Range War (9781101559215) (8 page)

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Authors: C. J. Cherryh

BOOK: Range War (9781101559215)
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“But this wasn't a lion, senor. It was the Hound. Dogs do not do such a thing.”
“It is more than a dog,” Lorenzo said. “It is a devil.”
“A demon,” said the other man.
“Here we go again,” Fargo said.
“Do not talk nonsense,” Porfiro chided them. “We have heard it. Senor Fargo has seen it. It is flesh and blood, like any animal, and like any animal, it can be killed.”
“If you say so,” Lorenzo said dubiously.
Porfiro gently lowered the ewe's head, and stood. “We must salvage what we can of the wool and the meat. Go back to camp and bring the others.”
“What about you?” Lorenzo asked.
“I will stay with Fargo and look for sign.”
Fargo was already searching. He threaded among the bodies, bent low. Thanks to the storm, there wasn't any sign to find. The rain had washed away the few prints the Hound may have left. He drew rein at the tree line and stared off up the mountain wondering where the beast had gotten to.
“Why have you stopped?” Porfiro asked. “We must hunt it down while there is daylight left.”
“We can't find it if there aren't any tracks,” Fargo said. But he gigged the stallion and climbed anyway. Twenty feet up stood a number of small spruce, their branches close together. He went to go around and drew rein, instead. Swinging down, he dropped to a knee.
“What have you found?”
“See for yourself.”
In a patch of bare earth was a print. Just one, but it was complete and clear and left no doubt as to its maker's identity.
“Madre de Dios,”
Porfiro said in amazement.
Fargo didn't blame him. The track was eight inches from end to end, and nearly as wide as it was long. He whistled to himself. In the geyser country a few years ago he and some others came across wolf tracks six inches long, and they were considered gigantic. Eight inches was unheard of.
“What is it, senor?” Porfiro asked. “A dog or a wolf? You can tell by the track, can you not?”
“Usually,” Fargo said.
“What are you saying?”
“Dog and wolves have four toes, the same as coyotes and foxes,” Fargo began. “On dogs the inner two are closer together than on a wolf.”
Porfiro intently studied the track. “I can stick my thumb in the space between the inner two on this one. So it must be a wolf, yes?”
“If that was all we had to go by,” Fargo said. “But the shape isn't like any wolf track I've ever seen.”
“It is neither a dog
nor
wolf? How can that be?”
“It can't,” Fargo said, and confessed, “I don't know what the hell it is.”
“I don't understand,” Porfiro said.
“Makes two of us.” Fargo moved in among the spruce and found a partial print of a rear paw. Like the front, it was gigantic. Like the front, it seemed to suggest that the animal wasn't wolf or dog.
“We must keep this to ourselves,” Porfiro said at Fargo's shoulder. “My people are superstitious. Some already believe the beast is a demon, as you heard with your own ears. Should they learn that a seasoned scout and tracker like yourself can't tell what it is, there will be a panic.”
“If it leaves tracks, it's real,” Fargo said.
“I agree. So again, I beg you, do not say one word of this to anyone else. Do you promise?”
Fargo nodded.
“Gracias.”
Suddenly wheeling, Fargo made for the Ovaro. “I'm a damned dunderhead.”
“Senor?”
“That track was made
after
the storm. Which means the Hound or whatever the hell it is can't have more than a half-hour start.” Fargo quickly climbed on. “Stay here and wait for Lorenzo and the rest. I don't know when I'll be back.”
“Senor, wait . . .”
Fargo didn't linger. Twin pricks of his spurs, and he climbed swiftly. The rain had softened the soil enough that there were plenty of tracks. At last luck favored him. He'd be able to follow the beast for miles, possibly even to its lair.
In no time Fargo reached the grassy bench. He crested the rim, and swore.
More dead sheep were scattered willy-nilly, in the same state as their slaughtered brethren below.
