Range War (9781101559215) (15 page)

“You know of any who'd be out this way?” Hank said.

“If I did I wouldn't tell you.”

Fargo shifted in his saddle. “If you do you better tell me.”

Carlos glanced at the Colt in Fargo's holster. “No, senor. I am as perplexed as the rest of you.”

“We should pay them a visit,” Billy-Bob suggested.

“We'll stick with the tracks,” Fargo said, and resumed following the sign. It was harder to do. The leaves and pine needles that covered much of the ground bore few prints. It wasn't long before he realized that the tracks were leading toward the smoke. “Well, what do you know,” he said, and informed the others.

“Could be all we'll find are bodies,” Billy-Bob said.

Fargo went slowly, his hand always on his revolver. In a while the forest thinned and then came to an end at the mouth of a canyon. The smoke rose from somewhere in its depths.

“Maybe it really is Injuns,” Billy-Bob said. “We ain't careful, we could be pincushions.”

Fargo climbed down and handed the Ovaro's reins to him. “Hold on to these.”

“What are you doin'?”

“I can be quieter on foot,” Fargo said. “Wait here.”

“What if somethin' happens to you? How will we know?”

“You'll hear a lot of noise.” Fargo yanked the Henry from the scabbard and worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber.

“Take one of us or the Mex along,” Hank said. “Just in case.”

“I refuse to,” Carlos said. “Let him do it on his own.”

Fargo entered the canyon. It was several hundred feet across and green with vegetation, the sort of place that Indians would like. He came to a bend. The smell of the smoke was so strong, he almost sneezed. Crouching, he peered around. To say he was surprised was an understatement.

A crude dwelling stood near a spring. Constructed of interwoven tree limbs and sticks, it was only five feet high and about six feet wide. There was no door and no windows, only an oval opening.

Two mules were tied to a tree, both dozing in the midday heat.

Fargo didn't see their owner—or the animals he had spent most of the day tracking. Warily rising, he moved closer, the Henry pressed to his shoulder.

The mules roused and regarded him with mild interest.

Fargo smelled a foul odor and heard buzzing. Off to his right flies were swarming. He looked closer and saw bones and bits of hide, and antlers—the remains of a deer, killed not that long ago.

At the opening Fargo stopped. “Anyone home?” he called out. When he got no answer he poked his head in. The odor wasn't much better, and it was black as pitch.

Fargo drew back. He went around to the side and found a large pile of bones and fur. Poking at it with the rifle, he recognized bits and pieces of squirrel and rabbit and other game.

He walked back to the front and placed the Henry's stock on the ground and leaned on it. “Where could you have gotten to?” he wondered out loud.

“Right here, mister.”

A man had come around the mules. Older than Methuselah, he had snow-white hair that fell past his shoulders and a snow-white beard that fell to his waist. His face was bronzed by exposure to the sun, and seamed with wrinkles. There was nothing friendly about his expression or the old Hawken rifle he had trained on Fargo's chest. “One wrong twitch,” he warned, “and it'll be your last.”

“I'm friendly,” Fargo said.

“I'm not.”

“I didn't come alone,” Fargo thought it prudent to say. The man's head jerked up and he scoured the surrounding woods. “These friends of yours must be invisible.”

“They're out there and they'll hear if you shoot.”

The old man gnawed on his lips.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Fargo asked.

“That's none of your damn business.” The man was still scanning the trees.

“I've got my reasons for asking.”

“You're not just nosy?”

“We're after two animals that have been killing cows, sheep and people.”

“Oh. Them,” the man said, and lowered the Hawken to his side but kept it pointed at Fargo.

“You've seen these things?” Fargo said. “You know what they are?”

“I've only ever caught a glimpse once or twice,” the man said. “I hear them a lot, though, mostly at night. As to what they are, they're not wolves.”

“I already know that.”

“You do?” The man wagged the Hawken. “Suppose you drop that rifle before my trigger finger gets itchy.”

