habit of chewing on blades of grass.

The senator had nearly a dozen rifles. No hunter needed that many but Keever was putting money in Fargo’s poke so Fargo didn’t say anything. The rifle Keever was holding at the moment was a British model made by a well-known Brit gunsmith named Joseph Whitworth. Around the campfire one evening, the senator had mentioned that Whitworth’s guns were highly sought after. “They cost more than most people earn in a year.” Keever had stroked the rifle, which he was cleaning at the time. “He custom-made this to my specifications. With it I can shoot a bee out of the air at a hundred yards.”

Fargo doubted that. But he was impressed by the thin tube attached to the top of the barrel. It was a spyglass in itself, enabling the shooter to see an animal as clearly as if he were standing next to it.

Now, Keever raised the rifle to his shoulder.

“Hold on.”

Keever glanced up. “Is something the matter, Mr. Fargo?”

“That bear has as much right to go on breathing as you or me. If all you want is practice, shoot a tree.”

“Are you serious?”

“If you did shoot it, then what?” Fargo asked.

The senator’s brow puckered. “I’m not quite sure I understand. I’ll shoot it and it will be dead. What more is there?”

“You’ll just leave it there for the buzzards and the coyotes?”

Keever acted considerably surprised. “I must say, I never expected this from you, of all people. You have a reputation for being not only a fine tracker but a superb hunter in your own right. How can you be so squeamish over killing a bear?”

“The game I shoot, I use. I eat the meat. Sometimes I cure the hides and sell or trade them.”

“That’s what is bothering you? An issue easily solved. We’ll butcher the bear and pack the meat to camp. Would that make you happy?”

Lem Owen snorted. “That’s an awful lot of bother to go to, if you ask me. If I were in charge, Senator, I’d let you kill whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“That’d decent of you. But Mr. Fargo is, and it would please me greatly if you would remember that.”

“Your choice. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be the wrong one.”

Fargo turned. This wasn’t the first time Owen had implied he could do a better job as guide. “I don’t get many complaints.”

“You’re making a fuss over a lousy bear.”

“Too bad there’s not a couple of hundred so you can shoot them like you did all those buffalo.”

Owen chuckled. “There must be a million of the damn things. I could have dropped them all day and all night and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“It would to the Indians who rely on the herds to live.”

Owen’s eyes widened. “Listen to yourself. Who in hell cares what redskins think? You know, I’d heard you were an Injun lover. But I never figured you for stupid.”

Fargo hit him, a solid right cross to the jaw that knocked Owen against Lichen. Both men stumbled, and Owen would have fallen if Lichen hadn’t caught him and held him up.

“What on earth!” Senator Keever exclaimed.

Owen shook himself and put a hand to his chin. Then, swearing, he clawed for the Remington revolver on his hip.

In the blink of an eye Fargo’s Colt was up and out. They all heard the click of the hammer being thumbed back.

Owen turned to stone. His throat bobbed, and he said, “Hold on, now, hoss. There’s no call to blow out my wick.”

“Take your hand off your revolver.”

Forcing a crooked grin, Owen obeyed. “I wouldn’t really have drawn on you. I was mad, is all, you slugging me like that.”

“When you go around insulting people that’s what happens.” Fargo let down the hammer and twirled the Colt into his holster.

Senator Keever stood. “Enough of this. I hired the two of you and I expect you to get along. Mr. Fargo, I’ve noticed that you’re not overly fond of Mr. Owen. Mr. Owen, I’m aware that you don’t think highly of Mr. Fargo. Whatever the cause of this silliness, either behave like adults or leave my employ.”

“I’m all for getting along with folks,” Owen said.

Fargo almost laughed in his face. Owen was the kind to smile while stabbing a person in the back. If ever there was such a thing as a human sidewinder, Lem Owen filled the bill.

“Mr. Fargo?” the senator prompted.

“What?”

“Your turn. Do you agree to get along with Mr. Owen for the duration of our hunt?”

“So long as he doesn’t insult me, we’ll get along fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Keever said curtly. “I want your word that you will be on your best behavior.”

“I’ll do as I damn well please.” Fargo took a step and poked Owen in the chest. “And so long as I’m guiding this outfit, I don’t want any more guff out of you.”

“Or what? You’d cut me loose in Sioux country? That’s not very white of you.”

Fargo almost hit him a second time.

“If word got out that you abandoned a white man in the Black Hills, there’s not a soul alive who would hire you.”

Senator Keever was staring in the direction of the black bear. “Look at what your bickering has done. You’ve made me lose my shot. The bear has gone into cover. We’ll have to follow it in.”

Up ahead, an isolated bluff was fringed by woodland. The undergrowth was particularly thick. Somewhere in there was their quarry.

They climbed on their mounts and rode to within fifty yards of the woods. Fargo dismounted, saying, “I’ll come with you, Senator. Owen and Lichen will watch the horses.” The Sioux were as fond of stealing horses as they were of counting coup.

“It’ll take forever to flush that bear with just the two of you,” Owen objected.

“An excellent point,” Senator Keever agreed. “You may tag along. But remember what I said about behaving.”

Fargo shucked his Henry from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.

