Flathead Fury (12 page)

Stunned and flooded with pain, Fargo was vaguely aware the Ovaro had not stopped. A tide of inner blackness threatened to wash over him but he resisted. Dimly, he was conscious of pounding hooves and loud voices, and he braced for certain discovery.

Thunder filled his ears. Riders were on either side of him. He tried to move his right hand to draw his Colt but his body would not do what he wanted.

Someone—it sounded like Tork—shouted, “There's his horse!” A fresh flurry of shots spiked Fargo with fear for the Ovaro's life. The pounding faded and quiet descended, complete, utter quiet.

Fargo's senses returned. He hurt. He hurt like hell. He tested his arms and poked at his chest and he decided nothing was broken. Sitting up, he listened but heard only the sigh of the wind.

Fargo got his hand under him, and stood. The same whimsical fate that had twice thwarted his attempts to put an end to Mike Durn had now saved his life. Thanks to the moonless night, Tork and his men had not seen him when he was lying practically under the hooves of their horses. It was a wonder none of their mounts had stepped on him.

Fargo started north, walking slowly at first and then faster as he regained his strength. He could not shake the awful feeling that he would find the Ovaro dead. But if that were the case, Tork and the others would have turned back by now, and there was no sign of them.

Striding purposefully along, Fargo was pondering his next move when a grunt similar to the one he had heard earlier brought him up short. Whatever made it was close, very close.

Anxious to go on, Fargo strained to pierce the gloom. Loud sniffing caused the nape of his neck to prickle. The thing was no more than twenty feet away, to his left. A rumbling growl told him it had caught his scent.

It was definitely a bear. Whether it was One Ear or another, Fargo had no way of knowing. He drew his Colt but he did not use it. A wild shot in the dark would only succeed in wounding the thing, and a wounded bear was ferocity incarnate.

Suddenly a huge bulk reared. The brute had risen on its rear legs and was sniffing again.

Fargo braced for the worst. If the bear attacked, he was done for. He would fight but he did not stand a chance against the steely sinews, saber teeth, and thick claws of one of the most formidable creatures on the continent.

Yet more sniffing.

Fargo prayed the bear had fed recently and would soon wander off. Each second he stood there was an eternity of suspense. He broke out in a cold sweat, and his mouth went dry.

The bear dropped onto all fours.

Fargo started to hike his leg to palm the Arkansas toothpick. He would stab at the bear's eyes and the throat, and maybe, just maybe, hurt it so badly he would drive it off. Buffalo could fly, too.

Another grunt, and just like that the great beast vanished. When a bear wanted, it could move as silently as a ghost, and this one slipped away with nary a sound to mark its passage.

Fargo stayed where he was. Sometimes bears circled to come at prey from behind. He scanned the woods but the nocturnal behemoth did not show itself. At last, convinced it was safe, he moved on.

Continuing to stay close to the lake, Fargo hiked for over a mile. The night around him came alive with the cries of wildlife; the howls of wolves, the yips of coyotes, the occasional screech of a mountain lion, and once, the roar of a bear that might be One Ear. Now and again the death squeal of prey spoke of a predator's success.

Fargo's brow puckered when he spied a triangle of red and orange ahead. Apparently Tork had made camp for the night. He crept along the water's edge until he saw figures seated around a fire and a string of tethered horses. They had pitched camp on an open strip of shore.

Fargo snuck as near as he dared. He removed his boots, drew his Colt and the toothpick, and holding them above the water, waded into the lake, moving slowly so as not to splash. The cold brought goose bumps to his flesh. The water rose to his knees, then to his waist.

Fargo figured Tork and his friends would not pay much attention to the lake.

Danger, if it came at them, would come from the woods. When the water was as high as his chest, he slowly moved toward them until he could hear what they were saying.

“—happened to him. He must have jumped off his horse when he saw he couldn't get away.” This from a mustachioed man in a brown hat.

“Jumped, hell!” Tork snapped. He was poking at the fire with a stick. “That doesn't make any damn sense. A man like him, he would never let us catch his horse.”

Fargo glanced at the string. Sure enough, the Ovaro was one of them, tied in the middle.

“You almost sound like you admire him,” another man said.

Tork glared until the speaker averted his gaze, then snarled, “The only thing I admire is toughness. Durn is tough, and I respect him for that. Kutler is tough, and I respect him. I don't respect you because you are a puny peckerwood who would not last a week in the wild by your lonesome.” He jabbed the fire again. “Skye Fargo is as tough as they come. He has to be, the things they say he has done.”

“No one can accuse him of being yellow,” commented another. “He took on all of us to try and save that girl.”

“He has done a hell of a lot more,” Tork said. “He has killed Grunge and probably Hoyt, and those other two. And now he has burned the ferry. You realize what that means, don't you?”

The rest exchanged puzzled looks.

“Idiots,” Tork spat. “He has declared war on us. He intends to tear down everything Durn has built up, and to wipe out all of us who ride for him.”

“Single-handed?” a man scoffed.

“There are near twenty of us and only one of him,” commented another. “He is the idiot, not us.”

“Tell that to Grunge and Hoyt,” Tork said.

“He is on foot now,” yet another man remarked. “We will find him easy once the sun is up.”

Tork snorted in disgust. “I am surrounded by jackasses.”

The man with the brown hat said, “I still can't believe he had the sand to sneak into Big Mike's room and take his rifle back.”

“There is the proof in the pudding,” Tork said. “You wouldn't do it, and I might not do it, but Fargo did.”

“What does that prove except that he has no brains?” asked someone else.

