Idaho Gold Fever

2

The farmers weren’t sheep. They were puppies. Puppies were friendly and innocent and eager to make new friends, exactly like the farmers and their families. They gathered to see Fargo ride up, all of them smiling and kindly and sincere. And bound to get their throats slit if they didn’t realize the frontier wasn’t Ohio and puppies didn’t last long.

Fargo shook hand after hand as Lester Winston introduced him. The lovely young hourglass in the blue bonnet hovered, watching him but too shy to come forward. Fargo had met most of the men and a few of their wives when he suddenly turned and held his hand out to the blonde. “Pleased to meet you.”

She stared at his hand as if it might bite her, then timidly offered her own. “How do you do. I’m Rachel Winston.”

“Lester’s daughter.” Fargo stated the obvious as he lightly clasped her warm fingers.

“Yes,” Rachel said, averting her eyes.

“You don’t have anything to be shy about, as good-looking as you are,” Fargo complimented her.

Rachel glanced at him and blushed a deep red. “My goodness. Do you always come right out and say what’s on your mind?”

“Sometimes I let this do my talking,” Fargo said, and patted his Colt. He said it not so much for her benefit as for the three men who stood to one side, listening and scowling. One was Rinson. The other two were cast from the same mold: hard, cold, armed for bear, their eyes daggers.

“We should be on our way, Mr. Winston,” Rinson addressed Lester. “We don’t want to fall too far behind Mr. Gore.”

“Yes, yes, indeed.” Lester raised his voice for the benefit of the other farmers and informed them that they should climb back on their wagons and get under way. “We have five hours of daylight left and we shouldn’t waste it.”

Ignoring the looks of the three curly wolves, Fargo stepped into the stirrups. When the Winstons’ wagon lumbered into motion, he swung in behind it. Winston and his wife were on the front seat; Rachel and a young boy were riding at the back, and she blushed again as he gigged the Ovaro up close and said, “Hope you don’t mind my company.”

“Not at all.” Rachel indicated her sibling with a bob of her chin. “This is my brother, Billy.”

The boy, who wasn’t more than ten, studied Fargo with keen excitement. “Are you a trapper?”

“No.”

“Are you a mountain man?”

“No.”

“Are you a cowboy?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Fargo said. “And no, I’m not.” Although he had trapped some, and he had worked with cattle, and he did spend so much time in the mountains, he might as well be a mountain man.

“Are you an Indian fighter?”

“Only when they don’t leave me no choice.”

“What do you do, then?”

Fargo shrugged. “I scout. I track. I go where the wind blows me.”

“That must be fun.”

“It has its moments.”

Rachel patted her brother’s shoulder. “That’s enough. You shouldn’t badger the poor man so.”

“I’m just curious, is all,” Billy said, and showed Fargo his teeth. “When I grow up, I want to have a fine horse like yours. What do you call him?”

“A horse.”

“No, I mean his name.”

“I never gave him one.”

“Why not? A lot of folks do. When I grow up I aim to have a nice horse like you and I’ll call him Lightning because he’ll be the fastest horse there is.”

“Billy,” Rachel said.

“What? I’m only talking.”

Fargo waited for Rachel to say something to him, and when she didn’t, he came out with, “Has Perkins been bothering you?”

Amazement caused her jaw to drop. “How on earth?” Quickly composing herself, Rachel blushed anew and said, “I’d rather not talk about him, if you don’t mind.”

“Your choice.”

But curiosity got the better of her. “How can you possibly know a thing like that? Yes, he’s been a nuisance, always coming up to me and asking if I care to go for walks with him when I’ve made it plain I won’t and never will.” Rachel paused. “Why does he pester me so? Why can’t he be a gentleman?”

“You are honey and he’s a bear.”

Billy laughed, and Rachel did more blushing. “That’s hardly fitting talk, Mr. Fargo. Especially in front of a child.”

“I ain’t no child,” Billy said.

