Idaho Gold Fever

20

Victor Gore and Rinson and their companions rode into the valley along about ten. They were smiling and friendly and greeted the farmers with “Morning!” and nods. None of them noticed that most of the women were gathered at the opposite end of the circle with the children under their wing, or if they did notice, they thought nothing of it. And none noticed that two burly farmers with rifles stood on either side of Fargo. In fact, all the farmers had rifles and shotguns, and four of the women, besides. One of those women was Rachel.

Lester had the revolver they had taken from Fargo wedged under his belt, covered by his jacket so none of the “protectors” could see it. Spreading his arms, he beamed and said, “Victor! Where have you been? We were getting worried.”

Victor Gore tiredly leaned on his saddle horn. “We’ve been scouring the countryside for those savages. We found where they had camped and tracked them for miles but never could catch up with them.”

“That’s a shame,” Lester said. “If you had thrashed them, it would teach those heathens to leave us be.”

“My thinking exactly.” Gore straightened and gazed about the circle. His eyes fell on Fargo and he stiffened. “What’s this? Where did he come from?”

“He showed up late last night,” Lester said. “He tried to feed me some cock-and-bull story. For your sake, I had him disarmed.”

“My sake?” Gore repeated.

“He tried to convince me that you are out to harm us. Can you believe it? I refused to listen to his nonsense. But I was afraid he might shoot you, so I took his six-shooter away from him.”

“You did good,” Gore complimented him. “And don’t worry. Mr. Rinson and I know exactly how to deal with him.”

“I thought you might.”

Only Fargo seemed to be aware that the farmers and the armed women were slowly and casually drifting closer to the riders, and had them surrounded. Fargo shifted, and a rifle muzzle poked him in the side.

“Keep still,” Harvey warned. “It’s for your own good.”

“It will be a bloodbath,” Fargo said quietly. “Is that what you want?”

“We have surprise on our side,” Harvey said while grinning to give the impression they were having a friendly talk.

“You’re fools.”

“Can’t you understand how much that gold means to us?” Harvey whispered. “None of us have ever had a chance like this. To have more money than any of us have ever seen. Think of all the things we can do for our families.”

“You’re not doing it for them. You’re doing it for the same reason Gore came back here. For the same reason Gore and Rinson want all of you dead.” Fargo paused. “You’re doing it for greed.”

To his surprise, Harvey bobbed his chin. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all there is to it. But do you know what? I don’t care. Neither do most of the others. We want that gold and we will have it.”

“It won’t be of much use to you if you’re dead.”

“Save your breath. We’ve come too far to change our minds.”

The other farmer nodded in silent agreement.

“God help you,” Fargo told them.

Victor Gore was gazing about the circle. “Say. Where’s the man I left to stand guard while we were gone?”

“He up and disappeared,” Lester replied. “He said something about seeing men off in the woods and went for a look-see. But he never came back.”

Only then did Fargo realize the truth—the farmers had killed him.

“What?” Gore blurted. “Didn’t you try to find him? Didn’t you look for sign?”

“Of course. But it was as if he vanished into thin air. We figured the savages got hold of him and must be close by. That’s why we armed ourselves.”

Fargo had to hand it to him. The big farmer had it all worked out. And Gore fell for the lie.

“A wise precaution. But now that we’re here, you can put your guns down and get back to making this valley your new home.” Gore went to slide a boot from the stirrups.

“Not so fast,” Lester said, his hand rising from under his jacket with the revolver pointed at Gore’s chest.

The next instant all the farmers had their weapons trained on their former protectors. Rinson and the rest stared in disbelief, unsure what was going on or how they should react.

“What is this, Lester?” Victor Gore demanded.

“We’d like for you and your friends to shed your hardware. And we’d like for you to do it nice and slow so we don’t have to shoot any more of you.”

“Any more?” Gore said, and recoiled as if the big farmer had struck him. “I ask you again. What is the meaning of this?”

“Come now. Don’t play the innocent. We know, Victor.”

“You know what?” Gore asked. But it was plain from the way he paled that he had divined the truth.

“We know about the gold. We know about your plan to wipe us out and take our wagons. But we can’t allow that.”

