Northwoods Nightmare (10 page)

Wilson grumpily complied, complaining, “I'd like to go lie down. My head hurts worse than any pain I ever had.”

“Show me.”

Wilson pointed at where Strath had been lying on his side, away from the fire, and then at where he had been sitting.

“Your back wasn't to the woods,” Fargo noticed.

“Huh? No, I reckon it wasn't. My back was to the tents. Why? Does it matter?”

“It could and it couldn't.” Fargo went to the fire and poured another cup a cup of coffee. Most everyone had gone back to sleep. Strath was wrapped in a blanket and would be buried first thing in the morning.

Fargo was raising the cup when he sensed her come up next to him.

“What were you doing out in the woods with that Indian girl?”

“None of your business.”

Angeline was bundled in a thick robe that covered her from her feet to her neck. “I would very much like to know.”

“We went for a stroll.”

“I wasn't born yesterday, Skye Fargo. And I feel I have the right to ask after you and I—” Angeline stopped.

“You and I what? We were interrupted, remember? And even if we had, that doesn't give you a claim on me.”

“You can be coldhearted.”

Fargo met her stare. “You're like a lot of women. They let a man kiss them and think from then on all they have to do is snap their fingers, and the man will do whatever they ask.”

“That's not what I think at all. But if you did with that Indian girl what you were about to do with me, I would be the world's worst fool to let you do it now, wouldn't I?”

“Only if you were expecting me to propose, after.”

“Coldhearted,” Angeline repeated, and angrily strode to her tent. The flap closed with a snap.

Sighing, Fargo raised his cup.

“Woman trouble on top of everything else? You must not be living right, pard.” McKern hunkered across the fire, his Sharps across his legs.

“What do you want?”

McKern held both hands out. “Hey, now. Don't bite my head off. I don't care who you poke.” McKern grinned. “Although I will admit I'm plumb amazed at how females fall over themselves to get your britches off. What's your secret?”

“Regular baths.”

“Hell, if that's all it takes, I'll go from one bath a year to maybe one a month.”

“Did you come over here just to talk females?”

“No. But now that I know you're so popular with the contrary sex, I welcome any secrets you care to share.”

“At your age? You old goat.”

“Old ain't dead. I admire a pretty gal as much as the next gent. So tell me.” McKern paused. “When are you fixing to poke Edith Havard?”

Fargo nearly snorted coffee up his nose. After he stopped laughing, he replied, “I wouldn't poke that old prune if we were the last people on earth. I'd bet that Theodore has to beg for it, if she even spreads her legs for him at all anymore.”

“I could have done without that in my head, thank you very much.” McKern gave a slight shake. “Now I'll have night-mares.” He sobered. “But enough of this poking talk. Who do you think cut Strath free?”

“Whoever sent him after me the first time.”

“Which could be anyone.”

“Allen Havard is at the top of the list, but without proof I can't pistol-whip him.” As much as Fargo would like to.

“Mrs. Havard's not too fond of you, either. Which amazes me, her being female.”

“Keep it up.”

“Anytime you need your back watched, give a holler.”

“I'm obliged.”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know I'm always ready to back your play.” McKern smiled and walked off.

Presently, Fargo turned in. He slept fitfully, his Colt in his hand, waking whenever a sentry came anywhere near his blankets. A pink blush banded the eastern horizon when he threw his blankets off and sat up. Since he couldn't sleep, he might as well get up.

He wasn't the only early riser.

Cosmo was mixing flour and water in a bowl. “Good morning, Mr. Fargo. Quite the commotion last night, wasn't there?”

“Is that what you call it when one man tries to kill another? I thought the word for that is ‘murder.' ”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted. But I assure you I was as appalled as everyone else. To think that Mr. Strath would take it into his head to so something like that. It makes no sense.”

“It does when you know he was paid. A lot of money, too.”

“He told you that?”

Fargo nodded.

