Idaho Gold Fever

3

Fargo twisted to absorb the fall on his shoulder. He still hit hard, what with the weight of the warrior on his back. The world swam and fireflies flickered before his eyes. He felt hands on his wrists. Other hands shifted him to get at his holster. His head abruptly cleared and he looked up into a ring of unfriendly faces. They were Nez Perce. “Damn.”

Four young warriors and an older one ringed him. Fargo tried to rise and discovered his wrists were tied. “Do any of you speak the white man’s tongue?” he asked.

None of them answered.

Fargo was lucky in one respect. They weren’t wearing war paint, which told him they were a hunting party, not a war party. Evidently they were tracking Slag and Perkins when he came along. “I’m not your enemy.”

The warriors went on staring.

Like most tribes, the Nez Perce favored buckskins. Although they lived in the mountains, they often traveled to the plains after buffalo, and lived much as the plains tribes did. They were famed for their horse breeding. The Appaloosas they raised were highly sought after. Bigger and heavier than most Indian mounts, Appaloosas were noted for their stamina, and were as sure-footed as mountain goats. Fargo got to see five of the famous horses for himself when one of the young warriors went off into the trees and came back leading them.

“You’re taking me somewhere,” Fargo said, relieved they weren’t going to kill him outright. Then he switched to their tongue. He wasn’t as fluent in it as he was in some other tongues, but he knew enough to say, “I am friend.”

That got their attention. They studied him anew. The old one leaned down, looked him right in the eyes, and said in English, “No white man friend to Nimi’ipuu.”

“So you speak the white tongue,” Fargo said.

“Missionaries,” the old warrior replied. His craggy face was seamed by age and experience, and his hair, which hung in braids, was streaked with gray.

Fargo grunted. Priests and ministers had been trying to convert the Indians for years. Not just the Nez Perce, but every tribe on the frontier. Men of the cloth had even gone to the Blackfeet, those implacable haters of white ways, and managed to convert some. When Fargo heard that, he couldn’t believe it. “The missionaries were friends to the Nez Perce. I am a friend, too,” he tried again.

“You not missionary.”

“The Crows call me He Who Walks Many Trails,” Fargo said. “I am their friend.” He mentioned the Crows for a reason; they were on good terms with the Nez Perce, and the two often visited one another.

The old warrior touched his chest. “I be Wilupup Hemeen.”

“Winter Wolf?” Fargo translated.

“We take you our village. Sit in council. Could be you live. Could be you not live.”

Fargo had to submit to being hauled to his feet and swung onto the Ovaro. Winter Wolf took the reins and climbed on his Appaloosa. The other warriors followed.

“Mind if we talk?”

“Talk when at village.”

Fargo sighed. He’d met a few Nez Perce in his travels. He hoped he would run across one of them when they got there. “There was a time when the Nez Perce treated whites as brothers.”

Winter Wolf glanced back. “You not listen.”

“I don’t want your people to make a mistake,” Fargo said. “Harm me and the bluecoats will come. There will be war between the Nez Perce and the white man.” He was exaggerating. It was unlikely the United States government would go to that extreme over the death of one man.

“We maybe take warpath anyway,” Winter Wolf said. “All whites like you. They not listen. We tell stay away. But more whites come. And more and more and more.”

“After gold. Yes, I know all about it. But I’m not in your land for that reason.”

“All whites hungry for yellow rock,” Winter Wolf said gruffly. “They try take our land. We not let them.”

“I don’t blame you. I would fight the whites, too, if I was a Nez Perce. But only the whites who were after gold.”

To his surprise, Winter Wolf chuckled. “You think I dumb but I not dumb.”

“I never said any such thing.”

“How I know you not after gold? How I know you not speak with two tongues?”

“I could be lying, yes,” Fargo admitted. “You have to take my word that I’m not.”

Winter Wolf chuckled again. “Take word of a white man? You, how you say, funny.”

