Idaho Gold Fever

4

Mother bears were protective of their young. They attacked anything that came near their offspring. Anyone who stumbled on a cub was well advised to hasten elsewhere before the mother noticed or risk being torn to pieces.

The last thing Fargo wanted was a clash with a bear. It would take but an instant for him to jump up, grab a low limb, and climb into the pine. Once he was high enough, the she-bear wouldn’t be able to reach him. But that meant deserting the Ovaro. He would as soon slit his wrists.

So Fargo went on unwrapping the reins while keeping his eyes on the mother bruin and the smaller version of herself. Both stood there and returned his stare. The reins came loose. Girding himself, Fargo slid the Colt into its holster, then launched himself at the saddle. He grabbed the saddle horn and swung his leg up and over.

The cub squalled.

The mother roared.

And Fargo got the hell out of there.

The Ovaro did not need goading. The smell of the bears was enough to make the stallion want to bolt. It wheeled around the pine and raced into the dark.

The mother bear gave chase.

Hunched low, Fargo slapped his legs and urged the Ovaro to greater effort. A raking paw nearly caught its flank. But just as he wouldn’t desert the Ovaro, the mother bear wouldn’t desert her cub. She pursued them only a short way and stopped. Venting her temper with another roar, she turned back to her ursine pride and joy.

Fargo let out a long breath. There was seldom a dull day in the wild, and this one had more than its share of excitement. First the wagon train, then the Nez Perce, and now this. “Things are supposed to come in threes but this is plumb ridiculous,” he said out loud.

Half a mile of hard riding was enough. Fargo slowed, pushed his hat back on his head, and patted the Ovaro. “If I ever get old enough for a rocking chair, I’ll put you out to pasture with two or three mares.”

Some folks would say it was silly to talk to a horse. But they never spent day after day, month after month, year in and year out, with a horse as their only companion. After a while a man got to think of the horse as more than just an animal.

The night wind had grown brisk. It brought with it the cries of the creatures that preferred the night over the day: the howls of wolves, the yips of coyotes, the occasional bark of a fox, the hoots of owls. Once a mountain lion screamed. And from afar came the roar of the mother bear. To most those sounds spelled terror and made for a sleepless night. To Fargo they were as ordinary as grass.

About two hours of night were left when Fargo reined up. He needed sleep, and the Ovaro could certainly use more rest. This time he rode in among a cluster of large boulders, where they were less apt to be seen or scented, and curled up on his side in the dirt, his arm for a pillow. Hardly the most comfortable of beds but within seconds he was asleep and this time he stayed asleep until the squawk of a jay brought him around to greet the new day.

A hint of gold splashed the eastern horizon. Dawn was about to break. Fargo sat up, yawned, and stretched. He was stiff and sore and hungry. Rising, he opened his saddlebags and took out a bundle wrapped in rabbit skin. Inside was pemmican. A Cheyenne woman of his acquaintance had kindly given the pemmican to him. He chewed with relish. After he ate his fill, he replaced the rest and forked leather.

Unerringly, Fargo headed for the wagon train. He had a good idea of how far the wagons had traveled after he left them, and when he reached the spot where he thought they should be, there they were, strung out as before, canvas-backed tortoises on wheels. Caution bid him stop while he was still in the trees, and it was well he did.

Rinson, Slag and Perkins flanked the wagons. So did others Fargo hadn’t seen before. He counted nine outriders, all told. In the lead was a man with hair as white as snow, dressed in clothes more fitting for the streets of St. Louis or New Orleans.

Fargo shadowed them a while. All appeared peaceful. The farmers and their families chatted and laughed and now and then one of the young girls would break into song. Toward midmorning the white-haired man raised an arm and called a halt so they could rest their teams.

Fargo chose that moment to make himself known. As soon as he broke from cover, the white-haired man trotted to intercept him, bringing Rinson, Slag and Perkins along.

Drawing rein, Fargo leaned on his saddle horn. “You must be Victor Gore.”

“That I am, sir. That I am.”

Since all the others were unwashed and unkempt, Fargo figured their leader would be the same. But Gore was the opposite. The man’s suit was clean save for the dust of the trail, and his white hair, mustache and short beard were neatly trimmed. Fact was, Victor Gore looked more like a parson than a wagon train pilot. Even more surprising, he wasn’t wearing a revolver that Fargo could see.

“And you must be the scout my men told me about. Mr. Fargo, I believe it is?”

“That’s me.”

“I want to thank you for what you’ve done, sir,” Victor Gore said.

“How’s that again?”

“You went to find the Nez Perce my men saw. To ensure they aren’t a threat to the settlers, I’d warrant. I’m grateful.”

Fargo cocked his head. This wasn’t what he expected. This wasn’t what he expected at all.

“Did you find them?” Victor Gore asked.

“It was a small hunting party,” Fargo informed him. “They don’t know about the wagons.”

Gore beamed in relief. “That’s good news, sir. Good news, indeed. These settlers are my responsibility, and I would be remiss if I were to let anything happen to them.”

The man could talk rings around a tree, Fargo reflected. “How is it you’re guiding this bunch? You don’t strike me as the kind to do this for a living.”

“I’m not. I’ve been in this part of the country before, though, back in my beaver days.”

“You were a trapper?”

Gore nodded. “Pretty near twenty years ago, yes. I came west with a fur brigade and spent an entire fall, winter and spring in this very area, laying traps and collecting plews.” He sighed wistfully. “Those were the days. I was young and carefree and thought the world was my oyster. The folly of youth, eh?”

“You don’t look much like a trapper now,” Fargo remarked.

Gore touched a hand to his suit. “You mean this? I shed my buckskins when I went back East. For the past dozen years or so I’ve lived in St. Louis, making my living as a merchant.”