Fargo said to her, “You’ll run into a lot of men like Perkins out here. This isn’t back East, where men are mostly polite and tip their hats to ladies.”

“You’re polite,” Rachel said.

“I get more honey that way,” Fargo said with a grin, and damn if the girl didn’t blush the deepest red yet. She also grinned, which set his blood to racing. Her golden hair, her smooth skin, that body; she was a ripe cherry waiting to be plucked from the tree and tasted, and he always did like cherries.

“I’m starting to think you’re quite naughty.”

“That depends on the lady,” Fargo said bluntly.

Just then hooves drummed and Rinson came up next to him. “I don’t know as I like you talking to these folks.”

“I don’t give a damn what you like.”

“You keep prodding, don’t you? But when we meet up with Victor Gore, you’ll be leaving us whether you want to or not.”

“A regular he-bear, is he?”

“Victor?” Rinson laughed. “He’s more brains than brawn. But when he needs muscle, all he has to do is snap his fingers and he has plenty.”

“That would be you and your friends?”

“All eight of us.” Rinson grinned, lashed his reins and rode on ahead, his horse raising puffs of dust.

Fargo did the numbers in his head. Slag and Perkins were off hunting. Rinson and two others were with the wagons. That meant three more were with Victor Gore. Nine to one, altogether. Not great odds, but he had gone up against worse. He had to be careful, though. Play it wrong and the settlers would be caught in the cross fire.

“I don’t think he likes you very much,” Rachel commented.

“The feeling is mutual.”

“They aren’t very nice, Mr. Gore’s men. They treat us like we’re simpletons. I don’t want to have anything to do with them, but Pa says it’s only until we reach Payette River Valley.”

“What was wrong with Ohio?”

“Nothing,” Rachel said wistfully. “We had a small farm, with cows and chickens and a plow horse and some pigs. I loved it there. But Pa hankers after more land and he says Oregon has plenty just there for the taking.”

To Fargo it smacked of greed, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.

“Ma says we should have been grateful for what we had. But Pa got a lot of other farmers together, and sold our place.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I had to give up all I knew. I may never see my friends again. Or my aunts and uncles and cousins. Or Grandma and Grandpa.” Rachel gazed at the shadowed woods on the slopes above the valley. “Now here we are, in the middle of nowhere with hostiles and outlaws as thick as fleas, or so they say. No, I’m not happy about it. I’d rather be in Ohio.”

“Not me,” Billy declared. “Out here there are grizzlies and mountain lions and timber wolves.”

“What’s so wonderful about that?” Rachel asked. “In Ohio we didn’t have to worry. I’d rather be safe than end up in some animal’s belly.”

“That’s because you’re a girl.” Billy turned to Fargo. “How about you, mister? Where would you rather be?”

“In a saloon drinking whiskey and playing cards.”

Rachel tilted her head. “Do a lot of that, do you?”

“Every chance I get,” Fargo admitted. He admired how her bosom swelled against her dress and the outline of her thighs, and a familiar hunger stirred. He was content to go on admiring her but someone in another wagon shouted something about riders coming, and Fargo spotted Slag and Perkins tearing hell-bent for leather toward the wagons. From the way they kept glancing over their shoulders, it gave the impression they were being chased. But no one came out of the woods after them.

At a bellow from Rinson the covered wagons were brought to a halt. Lester Winston and the other farmers, armed with rifles and shotguns, jumped down.

Slag and Perkins brought their lathered mounts to a halt and were promptly surrounded, with everyone asking questions at once. Rinson silenced them with another bellow.

“Let these two talk, damn it. We can’t find out what happened with all of you lunkheads jabbering at once.”

“I won’t tell you again about your language,” Lester said. “You keep forgetting there are women and children present.”

“Oh, hell.” Rinson motioned at Slag and Perkins. “Out with it. What brought you back on the run?”

“Injuns,” Slag said grimly.

“A war party,” Perkins said. “Must be thirty or more.”