The old warrior fell silent. Fargo tried to draw him out but Winter Wolf had apparently said all he was going to. They rode along until about sunset when they came to a small clearing near a stream. The warriors climbed down and two of the younger ones none too gently pulled him from the saddle.

“We’re camping for the night?” Fargo asked. He tried to sound as if it didn’t mean anything to him, when in fact the prospect of escape was being handed to him on a double-edged platter.

“We reach village in three sleeps,” Winter Wolf disclosed.

Fargo was thrown onto his side next to the fire a warrior was kindling. Rising on an elbow, he saw two of the younger ones go off into the trees with their bows to hunt. That whittled the odds but he wasn’t about to do anything in broad daylight. Patience was called for.

The hunters returned with a doe, which was promptly butchered. The Nez Perce roasted their meat but they weren’t finicky about how well done it was. Fargo’s mouth watered and his belly growled but no one offered a piece to him. Finally he said, “My belly is empty. I sure could use some of that venison.”

His mouth dripping, Winter Wolf said, “Good for you not eat. Maybe you listen better.”

“Is this what you call Nez Perce hospitality?”

“It what I call smart,” Winter Wolf said, and laughed.

Fargo sank onto his side and closed his eyes. He wanted them to think he was resigned to his fate. He listened to them talk, catching snatches of words here and there, enough to glean that the Nez Perce were on the brink of open hostilities with the whites. There had been clashes between gold seekers and warriors, and blood was spilled.

A young warrior made a comment to the effect that the gold hunters weren’t the only ones the Nez Perce had to be concerned about. Some whites wanted to till the soil and build wooden lodges, as the warrior called cabins. The Nez Perce weren’t going to allow that, either.

Fargo immediately thought of the wagon train. Sooner or later the Nez Perce were bound to come across it. Then again, the tribe laid claim to a large territory encompassing thousands of square miles, and they couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was entirely possible Winston’s bunch would have their cabins built before the Nez Perce discovered them. Either way, the outcome wasn’t in doubt. The farmers would be wiped out.

A sliver of moon had been up several hours when Winter Wolf and his companions turned in. But first Winter Wolf came over and checked that Fargo’s wrists were still tied. He also bound Fargo’s ankles.

Fargo had a few anxious moments as Winter Wolf looped the rope around his boots. But the old warrior didn’t think to slip a hand inside them to check for hidden weapons. Fargo’s Arkansas stayed snug in its sheath. “I’m sorry we can’t be friends,” he remarked.

Winter Wolf had stood and turned but he stopped. “You white. I red. White and red fight. White and red kill.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Sadness crept into the old warrior’s features. “It not how I want. It how things be.” He went to the other side of the fire and lay down to sleep.

Fargo made himself comfortable. It would be a while before all five drifted off. He was mildly surprised they didn’t have someone stand guard, but then they were deep in their own territory, and he was tied.

Fargo had no desire to harm them. He wasn’t their enemy. He wasn’t an Indian hater, as so many whites were. But he couldn’t go to their village, either. Hotter heads might prevail, in which case he could well find himself staked out over an anthill or skinned alive.

By midnight, heavy breathing and the lack of movement told Fargo the warriors were asleep. Slowly bending his legs back and up as high as they would go, he slid his boots toward his hands. When one of the younger warriors stirred, he stopped. He would only get this one chance. He mustn’t make a mistake. Lives depended on him.

In the distance a wolf howled. One of the horses pricked its ears but thankfully didn’t whinny or stomp.

Fargo tugged at his pant leg. The rope was so tight, he couldn’t work his pants free. The irony brought a grim smile. It was his own rope, or a piece of it. He tugged harder, then pried at the knot with his fingernails. But Winter Wolf had done a good job. It took Fargo a quarter of an hour before the knot began to come undone. Another five minutes and he had it. He was so annoyed it took so long, he went to throw the rope but caught himself.

The warriors still slept.