“My word. Wait. A lot of money? Surely you don't think one of the Havards is to blame?”

“No one else here has more money than they know what to do with,” Fargo mentioned.

“Granted. But to what end? I'd imagine you suspect Allen. But that petty disagreement you had is hardly cause to have you killed.”

“He might not think so.”

Fargo skipped breakfast. He saddled the Ovaro and rode in a wide circle around the camp, scouring the ground for sign. He found nothing helpful.

The Havards were up and eating when he returned. Angeline wouldn't look at him. He told Theodore to keep heading north. “I'm going on ahead to scout.”

“I suggest you be careful. You would be difficult to replace at this point, and I'd rather not have to go through the inconvenience.”

“We wouldn't want that.”

Teit was helping her grandfather to his feet. Her smile was warm and genuine. “It is a good morning to be alive,” she said, and breathed deep of the crisp air.

“Let's hope we all stay that way.” Fargo went to lift the reins but she put her hand on his leg.

“Wait. Before you go, I must warn you. It is not safe.”

“What was your first clue?”

“Sorry? I am talking about my people. Ever since the war with the whites there has been—what is the expression?—bad blood. Many Nlaka'pamux resent the whites for coming to our land. There is much hate. A few of our young warriors want to drive the whites out, but our leaders counsel against spilling blood.”

“Let me guess. The young ones spill white blood anyway.”

“There is talk, yes. Every moon or so certain young warriors leave our village. They are gone for many sleeps. After they come back, we hear talk of whites who have disappeared.”

Fargo touched her shoulder. “Thanks for the warning. I'll keep my eyes skinned.” He uncurled and was set to tap his spurs when she gripped the stirrup.

“There is more.”

Fargo waited.

“One of those young warriors is my brother. My heart would be sad if anything happened to him.”

Fargo almost said, “Then he shouldn't go around killing people.” Instead he responded, “The odds of me running into them are pretty slim.”

“Perhaps not,” Teit said. “They watch the trails and this is one the whites use a lot.”

Now Fargo had more to worry about. He rode alertly down to the valley floor. There, he paralleled the grassy bank of a swift stream to a sawtooth ridge. A game trail brought him to the crest. Below lay Fraser Canyon. He had come out north of the canyon mouth and the settlement of Yale.

Fraser Canyon was a turbulent tear in mother earth. In parts it was over three thousand feet deep. Sheer cliffs overlooked some of its serpentine length. Elsewhere, steep slopes, many with timber, many without. The narrow trail, which Fargo could see from the rim, was treacherous. A single misstep, and a person plunged to his doom. Word had it that more than a dozen people had done just that.

Fargo dismounted. He wrapped the reins around a tree limb. Moving to the edge, he spotted several men leading pack mules up the canyon toward the next settlement. As best he could recollect, the next one was called Spuzzum. Sixteen miles past Spuzzum was the Havards' destination, the last place Kenneth had been: Boston Bar.

Fargo pushed his hat back on his head. He would be glad when this was over. A full poke and a week or two in San Francisco promised a time he wouldn't soon forget.

The prospectors, if that was what they were, never looked up. One of the mules was being contrary and the man leading it had to keep pulling to get it to move.

A short way ahead of them was a stand of pines.

Fargo was watching the antics of the mule and not the stand, so he almost missed the movement. Someone was in the trees. Several someones, in fact. More prospectors, he figured, and didn't give it any more thought until one made the mistake of stepping into an open space between trees. The black hair and the buckskins told Fargo that those in the trees were Indians.

The white men with the mules were getting closer.

Now the warriors were spreading out, both above and below the trail. It was an ambush.

Fargo cupped his hands to his mouth. “Look out!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice bounced off the cliff opposite, and echoed. “There are hostiles in the pines!”

The prospectors looked up but kept on walking as if everything were perfectly fine.

Fargo figured the echo had made it hard for them to understand. He tried again, bellowing, “Indians! Ahead of you!”