Fargo stopped counting at fifteen. He crossed the bench and found more prints leading higher. It helped that the clouds were breaking and the sky was clearing. With six or seven hours of daylight left, he was confident he could catch the creature before sundown.
Shucking the Henry, Fargo held it across his saddle. He may get only one shot, and have only seconds in which to get it off. He must be ready.
No sooner did the thought cross his mind than he glanced up and spotted . . . something . . . staring down at him.
17
The animal was on its haunches. That much alone told Fargo it wasn't a deer. Its color was grayish-brown.
Fargo raised the Henry to his shoulder but he didn't shoot. The thing was on a rocky ridge hundreds of yards higher, well out of range. Snapping the rifle down, he goaded the Ovaro.
The animal sat watching him. Just when he was close enough to try a shot, it turned and melted from view.
He chalked it up to coincidence—or was it?
After a few minutes Fargo attained the crest. Tracks confirmed it was indeed the beast, and that the four-legged killer had gone off up the mountain.
“You're not losing me that easy,” Fargo vowed.
Presently he came to a field of boulders. They were a virtual maze. Some were so large he couldn't see over them.
And the beast was in among them.
Fargo was tempted to rein around and get out of there but there wasn't room to turn the stallion. He went in ever deeper, his thumb on the Henry's hammer, his forefinger curled around the trigger.
The tracks were plain enough. Then, suddenly, they weren't there.
Fargo realized the animal had gone into an intersecting gap and he'd missed it. Now the thing could be anywhere.
It occurred to him that he could lure the beast in by just sitting there. The only way to come at him was from the front and the rear, and by shifting in the saddle he could keep an eye in both directions.
Time passed. A raven flapped overhead. Somewhere sparrows were chirping.
Fargo stayed still. So did the Ovaro save for the occasional swish of its tail.
This was the hardest part of hunting—the waiting. Good hunters must possess extraordinary patience, and he was widely considered one of the best. Once he'd sat motionless in a tree for eleven hours to shoot a grizzly. Another time, he'd roosted cross-legged for so long, waiting for an elk, that when he tried to stand his legs wouldn't work.
A pebble clattered and Fargo tensed. It came from in front of him. Thumbing the hammer, he put his cheek to the rifle.
A gap between boulders grew dark with shadow. The beast growled but didn't show itself.
All Fargo wanted was for it to poke its head out. He held his breath to steady his aim.
The thing sniffed, loudly, a few times. It growled again, and the shadow disappeared.
Fargo swore and gigged the Ovaro. He reached the gap and centered the Henry but the thing was gone. The opening wasn't wide enough for the stallion. He was forced to take a long way around, and it was a good twenty minutes before he emerged from the boulder field close to a rise. He couldn't find tracks. He scanned the surrounding area. Nothing.
“Damn it to hell.”
Fargo refused to give up. He went completely around the boulders, and still no tracks. Either the thing was still in there or it had made its escape along patches of rocky ground.
Once again Fargo had been thwarted. He let down the hammer and shoved the Henry into the saddle scabbard.
All the way down to the bench he kept hoping for another glimpse but it wasn't to be.
Porfiro and several others had found the second bunch of dead sheep and were salvaging what they could. One look at Fargo's face and Porfiro said, “No need to say anything. I can tell you were not successful.”
“The damn thing must be Irish,” Fargo said.
“Senor?”
“Nothing.” Fargo swung a leg over and slid off. “Its luck can't hold forever. Sooner or later I'll put a slug in its brainpan.”
“It is the latter that worries me,” Porfiro said. “We have lost nearly sixty sheep in one afternoon. Imagine if the beast goes on other killing sprees. We could lose hundreds before it is dead.”
“I'm doing the best I can.”
“I don't doubt that for a minute,” Porfiro assured him. “Believe me when I say I am sincerely grateful for all you have done. I wish the cowboys were more like you.”
Hooves drummed, and onto the bench galloped Delicia. “Grandfather!” she cried. She swept by the men working on the sheep and was off her horse before it stopped moving. “You must come quickly.”
“What now?” Porfiro wearily asked.