“Why leave that to come back here?”

Motioning at the majestic peaks, Gore said sentimentally, “This country gets into your blood. I’ve never stopped thinking about my beaver days, and I got it into my head that I’d like to see my old haunts once more before I pass on.”

“You don’t say.”

“I got as far as Fort Bridger and learned of the difficulties with the Nez Perce. That’s where I hired Mr. Rinson and his friends as my protection, you might say. It’s also where I ran into Mr. Winston and his people.”

“He mentioned that.”

“Mr. Winston told me they were bound for Oregon, and went on and on about how wonderful it is there. I happened to mention that I knew of a valley every bit as fine, from my trapping days. That made him curious. He pestered me with questions, then called his people together and they decided they would like to see the valley for themselves. They asked if I would take them there, and here we are.”

Fargo considered it possible, just possible, that Gore was telling the truth. A lot of people fell in love with the Rockies. He knew of half a dozen trappers who had gone east after the beaver trade died but missed the mountains so much, they came back. Others never left. The mountains were their home. Some took Indian wives and adopted Indians ways.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Victor Gore said.

“You do?”

“That it’s most unwise of me to bring these people here, what with the current state of affairs with the Nez Perce.”

“I was thinking that, yes,” Fargo confessed.

“I tried to talk them out of it. I explained to Mr. Winston that the Nez Perce are upset over white incursions into their land. But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted he can make friends with them, and he said that if I didn’t bring him and his people, they would search for the valley themselves.”

Fargo frowned. Winston hadn’t told him that. “The damned fool.”

“So you can see I’m not entirely to blame. I hope to sneak them in without the Nez Perce noticing. After that, they are on their own. I’ve made it clear their fate is on their shoulders, not mine.”

“Tell me something.” Fargo had decided to come right out with it. “Have you ever run into a family by the name of O’Flynn?”

Gore seemed genuinely puzzled. “The who? They’re not with Winston, are they?”

“No. They came west about three months ago and vanished. They were last seen at Fort Bridger. The father of the wife hired me to find them.”

“Oh. I was still in St. Louis then. Maybe they went on to Oregon or California and just haven’t written to him. Or perhaps they decided to settle somewhere along the way, like Winston and his people are doing.”

Both were possible, Fargo supposed. The sutler at Fort Bridger had told him a family that sounded like the O’Flynns had made it that far. Where they went after they left, the sutler couldn’t say.

“I guess you’ll be on your way now,” Victor Gore said. “But you’re welcome to stay for supper if you’d like, as a token of my appreciation for you helping us.”

After what Fargo had overheard Perkins and Slag saying, he intended to hang around longer than that. But he nodded and said, “I’d be obliged.”

The others weren’t happy about it. Rinson shot him a dark glance. Slag scowled. Perkins fingered the hilt of his knife.

“Come join us,” Victor Gore requested, and reined his dun toward the covered wagons.

Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to the dun. “If you want, I’ll try to talk the farmers into going on to Oregon.”

“That would be wonderful. Lord knows, I’ve tried. But they’re determined to settle the Payette River Valley.” Gore shook his head. “People can be so stubborn.”

Rachel was in the back of the wagon, and she smiled as Fargo rode past. He touched his hat brim to her and she did what he expected: she blushed.

Lester Winston and most of the other farmers came to meet him. Fargo told them about the hunting party. He left out the part about being captured and bound, and the part about the mother bear.

“So you see?” Victor Gore said. “All is well. Now why don’t we get under way? We can cover a lot more ground before dark.”

Fargo made it a point to ride alongside the Winston wagon. “Is it true what Gore told me?” he asked Lester.

“About what?”

“That he tried to talk you out of going to the Payette River Valley?”

Lester’s eyebrows puckered. “You must not have heard right. Didn’t I tell you? Mr. Gore was the one who told us about the valley. It was his idea we go there. And I have to say, after hearing how fertile the soil is, and how much game is about, I agree with him.”

“I wanted to be sure,” Fargo said.

“Some of my people didn’t like the idea. They were all for going on to Oregon. But Mr. Gore persuaded them to change their minds.”

“A wonderful man,” Fargo said. And a marvelous liar.

“He’s got a silver tongue, that Mr. Gore,” Lester declared. “My wife swears he could talk a patent medicine man into buying his own tonic.”

Fargo agreed. It was the first thing that had struck him about Gore.

“I happen to like him,” Lester had gone on. “If this valley turns out to be everything he claimed, he’ll have saved us weeks of travel and I’ll be forever in his debt.”

“You don’t think he could be lying?”

“To what end?” the big farmer demanded. “What purpose would it serve, him luring us off to the middle of nowhere? We hardly have any money and little else of value save our possessions and our wagons. I can’t see anyone doing us harm over that. It’s not worth the bother.”

Lester had a point, Fargo reflected. But if Gore wasn’t out to rob them, what was he up to?

Toward sunset another halt was called, and Fargo had to hand it to Gore’s men. They knew their business. They formed the wagons into a circle, gathered the horses and the teams and placed them under guard, and sent two men into the woods after firewood and two more out after something for supper. The farmers gathered in the circle while their womenfolk broke out pots and pans and whatnot.

Fargo brought the Ovaro into the circle. He was loosening the cinch when a shadow fell across him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Slag demanded.

“What does it look like?” Fargo replied. “I’m not going to leave the saddle on all night.”

“I didn’t mean that, stupid.” Slag took a step and smacked the Ovaro. “No animals are allowed in the circle. We don’t want their droppings all over the place. Take him and put him with the rest.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking. It’s a rule. The plow-pushers abide by it, and so do we. I’ll take him myself if you won’t.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Slag gripped the reins, and smirked. “Oh? Why not? What do you aim to do about it?”

“Just this,” Fargo said, and slugged him.