Gore shot Fargo a look of pure hate. “You did this!” “No, he didn’t,” Lester Winston said. “It was my Billy. He overheard you and Rinson at Fort Bridger. Boys do that. They like to spy on folks and listen when they shouldn’t.”

“You’ve known all this time?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“This is bad,” Victor Gore said grimly.

“For you, yes,” Lester agreed. “But not for us. Thanks to you, all of us will soon be rich. Thanks to you, we can live out the rest of our days in comfort. I thank you.”

“Do you really think it will be this easy? That we’ll hand the gold over to you just like that?” Gore snapped his fingers.

Lester wagged the revolver. “Look around you. Have your men do as I asked and drop their weapons. If you don’t, I’m afraid we’ll have to blow every last one of you from your saddles.”

“Bastard,” Victor said. “You miserable, thieving bastard.”

“Now, now. You’re a fine one to talk. You planned to murder innocent women and children.” Lester extended the revolver and thumbed back the hammer. “I must insist. Do as I tell you or there will be hell to pay.”

Fargo tensed. Rinson and his men had no doubt killed before, many times, and they probably figured that a bunch of dirt farmers were no match for them. But greed had made the farmers just like them. Greed had turned the farmers into killers. Blood was about to be spilled. An awful lot of blood.

“It need not come to this,” Victor Gore was saying. “I’m willing to share the gold with you and your people. Lower your guns and we will sit down and talk this over.”

“I wouldn’t believe anything you say even if you swore on your mother’s grave.”

“My dear Lester. Haven’t I always treated you and yours with courtesy and respect? Yet now you treat me as if I’m worse than a red savage. You sadden me. You truly do.”

Fargo wondered why none of the farmers had caught on that Gore was stalling. That as Gore talked, Rinson and the other gun sharks were inching their hands toward their pistols and rifles. He went to warn them and once again received a hard jab in the side.

“No talking,” Harvey snapped.

Fargo braced for the explosion. The women on the far side of the circle were also prepared for the worst, many with their arms around their frightened children. But not Martha Winston. She looked mad more than anything, and Fargo didn’t blame her.

Gore spread his hands. “I’ll make one last appeal. Can’t we talk this over, Lester? There’s enough gold for all of us.”

The big farmer took a step nearer. “Enough talk, Victor. Do as I told you.”

“What a shame,” Gore said sadly, even as his right hand streaked to the revolver tucked under his belt—Fargo’s Colt.

“No!” Lester cried, and fired, and bedlam broke out.

The slug caught Gore high in the shoulder. The impact wasn’t enough to knock him from the saddle but he left it anyway, diving for the ground. Rinson and Slag and Perkins and the rest stabbed for their weapons. Only a few farmers had the presence of mind to snap off quick shots. The rest were momentarily rooted in shock at the sudden violence. Then guns were booming all over the place, revolvers and rifles and shotguns spewing lead and smoke amid a chaos of curses and screams and shouts.

So much was taking place, so fast, that Fargo couldn’t take it all in, and didn’t try. He dropped flat as Harvey and the other farmer rushed to the aid of their brethren. Bodies were falling, some motionless, many continuing to squeeze off rounds.

Lester Winston ran up to Gore to finish him off. He never saw Perkins. He probably never heard the shot that blew off the top of his skull in a spectacular shower of gore.

Larson killed one of the women and in turn lost the lower half of his face to a shotgun blast.

Stern raked his spurs and tried to break into the clear, only to be brought crashing down by several farmers who all fired at the same time.

Screeching horribly, yet another farmer oozed to the earth, his hand clasped to the empty socket where one of his eyeballs had been.

Fargo couldn’t just lie there. A stray slug might claim him. Or one of the protectors might spot him and cut loose. He saw Victor Gore scrambling toward the next wagon, and crawled to intercept him. Gore had the Colt in one hand and a spreading stain high on his shirt.

Fargo was almost to him when Gore whipped around and pointed the Colt at his forehead.

“I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.”

Fargo coiled to spring. He heard the click of the hammer and knew his time had come.

