Idaho Gold Fever

8

Everyone was up an hour before sunrise. Hasty breakfasts were gobbled and washed down, in Fargo’s case with four steaming cups of coffee. The teams were hitched, mounts were saddled, the children climbed into the wagon beds and the farmers and their wives perched on the front seats. Outriders were sent ahead and to the rear. Flankers moved off to either side. And then, at a shout from Victor Gore, the covered wagons lumbered northward, heading deeper into the dark heart of the wild.

Gore asked Fargo to ride with him.

Fargo didn’t mind. He had been looking for an excuse to pump the man for more information about the Payette River Valley, and maybe glean a hint as to what Gore was really up to. But to Fargo’s surprise, by the middle of the morning he was convinced the former trapper truly did come west again for one last glimpse of his old haunts.

Gore was quite the talker. He went on and on about his trapping days, about the streams he had worked and the plews he had raised. He mentioned how much he missed the annual rendezvous the trappers held.

“Yes, sir. Those were the days,” Gore said fondly. “We were paid hundreds if not thousands for our peltries, and then spent most of it drinking and gambling and outfitting for the next season.”

“You sound as if you would gladly live those times all over again,” Fargo remarked.

“Would I ever! I was young. I was carefree. I lived on the raw edge.” Gore beamed. “Those were some of the best years of my life.”

The heyday of the trappers was a little before Fargo’s time. He had trapped on a few occasions, though, and sold a few mink and ermine pelts, among others.

“I remember it all so clearly,” Gore went on in a dreamy tone. “How cold the water was when I set my traps. How heavy the beaver were when I pulled them out. What it was like skinning and curing the hides so they were just right and would earn top dollar. I remember everything.”

“Did you regret having to give all that up?”

“I hated it so much, I was in a funk for half a year after I went back East. But a man has to make a living and beaver wasn’t in fashion anymore. Damn silk all to hell, anyway.”

Fargo chuckled. Silk hats had replaced beaver. But only until people switched yet again. The public was fickle that way. They were like butterflies flitting from flower to flower. Nothing held their interest for long.

“I envy you, sir,” Gore unexpectedly said.

“In what way?”

“The life you live. I often wish I had bit the bullet and stayed. I might now be as you are. A scout. A frontiersman. Going where I please and doing what I will. Most men would give anything to live as you do.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Isn’t that always how it is? We never appreciate the good things right in front of our faces. We’re always looking at the next pasture and thinking it’s greener than our own.”

“I could never go back East to live,” Fargo mentioned. “It would be like living in a cage. Always abiding by laws and rules.” He never had liked being told what to do.

“You have more grit than I, sir. I freely admit it. I gave up the good life too easily.”

After that Gore lapsed into silence.

Fargo thought about all he had learned. The important thing was that Gore’s interest in the Payette River Valley seemed sincere, and his mention of it to the settlers at Fort Bridger appeared to be no more than happenstance.

Fargo let some time go by before he gnawed at the truth anew. “Rinson and his men,” he said to strike up a new conversation. “I’m surprised a man like you would ride with them.”

“They are a bit too zealous, aren’t they?” Gore said. “But that’s only because they take their job seriously. They don’t want anything to happen to Mr. Winston and his people.”

“You say that you never set eyes on any of them before you met them at Fort Bridger?”

Gore nodded. “Coincidence. Or the hand of providence, if you were to ask Mrs. Winston. I needed men and they were available.”

“Lucky for you,” Fargo said.

“If it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone else.”

Fargo shifted in the saddle. Rinson and Slag were off to one side. Both met his gaze with glares. “I’m not one of their favorite gents at the moment.”

“I daresay you’re not. I talked to Mr. Rinson last night after that little incident in the cottonwoods. He thinks you are a troublemaker and up to no good.”

“Does he, now?”

“Yes, indeed. He suspects you are out to rob the farmers. So he and his men are keeping a close eye on you from here on out.”

Fargo tried to look at it from Rinson’s point of view. It was possible, just possible, that if Rinson was genuinely interested in protecting the settlers, he would think it suspicious of him to attach himself to the wagon train as he had done.

“I should tell you,” Victor Gore said. “Mr. Winston and his people don’t have much money. They spent most of what they had buying their wagons and outfitting for their journey.”

“I’m not out to rob them.”

“I hope not. You’re terribly quick with that pistol of yours, and you punch as hard as any man I’ve ever seen, but Mr. Rinson and his men are tough, too. They won’t hesitate to throw lead if they have to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Gore swatted at a fly. “Rinson sure is clever. I never would have thought of offering myself as a protector.”

“A what?”

“That’s what he calls himself. There are plenty of pilots and guides and whatnot. But Mr. Rinson only hires out to protect wagon trains. So he calls himself and his friends protectors.”

Fargo could see where a notion like that might catch on. Wagon trains were often beset by hostiles. Outlaws, wild beasts and other perils compounded the danger. Emigrants would gladly hire an outfit to see them safely through to Oregon or wherever else they were bound. “How much did Rinson ask for?”

“Money, you mean? His fee was two hundred dollars, half in advance, the other half when we reach our destination. Mr. Winston and his people pooled nearly all the funds they have left to pay him.”

Fargo did the math in his head. If Rinson and his men divided the money equally, that came to twenty-five dollars each. Not a lot for putting their lives in peril. Then again, if a man was frugal and a little lucky at cards, he could spend a month or more at a saloon, drinking and taking up with doves. Some men would rate that worth the risk of taking an arrow. “Are the settlers paying you, too?”