Hiking his pant leg, Fargo slipped his fingers inside his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. Carefully sliding it out, he reserved his grip and sliced at the rope binding his wrists. The knife made all the difference. In seconds the severed rope lay on the ground.

Quietly unfurling into a crouch, Fargo moved toward the young warrior who had helped himself to the Colt. The warrior had been holding it when he fell asleep but now it lay next to his limp fingers.

Easing forward, Fargo reclaimed the six-shooter and holstered it. He could kill them. He could kill all of them as easy as could be. Five swift shots and they would no longer pose a threat to anyone. But Fargo didn’t shoot. He killed only when he had to.

All Fargo needed now was his Henry. It was beside Winter Wolf. The old warrior had taken a fancy to the shiny brass receiver; all afternoon he had fondled the smooth metal. Fargo imagined how upset he would be when he woke up and found it gone, and grinned.

Rearmed, Fargo crept toward the horses. The Ovaro raised its head, waiting. Fortunately, the Nez Perce hadn’t bothered to strip the saddle and saddle blanket. They had opened his saddlebags but left the saddlebags tied on. Right neighborly of them, Fargo thought.

The Appaloosas were curious about what he was up to and were watching him much as they would a mountain lion—with distinct unease. Fargo whispered to them, saying a few Nez Perce words, but stopped when one of the warriors mumbled in his sleep and rolled over.

Fargo waited to be sure the man was asleep. Then he quickly replaced the toothpick in his ankle sheath and slid the Henry into the saddle scabbard. He gripped the saddle horn and went to slide his toe into the stirrup. A few more seconds and he would be gone.

A yip rent the night. Not the cry of a coyote or wolf, but of the warrior named Winter Wolf. He had sat up and was groping for the rifle Fargo had taken. In his own tongue he shouted, “The white-eye! Stop him!”

Fargo swung onto the Ovaro. Moccasins pattered, and strong hands grabbed his leg. He kicked out, was rewarded with a cry of pain, and used his spurs to bring the Ovaro to a trot. An arrow whizzed over his shoulder, missing him by a whisker.

“After him!” Winter Wolf shouted.

Fargo wished he had spooked their mounts. But they couldn’t see any better in the dark than he could, so he stood a good chance of getting away. Provided he didn’t ride into a tree or a boulder. Reining sharply, he bent low in case more arrows arced his way.

The warriors were yelling. Apparently one of their horses was giving them trouble.

Fargo rode hard until the sounds faded, then slowed to a walk. There was no point in riding the Ovaro into the ground. When he finally drew rein an hour later, he was convinced he had lost Winter Wolf and his friends. Dismounting, he moved under a pine, wrapped the reins around a low limb, and sat with his back to the bole. He could use some rest.

Pulling his hat down over his eyes, Fargo willed his taut body to relax. It took a while but eventually he felt himself slipping away. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a rustling sound brought a whinny from the Ovaro and brought him to his feet with his Colt in hand.

It took a few seconds for Fargo to make sense of what he was seeing.

A dozen yards away something had stepped out of the trees. A huge, hulking shape, an animal breathing so heavily each breath was as loud as a blacksmith’s bellows.

Fargo reached up to unwrap the reins from the limb, hoping the thing wouldn’t attack if he tried to leave.

It growled. A growl so deep and so loud, only one animal could be responsible: a bear.

Fargo froze. He was furious at himself for letting it get so close without hearing it.

Bears were formidable brutes. They could easily tear a man limb from limb. Or rip a horse apart.

Fargo glanced at the saddle scabbard, at the Henry he should have shucked before he sat down to sleep. He was getting careless, and in the wild, careless was the same as a death wish. Steeling himself, he started to unwind the reins so he could get the hell out of there.

The bear rose onto its hind legs.

At first Fargo had thought it was a grizzly, but now he wasn’t so sure. If it was a black bear, he might be all right. Black bears rarely attacked people. Then a second, smaller form came scampering around the big one, and his blood chilled. “Oh, hell.”

It was a cub.