Then suddenly Rachel was there. She jammed the muzzle of her rifle to the back of Gore’s head, and fired. Grinning ear to ear, she yelled, “When this is over, you owe me!”

“Look out!” Fargo shouted.

Rachel didn’t see Perkins rein his mount up close. His first shot slammed into her side and sent her stumbling against the wagon. His second ripped through her bosom as she tried to turn. Her eyes flicked to Fargo’s, mirroring deep sadness, and regret. Then Perkins fired a third time and the heavy lead cored her temple and burst out the other side.

Hot rage exploded in Fargo. He launched himself at her killer. Perkins pointed his revolver but when the hammer fell there was a click. The cylinder was empty.

Perkins lunged for a rifle in his saddle scabbard.

By then Fargo reached him. Grabbing a leg, he sent Perkins toppling. But Perkins was up in a crouch in a twinkling, his knife in hand.

That suited Fargo. Drawing the Arkansas toothpick, he sprang. Steel lanced at his neck but he parried and opened Perkins’ arm from wrist to elbow. Perkins instantly switched the knife to his other hand and stabbed at Fargo’s belly. But Fargo was ready. Shifting, he plunged the toothpick to the hilt in the base of Perkins’ throat, then leaped back.

Blood spurted from the wound and gushed from Perkins’ mouth. He staggered, tripped, and crashed down. A few convulsions and it was all over.

The thunderous discharge of a shotgun reminded Fargo of the battle being waged all around him. Harvey was dead, drilled through the forehead. A woman had been shot through the heart. One of Rinson’s men flopped madly about with part of his face missing.

Fargo scooped up his Colt. As he spun, lead blistered his ear. Rinson was still in the saddle, and took deliberate aim. Fargo was quicker. His hands a blur, he fired from the hip, fanning the hammer. Holes appeared in Rinson’s face, in his neck, in his chest.

A blow to the shoulder jarred Fargo to his marrow. He swiveled to find Slag holding a rifle by the barrel, about to swing again. Fargo brought up the Colt, or tried to. His arm wouldn’t rise as it should. He was much too slow, and about to have his brains bashed out.

It was then that Martha Winston materialized out of the swirl of gun smoke, a double-barreled shotgun in her hands. She let Slag have both barrels full in the face.

Silence abruptly fell. Fargo’s ears rang as he slowly surveyed the slaughter. There was no other word for it.

Blasted, bleeding bodies were everywhere. Victor Gore was dead. All the killers had fallen; Rinson, Perkins, Slag, Larson, Stern, all dead, dead, dead, dead. There wasn’t a farmer left standing, either. Lester, Harvey, every last one of them, and the women who had helped them, all blown to hell. Only Martha was left, Martha, and the women and children at the other side of the circle.

“I tried to warn you,” Fargo said to the still form of her husband.

A sob escaped Martha. “Dear Lord, no,” she said, and shuffled over to Rachel. “Not her, too.”

“She saved my life,” Fargo said, but he doubted that Martha heard him. Tears trickling down her cheeks, she uttered a loud sob and sank to her knees.

“Not my girl. Please, not my girl.”

Fargo’s Henry lay partially under Stern, the brass receiver spattered with red drops. Fargo tugged it loose.

Martha stared at him, her eyes pits of horror. “It’s not as I thought, is it? All my life, and it’s not as I thought.”

“It never is,” Fargo said.

There wasn’t much more.

Fargo offered to take the survivors to Fort Bridger. Martha wanted to bury the dead, but Fargo was anxious to get everyone out of there before the Nez Perce found them. He looked back only once—the sky was thick with buzzards.

Fargo told himself he wasn’t going to, but he did. From Fort Bridger he headed straight back to the canyon. He intended to help himself to some of the gold and then treat himself to wild nights of whiskey, women and cards. But the sacks were gone. Every last one. Either the Nez Perce had found them, or Gore and Rinson hid them before heading for the valley and their date with death.

As for the O’Flynns, the family Fargo was searching for when the whole ordeal started, it turned out they had made it to Oregon, after all. The father paid Fargo for finding them, and Fargo promptly sought out the nearest watering hole.

He had a lot of forgetting to do.