“Goodness, no. I was going to the valley anyway. Mr. Winston offered to pay me but I wouldn’t hear of it.”

“You’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

A grin split Gore’s face. “You needn’t sound so sarcastic. I just told you I was going there anyway.”

“Even though the Nez Perce are stirred up?”

“None of us live forever, Mr. Fargo.”

When the sun was straight overhead Gore called a halt. The farmers gladly spilled from their wagons to stretch and stroll about. Some took the time to eat a quick meal.

Fargo was by himself, sitting under a pine with his back to the trunk and his hat brim low over his eyes, when a dress swished and a warm hand brushed his cheek.

“You haven’t said ten words to me all morning.”

Fargo pushed his hat back on his head and squinted up at Rachel Winston. “I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

Rachel grinned and sank down, her shapely legs coiled under her. “What do you have in mind, kind sir?”

“What do you think?” Fargo rejoined, and went to reach for her.

“Not in broad daylight!” Rachel cried, drawing back. “Everyone will talk.”

“They’re talking anyway.”

“Yes. But they’re doing it behind our backs. Were we to carry on now, some might see fit to complain to my ma and pa, and they’re upset enough with me as it is.”

“They don’t approve?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course they don’t approve. It would be different if we were to be married. As it is, they think I’m a woman of loose morals.”

“They said that?”

“No, but I can read it in their faces. I’ve disappointed them, I’m afraid.” Rachel leaned closer and lowered her voice. “But it was worth it. I wouldn’t trade last night for anything. Maybe that makes me a hussy. If so, so be it.”

“It’s not as if you’re going to go to work in a saloon or walk the streets at night.”

“You’re forgetting women have it harder than men. An unwed man can lie with a woman and no one says a word. They take it as natural. But let an unwed woman lie with a man and suddenly she’s a trollop and of no-account. I ask you, is that fair?”

“No,” Fargo admitted.

“Men are free to do as they please but women must walk around with chastity belts on.”

Fargo laughed.

“It’s not the least bit funny. Were it up to me, women would have the same freedom men do. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” Fargo agreed again.

“Well then,” Rachel said softly, “tonight, if you’re willing, I’ll make a hussy of myself. But we must be discreet. We can’t let anyone see us leave, and we have to watch out for Rinson and his friends in case they come looking for us.”

“They won’t make that mistake twice,” Fargo predicted.

“Don’t put anything past them. I overheard Rinson and Slag talking. They resent you being here, for some reason. Slag is all for making you leave whether you want to go or not but Rinson told him it might make my pa or Mr. Gore mad. They must think my pa approves of you and me carrying on.” Rachel tittered. “We’ll let them go on thinking that if it keeps them off your back.”

A shadow fell across them.

Fargo looked up, thinking it was her father or mother but it was Rinson, and he wasn’t alone. Slag and Perkins were with him. “Speak of the devil.”

Rinson held his hands out, palms up. “We’re not looking for more trouble, mister. We came over to talk, is all.”

“I’m listening.”

Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, Rinson forced an oily smile. “We want you to leave.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“Don’t get riled,” Rinson said quickly. “We’re asking real nice. As a favor to these farmers, it would be best for everyone if you lit a shuck.”

“How long before you get it through your heads? I’m sticking around a while.”

Perkins said flatly, “You don’t want to do that.”

“No, you sure don’t,” Slag echoed.

“Why not?”

They swapped glances but said nothing.

“Get used to me,” Fargo said.

Rinson sighed and lowered his arms. His hand was near his Remington but he made no move to draw it. “No one can say I didn’t try. I asked real polite and you threw it in my face.”

“Saying no was the biggest mistake you ever made,” Perkins said.

“The biggest.” Another echo from Slag.

“Go pester someone else,” Fargo snapped.

Their expressions didn’t bode well as the three so-called protectors turned and walked off.

“Why did they do that?” Rachel wondered. “My pa made it clear you can stay as long as you want.”

All afternoon Fargo rode alongside the Winstons’ wagon. He saw little of Vincent Gore, who went on ahead with Perkins and two others to find a spot to camp for the night.

The protectors stayed away from him. Whenever Fargo glanced at any of them, they made it a point to look away. That alone made him suspicious. They were trying too hard to make him think they were willing to leave him be.

Along about four dust rose to the north. Fargo figured it was Gore and he was right, but they were pushing their horses as if the animals couldn’t go fast enough to suit them.

“We found a spot that would be perfect for our night camp,” Gore announced after the settlers hastily gathered. “But a bunch of Nez Perce got there first. I counted eighteen, and they were wearing paint.”

Fargo frowned. It was a war party, not a hunting party.

“Do you reckon they’re searching for us?” a farmer anxiously asked.

“Lordy, I hope not,” a woman said. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in some buck’s lodge.”

“Enough of that kind of talk,” Lester said.

“Stay calm,” Victor Gore urged them. “I doubt the Nez Perce know we’re here yet.”

“But you can’t be sure,” someone remarked.

“There’s one way to find out,” Gore said. “We must send someone to spy on them and learn what they are up to.”

“It will be awful dangerous,” Lester said. “Who did you have in mind?”

Victor Gore’s gaze drifted to Fargo, and everyone imitated him. “I was hoping for a volunteer.”

“Hell,” Skye Fargo said.