Idaho Gold Fever

17

“This spot will do,” Rinson said.

Draped belly down over a horse, Fargo could see gray tendrils rising from the forest canopy half a mile away. Jostled by the ride, his side sore from rubbing against the saddle horn, he didn’t pay attention when the others dismounted and paid for his neglect when rough hands seized his legs and upended him. He tried to absorb the force of the fall by twisting so he hit with his shoulders but he only partially succeeded. A kick compounded the pain.

“That was for all the trouble you’ve caused us,” Perkins said gleefully.

Slag chuckled. “Kick him again. Kick him so hard, you stave his ribs in.”

“None of that,” Rinson said. “We need him alive to keep the redskins busy, remember?”

“A few busted ribs won’t kill him,” Slag said. “He’ll still be breathing when they find him.”

“No,” Rinson snapped. “Gore told us how he wants it done and that’s how we’ll do it.”

Perkins remarked, “I can’t get over how you let him boss us around.”

“He didn’t have to cut us in but he did. For that we should be grateful.”

“More for us if he’s worm food.”

“God, you’re a greedy bastard,” Rinson said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I gave my word and shook on it.”

“Since when does that count? We’ve always looked out for us and no one else. If you ask me, we don’t owe Gore a thing.”

“I didn’t ask you. Now get to gathering the firewood so we can get the hell out of here.”

Fargo was perplexed. It was foolhardy to make a fire so close to the war party. But Slag and Perkins hurried into the trees and shortly returned with their arms laden with broken limbs and kindling. They heaped it in a pile, and Slag rummaged in his saddlebags and produced a fire steel and flint.

“Any last words?” Rinson taunted.

“I expect to be around a good long while yet.”

“Do you, now?” Rinson laughed. “Bold talk for an hombre who won’t see the dawn.” He slowly drew his Remington and just as slowly thumbed back the hammer. “Are you sure you don’t have any last words?”

“You wouldn’t let Perkins bust my ribs but you’re fixing to shoot me?” Fargo shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Rinson waggled the Remington. “Oh, this isn’t for you.”

Slag was puffing lightly on a tiny flame so it would grow.

“I wish we could see what they do to him,” Perkins said. “I saw a soldier once after the Sioux got done with him. The things they did you wouldn’t believe. It must have taken him hours to die.”

“You almost sound as if you admire them,” Rinson said.

“I admire anyone who is good at what they do. And when it comes to carving on people, redskins have us whites beat all hollow.”

Slag stopped puffing. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it now. You’re not right in your head.”

The flames were spreading. Smoke coiled up into the sky, growing thicker by the moment.

“I get it,” Fargo said. “You’re hoping the war party will spot the smoke and come find me.”

“Oh, they’ll spot it, all right,” Rinson said. Raising the Remington, he fired three shots into the air, one right after the other. “We’re close enough; they’re bound to hear that.”

Pleased with themselves, the three cutthroats climbed on their mounts and reined around. Rinson gave a little wave. “I’ll think of them cutting on you while I’m having my way with that filly you’ve been poking.”

They cackled and were gone.

Bending his back into a bow, Fargo sought to slide his fingers into his boot. The rope thwarted him. He pried at the knot, pried so hard he thought his fingernails would tear off, to no avail.

Every second counted. The warriors were bound to have seen the smoke by now. They would come on warily, though, suspicious of a trick, and that would slow them some.

Fargo figured he had five minutes, if that. There was no way in hell he could free himself before the warriors got there. They would find him bound and helpless, exactly as Victor Gore wanted.

Crackling from the fire sparked an idea.

Quickly turning so his back was to the flames, Fargo wriggled backward. The heat was excruciating, and got worse. Gritting his teeth, he looked over his shoulder and thrust his wrists into the fire. He tried to burn the rope and only the rope but it was impossible. His sleeves were soon ablaze, and the smell of his burning flesh filled the air. He stood it as long as he could. Then, uttering a low groan, he jerked his arms from the flames and rolled back and forth on his back to smother them.

Bunching his shoulders, Fargo exerted all his strength. But all he succeeded in doing was dig the rope deeper into his wrists. He tried again, exerting every sinew in his arms and shoulders, and felt himself grow red in the face. But once again the rope refused to break.

Fargo was sure the flames had weakened it. Again his muscles bulged. If he failed this time, he would stick his boots in the fire and try to burn the rope around his ankles before his feet were charred and useless.

A snap threw Fargo off balance. Although his hands and wrists were welters of pain, he rolled over and set to work on his ankles. Untying the knots now was easy.

Fargo started to stand. A whinny off in the underbrush warned him the warriors were almost there.

Fargo ran. He made it into the woods and threw himself to the ground just as the first warrior appeared—a Nez Perce with a bow, an arrow nocked. The warrior drew rein and gazed about. Presently he was joined by others, until fully twenty painted warriors were trying to make sense of the shots and the untended fire.

Fargo reckoned they would spread out and search for sign. In which case they were bound to find the tracks of the shod horses, and would follow them to the canyon. But to his consternation, the warriors just sat there, talking. Not one climbed down to examine the ground.

Then another Nez Perce arrived. Why he came so late, Fargo couldn’t say. But it was Winter Wolf. The others stopped talking and patiently waited while the old warrior did what they should have done. Dismounting, Winter Wolf walked in ever widening circles, his aged form bent. Finally he said something that excited the rest.

Fargo wished he could see the expression on Victor Gore’s face when the Nez Perce blocked the mouth of the canyon and fired down on the white invaders from the canyon rim. The whites had rifles but the Indians had numbers.

Winter Wolf straightened. He spoke and the others listened. His horse was brought. Raising an arm, he uttered a sharp cry and led the war party in the direction Rinson, Perkins and Slag had gone.