Owen had a .58 caliber rifle made by Parker, Snow and Company. They were supposedly accurate as could be but were single-shot.

The senator was wiping dust from his Whitworth. “Shall we bait the beast, gentlemen?” He grinned and made for the trees.

“We should stick together,” Fargo proposed. For two reasons. First, he wanted Owen where he could see him; rumor had it that Owen wasn’t above shooting people he disliked in the back. Second, he had yet to take the senator’s measure as a hunter. Keever might have nerves of iron—or he might be prone to panic if the bear charged.

“Whatever for?” was the senator’s reply. “We’re all of us armed, and good shots. We can cover more ground by separating.” As he spoke he bore to the right. “Good luck.”

Owen bore to the left.

Leaving Fargo to stop and stare after them in mild frustration. Since arguing was pointless, he shrugged and made for the bluff.

That was the thing with guide work. Sometimes those he guided had enough sense to listen. Others were jackasses and did as they pleased, and often as not paid a high price for their folly.

The woods were alive with wildlife. A robin warbled high in an oak. Sparrows flitted gaily. A ribbon snake crawled off at his approach, and shortly thereafter a wasp buzzed his ear. Tracks showed there were deer to be had. Larger prints were courtesy of elk.

Above the forest canopy reared the bluff. Long ago part of the near side had broken away, creating a slope littered with boulders. It went almost to the top. From up there a man would have a good view of the entire woods.

Fargo had lost sight of the senator and Owen. The skin between his shoulder blades prickling, he moved silently, alert for sign of them, especially Lem Owen. A twig crunched off to his left.

Instantly, Fargo crouched and tucked the Henry to his shoulder. It could be anything but he wasn’t taking chances. He waited with the patience of an Apache for what or who to show it—or him—self, but nothing appeared. Warily, he stalked on.

Fargo wasn’t too worried about the bear. Black bears usually avoided people. Likely as not, it would run when it saw them. But there was that one time in ten when black bears proved they could be as ferocious as grizzlies.

Close up, the bluff was gigantic. Fargo stepped from the trees and craned his neck. It was a two-hundred-foot climb, at least. He started up, glancing over his shoulder every few yards, just in case. At one point he thought he glimpsed someone off among the trees to the right; that would be the senator.

Gusts of wind stirred the whangs on Fargo’s buckskins. He came to a flat boulder about waist high and climbed up for a look-see. He was higher than the tops of the trees and could see Lichen and the horses. But of Keever and Owen, there was no sign.

Hopping down, Fargo resumed climbing. The higher he went, the steeper it became. Loose dirt dribbled from under his boots. Dislodged stones rattled. He skirted several boulders and was within a pebble’s toss of the top when a crow took wing from the woods below, cawing loudly. He looked, but whatever startled it into flight was well hidden.

The slope ended five feet below the rim. Raising both arms, Fargo slid the Henry over, then jumped, hooked his elbows, and with a lithe swing, gained the summit. He picked up the Henry as he rose. The top of the bluff was as flat as a flapjack and dotted with slabs of rock the size of covered wagons.

The view was spectacular. Prairie surrounded the hub of woodland for as far as the eye could see to the east, west, and south. To the north were the Black Hills.

Fargo walked along the rim, scouring the vegetation below. He saw Keever moving through dense growth. He didn’t spot Owen. He was bending for a better look when something buzzed his ear. This time it wasn’t a wasp. It was an arrow, and it came from behind him.

Diving flat, Fargo twisted and brought the Henry up. A shadow dappled one of the slabs, moving away from him.

Heaving upright, Fargo gave cautious chase. The warrior who loosed the shaft might have friends.

Rock slabs were all around. In the dust was the clear imprint of a foot clad in a moccasin.

Fargo wondered how the warrior got up there. He hadn’t seen tracks on the slope. His back to a slab, he sidled to the other side. Then it was on to the next. It was slow going. Eventually, near the opposite rim, the boulders ended. Crouching, he peered over.

This side wasn’t as steep. A well-defined game trail wound to the bottom. Almost to the end of it was a lone warrior on horseback. The style of his hair and his buckskins warned Fargo the man was a member of the one tribe he wanted to avoid: the Sioux. The warrior glanced up and smiled in grim defiance. Then he used a quirt on his mount.

“Damn.”

Fargo jerked the Henry to his shoulder. He had time for one clear shot. He fixed a bead on the center of the warrior’s back—and couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Fargo never liked to back shoot. Yes, the warrior tried to kill him, but he was white, and an invader.

Lowering the Henry, Fargo stood there until the warrior and his mount were specks on the horizon. Then he retraced his steps.

Keever had disappeared again.

Owen might as well be invisible.

Fargo thought he had spotted one or the other in the middle of the woods. But it was something else, a black mass that detached itself from a patch of shadow Its shape left no doubt. The black bear had been lying up in a thicket but now it was on the move. Its head was low to the ground as if it were sniffing—or stalking.

Fargo leaned farther out.

Senator Keever was twenty yards from the bruin, blissfully unaware of his danger. The bear, though, now had its eyes locked on him.

Cupping a hand to his mouth to shout a warning, Fargo took one more step. The next moment the ground gave out under him and he plummeted over the edge.