“It is a wonder you can piss without peeing all over yourself,” Tork told him. “Let me make it plain. All of you are rabbits and Fargo is a wolf. And you know what wolves do to rabbits.”

“I am not afraid of him,” the same man blustered.

“Which shows you are the one without brains,” Tork said.

The man would not let it drop. “Are you saying that because
you
are scared of him, the rest of us should be?”

Tork was up and around the fire in the blink of an eye. He drove the stock of his Sharps at the man's forehead and struck him twice more after the man sprawled flat. “Anyone else want to insult me?” he asked.

No one did.

“Did you kill him?” wondered the one in the brown hat.

“I should have,” Tork said. “But all he will have is a headache to remind him to respect his betters.”

Fargo had listened to enough. Carefully backing away, he turned and circled to where he had entered the lake. Dripping wet from the chest down, he tugged his boots on, then moved to the trees and slowly worked his way toward their camp. When he was again within earshot, he hunkered with his arms over his knees.

Tork's bunch were making small talk. One man told how he was wanted by the law in Texas. Another came from Missouri, where he had knifed someone in a bar fight. The gent with the brown hat related how he first met Mike Durn on a Mississippi riverboat and had worked for Durn ever since.

“He looks after his own, I will say that for Mike.”

Tork revealed, “I owe him my life for the time he shot a deputy dead to keep the tin star from hauling me off to jail.”

“Do you reckon all his big talk will amount to anything?” asked another. “About him running the territory, I mean? And about us having more money than we'll know what to do with?”

“All I can tell you,” said the man with the brown hat, “is that he has never failed to do what he said he would.”

“I like the idea of having money, Blaine,” Tork mentioned. “But the part of Durn's plan I like best is rubbing out the Injuns.”

“You are not fond of redskins, I take it?”

“I hate the vermin,” Tork answered. “I lost an uncle and cousin to the Sioux. I kill every damn savage I come across.” He grinned slyly. “When no one else is around, of course.”

“You must love it when Durn feeds them to his pet,” Blaine remarked.

Tork and a couple of others laughed, and the former confessed, “I love it more than anything. To hear them beg and scream while they are being torn to pieces is as good as life gets.”

“I wonder why men like Fargo stick up for those heathens?”

“There is no accounting for an Injun lover,” Tork said. “They get on their high horse and preach as how we are all God's children and should try to get along.” He burst into profanity, then said, “Try telling that to a Comanche out to lift your scalp. Or to Apaches if they get their hands on you.” He swore some more. “Some folks don't have no more sense than a tree stump.”

A man across from him said, “I never thought I would say this, but I have become an Injun lover, myself.”

“What's that?” Tork bristled.

“I love to do those Injun gals Big Mike brings to his saloon,” the man said. “Now that is my kind of Injun loving.”

Hoots of laughter deflated Tork's anger. He even laughed, himself. But then he said, “Just so long as you don't decide to marry one. There is nothing worse than a squaw man.”

Toward ten several of them turned in. Two more held out for another hour. Finally, only Tork and Blaine were up.

In a few minutes the small man with the big Sharps crawled under his blankets, saying, “Remember, you have first watch. Keep your eyes skinned. Wake Hank at two and have him wake Charlie at four. Tell them if all the horses aren't accounted for when I wake up, there will be hell to pay.”

“You sound as if you expect them to be stolen.”

“We are near Blackfoot territory, aren't we?”

The Blackfeet, Fargo well knew, had a passion for stealing horses. At one time they were the terror of the northern plains but they were not quite as hostile as in former days, in large part thanks to the tireless efforts of missionaries to convert them.

It had surprised Fargo considerably that a fierce tribe like the Blackfeet would even allow a Bible-thumper in their midst. Only time would tell if they changed their ways.

Blaine was the only one still up. For a while he stared into the fire, then he rose and stretched. His rifle in the crook of his arm, he went to the horses and made sure the tether was secure.

Fargo continued to imitate a statue. He was not ready to make his move just yet.

Blaine walked in circles around the sleepers. Dwindling flames motivated him into adding firewood, then he resumed circling. After about ten minutes he sank to his knees next to the fire and poured himself a cup of coffee. His back was to the horses.

As near as Fargo could tell, everyone else was sound asleep. Several were snoring. Tork had a blanket over his head and had not stirred since he laid down.

Fargo slowly unfurled, his Colt still in his right hand, the Arkansas toothpick in his left. The breeze had dried his buckskins enough that they did not drip as he crept toward the near end of the string. He had to exercise care that he didn't spook them. To that end, he would take a step and stop, take a step and stop, his approach slow and deliberate.

Blaine set his rifle down and sat back. He sipped coffee and uttered a sigh of contentment.

The nearest horse, a sorrel, abruptly raised its head and looked in Fargo's direction. Fargo stood still. He must not do anything the horse could construe as a threat. When it lowered its head, he advanced as before.

A second and third horse became aware of him. Both stared and pricked their ears but neither nickered.

So far, so good, Fargo told himself.

Blaine was about to take another sip. Suddenly an unnaturally loud splash out on the lake brought him to his feet with his rifle leveled. “What the hell?” he blurted. “What was that?”

Fargo wondered the same thing. The splash had been louder than a fish would make. Sometimes large animals, deer and elk and bear, went for a swim, but rarely at night, and seldom so close to a camp.

Moving around the fire for a better look, Blaine peered intently out over the water. “I don't see anything,” he said aloud.

Fargo wished the man would shut up. Tork or some of the others might awaken.

“I reckon it was a fish,” Blaine said. Returning to the fire, he picked up his tin cup, and squatted.

Only now he was facing toward Fargo, not away from him.