Fargo smiled. It would serve Victor Gore and the so-called protectors right if they were wiped out.

When the last of the Nez Perce had melted into the greenery, Fargo cautiously stood. Only when he was convinced they were gone did he walk to the fire. What now? he wondered. He was unarmed and on foot and miles from the valley and the settlers. He broke into a jog.

The swatch of broken undergrowth made by the Nez Perce enabled Fargo to travel faster than he otherwise could. He prided himself on his ability to run long distances without tiring, and now that ability was put to the test.

Fargo was about halfway to the canyon when the unexpected occurred. The trail veered to the east. His first thought was that Rinson realized they were being chased and sought to lead the war party away from Gore and the gold. But as Fargo moved about reading sign, he discovered a track that changed his thinking. It was a human footprint. A boot print. He soon found others. Three sets, in all. And all three pointed toward the canyon.

It wasn’t hard to figure out. Rinson, Perkins and Slag had dismounted and given their animals slaps on the rump. Then they set out on foot for the canyon. The Nez Perce, eager to overtake them, saw where the horse tracks led on east and didn’t bother to stop. The warriors were chasing riderless mounts.

Fargo pushed on. When he was within sight of the canyon, he drew back into the trees and hurried to where he had left the Ovaro. Shock stopped him dead in midstride.

The pinto was gone.

Once again Fargo searched for sign. He worried that the Nez Perce were to blame, in which case recovering the pinto might prove impossible. But no, boot prints showed where a white man had led the stallion off.

But now a new mystery presented itself.

Fargo figured one of Gore’s men found it and took it into the canyon. But no. The tracks led away. Fargo followed them and came to a spot where another man and two horses had been waiting. The pair climbed on and rode off, taking the Ovaro with them.

“What the hell?” Fargo said out loud. If Gore and his men weren’t to blame, then who was?

Fargo could push on after the pinto, or he could pay Gore and company a visit and help himself to one of their animals. He liked that idea, and bent his steps toward the canyon.

A mount wasn’t his only reason. They had taken his Colt and Henry, and he wanted the rifle and six-shooter back. Some might argue that one gun was as good as any other, but that wasn’t true. When a man was used to a gun, it became part of him. He was better with it than with any other. Fargo had used his Colt for so long, he would feel awkward using any other.

Giving the mouth of the canyon a wide berth, Fargo started up the slope. No one was keeping watch, which surprised him.

Learning from his mistake, Fargo was alert for a sentry at the top. But this time no one was there.

Worming from boulder to boulder, Fargo smiled when the peal of metal on rock confirmed they were still hard at work. Removing his hat, he risked a peek. They were all there, including Rinson, Perkins and Slag.

Fargo remembered Gore saying they’d work all night. That gave him hours to spare. He would wait until dark, then sneak down. He made special note of who had his Henry—it was Stern—and who had his Colt—none other than Victor Gore.

Grateful for the chance to rest, Fargo used his arm for a pillow and closed his eyes. He was battered and sore and his ribs wouldn’t stop hurting. He intended to lie there a bit and then keep watch until sunset. But the next thing he knew, he opened his eyes and the stars were out.

Fargo bit off a few choice words. He had fallen asleep. Mad at himself, he wedged his hat on and inched to the edge for another look. A fire blazed at the bottom of the canyon. Clustered around it were the old trapper and his gold hounds. They had stopped work to eat supper. Judging by their smiles and mirth, they were having a fine time. In a couple of months they would be back in civilization, as rich as could be.

But not if Fargo could help it.

Turning, he crawled until he was near the bottom, then rose and stealthily descended to the valley floor. The smart thing was to wait until most of them were asleep but since they planned to stay up all night, what good would it do?

Fargo couldn’t stop thinking of the settlers and the danger they were in. He must warn them. He snuck to the bend and peeked past it.

Gore and his hirelings were about done eating. Wood was added to the fire, and soon they were at the vein, their picks and shovels flailing, their shadows flicking on the rock wall.

The horses were picketed between Fargo and the vein. Easing down, he crabbed toward them, careful to stay close to the wall. Whenever one of the cutthroats so much as raised his head, Fargo froze. Only Slag glanced in his direction; but Slag was mopping his sweaty brow with a sleeve.

Several of the horses realized Fargo was there. But the trapper and the gun sharks were so intent on the gold, they didn’t catch on.

His confidence climbing, Fargo crawled faster. He was almost to the first horse when it stamped and whinnied. Amazingly, once again no one paid attention.

Gold had that effect. It dazzled the mind. It made men forget themselves and think only of the riches the gold would bring. Perkins, in fact, was holding a lump of gold-laced quartz in the palm of his hand and running his fingers over it as if caressing a lover.

The horses had been picketed to prevent them from running off. But it was the work of an instant for Fargo to slash the first rope with his Arkansas toothpick. He moved to the next animal, and then the third. He had cut four of them loose when Victor Gore unexpectedly straightened.

“We’re making good time, boys. By morning we’ll have the gold ready to load on the wagons.”

“You did say we’re not to leave a single settler breathing, right?” Perkins asked.

“Do you disagree?”

“Hell, no.” Perkins laughed. “I’ve never had a problem killing folks. Or anything else.”

Gore turned. “Mr. Larson, would you be so kind as to fetch more burlap bags.”

“Right away.” Larson nodded and hustled toward the horse string.

Fargo tensed. The bags must be bundled on one of the horses, but which one? He couldn’t tell from where he was lying. He hoped it was a horse at the other end.

Larson came almost straight toward him. Fortunately, he was staring at the ground. Then, when only a few feet away, he glanced up—and stopped in his tracks.

“Mr. Gore! Rinson! It’s Fargo! He’s here!”