“No,” Fargo said.

“I mean it,” the old man warned. “Either you do it or I shoot you.”

“You're welcome to try,” Fargo said.

Tension crackled, and for a moment Fargo thought the man would fire. Instead, he absently tugged at his beard.

“I reckon I shouldn't have come on you like I done but I don't trust strangers.”

“I don't trust them much myself,” Fargo said.

The old man appraised Fargo with piercing gray eyes and finally said, “My name is Rolf. Igmar Rolf. What's yours?”

Fargo told him.

“It's been a coon's age since I had visitors. I'm off the beaten path and like it that way.”

“How long have you been here?” Fargo asked.

“I haven't kept track.”

“Weeks? Months? Years?”

“Long enough,” Rolf said. He motioned at the woods. “Call in those friends of yours so we can get acquainted.”

“When I'm ready.”

“You're a cautious coon, sure enough.” Rolf nodded. “I admire that. Too much trust can come back to bite us on the ass. There've been times when I got bit but finally I learned my lesson.”

Fargo studied the ground without being obvious. He read tracks as easily as some men read books, and these told him a lot.

“Care for a drink? I got some squeezin's I make myself,” Rolf offered.

“Why not?” Fargo said.

The mountain man went to the doorway, stooped, and disappeared into the black pitch.

Fargo moved just enough that he wasn't visible from inside.

He heard a clank and rattling and then a thump. “You all right in there?”

Rolf filled the doorway, a jug in his hand. “I ain't the tidiest of gents. My wife likes to say I'm the biggest mess ever born.”

“She's here with you?” Fargo said in surprise.

Rolf's features clouded and when he spoke his voice was choked with emotion. “Slip of the tongue. No, she ain't. My Martha went to her reward pretty near five years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Why should you be?” Rolf said. “You didn't know her and you don't know me.” Shaking himself, he came out and extended the jug.

“You first.”

“Afeared I'll poison you?” Rolf said, and laughed. He leaned the Hawken against the wall, wrestled the stopper out, and crooked his arm. “To trust,” he said, and tilted the jug to his mouth. He swallowed a few times and let out a contented sigh. “Your turn.”

Fargo wiped it on his left sleeve and took a swig. He figured it would be potent but he didn't count on his mouth and throat filling with liquid fire, or on his eyes watering. “Damn,” he said, and coughed. “That stuff would curl a nail.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Rolf said, grinning. He helped himself to the jug.

“You must have an iron gut,” Fargo said.

Rolf shrugged between swallows. “I'm used to it. Took to drinkin' a lot after I lost Martha. Too much, I suspect, but I needed to dull the pain.”

“How did she die, if you don't mind my asking?”

Rolf seemed to struggle with himself, then said, “I do mind. She's one thing I never talk about. Ever.”

“I understand.”

“Like hell you do,” Rolf said. “But if you'd lost your woman the way I lost mine—” He caught himself. “Listen to me, goin' on and on.”

“Getting back to the animals we're hunting,” Fargo reminded him. “You say you've only caught a glimpse now and then?”

“You callin' me a liar?”

“I am.”

About to take another drink, Rolf lowered the jug. “You better have a damn good reason.”

Fargo swept his arm at the dirt under their feet. “I've got dozens of them.”

There were tracks everywhere: the old man's tracks, the track of the mules, and the tracks of two animals that weren't wolves and weren't dogs.

Rolf looked down and gave a mild start. “I'll be damned.” “Care to explain?”

“They must have come around when I'm not here.”

“That must be it,” Fargo said.

“You don't believe me, do you?”

“Not a damn word,” Fargo said. “Like you told me, too much trust can bite us on the ass.”

“Ain't that the truth.” Rolf's hand came from behind his back; he was holding a pocket pistol, and cocked it. “I told you before and I'll tell you again. One twitch and it'll be your last.”

“Well now,” Fargo said.

Rolf raised the pistol and pointed it at Fargo's face. “Let go of the rifle.”