One of the men shielded his eyes with a hand.

“Hostiles!” Fargo tried yet again, waving his arms. He motioned at the pines.

The men kept going.

Fargo wondered if maybe they couldn't hear him because of the rapids below. Several of the warriors in the trees had glanced up and were talking among themselves.

Whirling, Fargo dashed to the Ovaro and yanked the Henry from the saddle scabbard. He levered a round into the chamber, ran back to the edge, and wedged the stock to his shoulder.

By now the prospectors and the mules were less than fifty feet from the pines.

Fargo couldn't see any of the warriors. But they were there, waiting for their unsuspecting victims to get within arrow range.

Fargo aimed at a point on the narrow trail about ten feet in front of the first prospector. He stroked the trigger and the Henry kicked. Down below, a geyser of dirt testified to his accuracy. He lowered the rifle.

The men had stopped and were looking up.

Fargo jumped up and down and waved his arms again. “Indians in the trees ahead! Watch yourselves!”

The last man in line raised a rifle and fired.

The
spang
of lead striking rock caused Fargo to jump back. The lunkheads were shooting at him! Fargo poked his head over the rim and tried once more. “Hostiles! Don't go any farther!”

Another shot whizzed past.

“Damn idiots.” Fargo was at a loss. If they kept on, they would be slaughtered. But how could he stop them when they were shooting at him? He risked another look.

The three men were twenty feet from the stand and looking up at the rim, not at the trees.

“Indians, damn you!”

The lead man brought his mule to a stop and the others did the same. They talked back and forth, and gestured. The second man pointed at the river and then up at Fargo and put a hand to his ear.

“Hostiles in the trees!”

All three were looking up but they didn't raise their rifles. Fargo showed himself and jabbed an arm at the pines. The last man said something, and the man in the middle raised an arm and waved.

“Hell,” Fargo said.

They moved toward the stand.

Fargo started to curse.

The first prospector and his mule entered the pines. Then the second, and the third. Fargo couldn't see any of them. He listened for war whoops and shots but the canyon was quiet, save for the river and the wind.

Fargo dropped into a crouch. “Where the hell are you?”

A mule came out of the other side of the stand. Then the second animal. But not the third. Both were trotting.

Then a prospector staggered out, his hands over his belly. Ropy coils of intestines were spilling out. The prospector weaved. He cried off. He looked up at Fargo, and stepped off the trail into space. He screamed all the way down.

Fargo swore some more. Something brushed the back of his head. A fly, he thought, and swatted at it.

But it wasn't a fly.

It was a gun barrel.

If the Knife warrior had simply snuck up on him, put the muzzle of the rifle to the back of Fargo's head, and pulled the trigger without saying anything, Fargo would have died then and there. But Fargo was in luck; the warrior wanted to take him alive. Instead of shooting, he commanded, “Not move, white dog.”

But even as the warrior spoke, Fargo sidestepped and whirled. He moved so fast that although the warrior instantly fired, the slug tore through empty space instead of Fargo's head.

Fargo dropped the Henry but only so he could grab the barrel of the warrior's rifle and wrench it from the surprised man's grasp.

The Knife sprang back and resorted to his blade.

Reversing his grip, Fargo swung the rifle like a club. It was an old single-shot flintlock, heavy and long. The warrior ducked, or tried to; the stock clipped him across the temple. Stunned, he staggered back, gave his head a few hard shakes, and recovered.

A vicious snarl twisted his features.

“I'm not your enemy,” Fargo said, doubting it would do any good. He was right.

The Knife hissed and attacked, coming in swift and low, his blade spearing at Fargo's groin. Fargo swung at the man's wrist to knock the knife from his hand, but the warrior sprang to one side and circled.

Fargo did some swift thinking. The warrior must be with those below. Maybe he was their lookout. Or maybe they had horses hidden for a getaway and this one was watching the horses.