Another commotion broke out, with the farmers voicing their opinions of Indians in general, and concern for their families. Once again Rinson had to quiet them before he could quiz Slag and Perkins.

“Did they attack you? Did they try to lift your hair?”

Perkins shook his head. “My momma didn’t raise no jackass. As soon as we spotted them, we lit a shuck.”

“That’s all that happened?”

“Go to hell,” Perkins said. “We weren’t about to stick around and be skinned alive, or worse. There ain’t a white cuss in this world I’m afraid of, but those red devils are a whole different critter.”

Fargo almost laughed out loud. This was the man Slag claimed would make a good Comanche or Apache? Perkins was right in one respect. There was a big difference between him and most Indians. Few Indians were cowards.

Slag was saying, “When he lit out, I did the same. I don’t think the redskins saw us, but they might have.”

“And followed you back to us?” Rinson said in some disgust.

All eyes swung toward the woods. Rifles and shotguns were raised and a few hammers clicked.

“I wish Victor Gore was here,” Rinson said. “But since he’s not, it’s up to us to deal with this.” He shifted toward Fargo. “How about it, mister? Didn’t I hear you were a scout? You must know more about Injuns than any of us.”

“A little.” Fargo wasn’t about to tell them he had lived with several tribes at various times.

A farmer named Harvey nervously cleared his throat. “Are we in any danger? Should we circle the wagons to protect our families?”

“It depends on the tribe,” Fargo answered. “The Shoshones and the Flatheads are friendly. The Blackfeet and the Nez Perce aren’t.”

“Which do you think it is?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro on past them and made for the greenery. No one called out for him to stop. None of the farmers jumped on a horse and came along. He looked back when he reached the tree line. They were still there, watching. Lester Winston waved.

Fargo set to work backtracking Slag and Perkins. It wasn’t hard. They had crashed through the brush like buffalo gone amok. He rode with his hand on his Colt, every sense alert.

The trees were mostly white pine, with here and there some fir and spruce. Higher up Fargo came on ranks of lodgepole pines and ponderosa. The brush consisted mostly of dogwood. Elderberry and occasional thimble-berry helped break the monotony.

Half a mile of cautious riding brought Fargo to the base of a steep slope. Only partially wooded, it didn’t offer enough cover to suit him so he reined to the left and circled until he came to a strip of vegetation that ran clear to the top.

With a light jab of his spurs, Fargo started up. He had gone only a short way when he realized how quiet it was. The birds had stopped warbling and the trees were deathly still. It was unnatural. Drawing rein, he scoured the heights. He must be careful not to ride into an ambush.

Fargo hoped it wasn’t the Nez Perce. Years back the tribe had been friendly, but then whites heard rumors of gold on Nez Perce land, and now hardly a month went by without word of yet another clash between Nez Perce warriors and the gold-hungry invaders. The Nez Perce had made it known they wouldn’t tolerate more intrusions. Open war threatened to break out.

Off to the left a twig snapped.

Instantly, Fargo whipped around, palming his Colt as he turned. The woods were undisturbed save for a bee that buzzed within an arm’s length of the Ovaro and caused the pinto to prick its ears and nicker.

Fargo had a decision to make. Should he go on or should he go back? He reminded himself that he was under no obligation to the settlers. The man who hired him was interested only in his missing kin.

To the right a bush rustled ever so slightly.

From the rear came a whisper of movement.

Fargo kept on riding. They had him surrounded, and if he made a break for it, they would be on him before he went ten yards. He willed himself to relax so he wouldn’t give away that he knew, but it was hard; at any moment he expected an arrow between his shoulder blades or a lance in his chest. He looked for a spot to make a stand but there weren’t any that suited him.

A low limb brushed the crown of his hat. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and as he did the limb bounced up and down. Since he hadn’t bumped it that hard, something else made it bounce. Belatedly, he went to look up. Just as a heavy form slammed into his back, muscular arms banded his chest, and he was bodily torn from the saddle.

The ground swept toward his head.