Fargo relaxed his fingers and the Henry clattered on the ground.

“Kick it toward me.”

Fargo pushed the stock with his toe.

“Two fingers and two fingers only,” Rolf said, “take that Colt of yours and let it drop.”

Again Fargo complied.

“Move three steps back with your arms out from your sides,” Rolf ordered.

Simmering inside, Fargo had no choice but to do as he was told. The muzzle of the pocket pistol never wavered.

Rolf picked up the Henry and the Colt. Backing up, he placed them beside the Hawken. “Now we can talk. Who in blazes are you?”

“I already told you.”

“Not your name. What you do. Dressed like that, you sure as hell ain't a cow nurse. And you're not no damned sheepherder. So I ask you again. Who the hell are you, mister? And how are you involved in this?”

Fargo gave him a bare account, ending with, “And here we are.”

“A scout and a tracker. That explains it.” Rolf let out a loud sigh.

“Suppose you return the favor. What are you up to? And where are they?”

“Have some of it figured out, do you?” Rolf said. “What gave it away?”

“When the sheepherders told me their dogs were killed first.”

“You reckoned that someone wanted to keep their dogs from following the scent back?”

“Something like that, yes,” Fargo said.

Rolf uttered an odd laugh. “They did the dogs on their own. They hate dogs.” He added almost as an afterthought. “They do a lot on their own, damn them. It's the blood. They taste it and go half wild.”

“Did you sic them on the little girl?”

Rolf stiffened. “What's that? You say a child was killed?” “Her name was Angelita. She was ten years old.”

“I didn't intend for that.”

The mountain man's shock appeared sincere, which added to Fargo's puzzlement. “You let them loose and they do what they want? Is that it?”

“I just told you I can't always control them.” Rolf put his other hand to his face. “I didn't mean for it to come to this. It's him I'm after.”

“Him who?”

Rolf snapped his arm down. “I've told you too much as it is. He might guess and I don't want him to know until I'm ready to do him in.” He wagged the pistol. “Turn around.”

Fargo hesitated.

“Mister, I've got no quarrel with you. But I will by God shoot you if you don't do as I tell you.”

Fargo believed him. Reluctantly, he slowly turned.

“I planned for too long and have gone to too much trouble to let anyone stop me now. He has this coming, the son of a bitch. Ask him. Ask him about Antelope Springs and see what he says.”

The name stirred a vague recollection. Before Fargo could recall why, the back of his head exploded and he was sucked into a black well.

His next sensation was of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He struggled up through inner depths and suddenly his eyes were open and his head was throbbing with pain. He squinted in the harsh glare of the sun and looked around in confusion.

Hank was hunkered next to him. Billy-Bob was over by the shack, a hand on his revolver. Their horses and the Ovaro were nearby.

Carlos sat on his animal, smirking.

“That's a nasty bump you got on your noggin,” Hank said.

Wincing, Fargo sat up. He touched the back of his head. There was no blood, just the goose egg. His hat had fallen off and he gingerly placed it back on. “How long?”

“Were you out?” Hank said. “It's been over an hour since you came on ahead. We got to worryin' that maybe somethin' had happened. Well, Billy and me. The mutton lover don't give a damn.”

“It's good to see you suffering, gringo,” Carlos happily declared.

Billy-Bob came over carrying the Henry and the Colt. “These here are yours, ain't they?”

Fargo stood. The pain worsened but he grit his teeth and bore it. He shoved the Colt into his holster and brushed dust from the rifle. “I'm obliged.”

“Who was it done this to you?” Hank asked.

“The name Igmar Rolf mean anything to you?”

“Sure don't,” Hank said.

“That's a German handle, ain't it?” Billy-Bob asked. “Is he the one who hit you?”

Fargo went to nod but caught himself. Shuffling to the Ovaro, he slid the Henry into the scabbard. “Mount up,” he said, and carefully pulled himself onto his saddle. The movement provoked more pain.