“It is Carlos and Alejandro,” Delicia said. “They saw the dead sheep below and were enraged. They say it is a dog that did this, and that the dog belongs to the cowboys.”
“We do not have proof of that.”
“They don't care. They have gone to punish the cowboys for the dead sheep.”
“God, no,” Porfiro said.
“I tried to talk them out of it. Lorenzo, too. He urged them to speak to you first.”
“Good for Lorenzo.”
“Carlos almost hit him. My brother was practically beside himself. I have never seen him so mad. And Alejandro was little better. He is upset over Flavio.”
“Carlo and Alejandro have hot blood, those two,” Porfiro said. “They have always been too quick to anger.”
“I begged Carlos not to go but he pushed me aside,” Delicia said. “He has never laid a hand on me before.”
“He will regret it when he comes to his senses.”
Delicia didn't seem to hear him. “Then they rode off, Grandfather, taking rifles with them, and I came to find you.”
“The fools,” Porfiro said. “They will bring ruin down on our heads.”
“Not if I can help it,” Fargo said. He was back in the saddle, and away.
Delicia shouted for him to wait for her but he wasn't about to.
Fargo crossed the bench and started down. On the valley floor, a mile or more distant, two riders were trotting to the south.
Fargo had a long, hard ride ahead. Unless he stopped them, the pair would ignite a bloodbath that would turn Hermanos Valley red.
18
There were times when even Skye Fargo marveled at the Ovaro's stamina. This was one of them. He reached the bottom and for over two miles flew in pursuit. But Carlos and Alejandro had too great a lead. Eventually, reluctantly, he slowed to a walk to spare the stallion from exhaustion.
Seven of the eleven miles were behind him when a shot echoed off the surrounding peaks. A second blast thundered on the heels of the first.
Fargo imagined the worst—that the pair had killed a cowboy. It turned out they hadn't, but they had done something almost as bad. In half a mile he came on two cows; blood and brains were oozing from holes in the skulls, and flies were gathering.
With newfound urgency Fargo hastened on. The punchers were bound to have heard the shots and would investigate.
Around the next bend was a straight stretch. At the far end, brazenly riding down the middle of the valley, were Carlos and Alejandro.
Fargo urged the stallion into a trot. They heard him and looked around and stopped. Aware that at any moment the cowboys might appear, he vented his anger the moment he drew rein. “What in hell do you think you're doing?”
Carlos and Alejandro swapped smirks.
“You saw the cows, did you not?” Carlos said.
“We killed them to show these gringos they can't kill our sheep with impunity,” Alejandro boasted.
“Jackasses,” Fargo said. “The both of you.”
Alejandro bristled with resentment. “We won't have you insult us.”
“No, we will not,” Carlos said. “You're not one of us. You are a gringo yourself, so naturally you take the side of those who would drive us out.”
Fargo controlled his temper with an effort. “I haven't taken anyone's side, and you damn well know it.”
“We do not want you here,” Alejandro said. “It is Porfiro who likes you and allows you to stay with us.”
“Do us a favor, gringo,” Carlos said. “Go away and leave us to our fight.”
“They'll kill you for the cows,” Fargo said.
Carlos snorted and patted his rifle. “Let them try. They will find that we are men and men are not afraid to die.”
“They want to drive us from our valley but it is they who will go,” Alejandro said.
“This is Porfiro's fault,” Carlos said. “We should have confronted them the day we discovered they were here but he persuaded us not to.”
“He bends over backwards to be civil,” Alejandro threw in. “And now three of us are dead, and a lot of our sheep, besides.”
“No more,” Carlos said. “Today we show them that we are not cowards.”
“Are you done preening?” Fargo said. “There are eight of them and two of you.”
“Soon there will be less of them.”
“Idiots,” Fargo said.
“You have delayed us long enough,” Carlos declared. He nodded at Alejandro and they continued to the south.
Fargo quickly caught up. “Listen to me.” He tried one last appeal. “If you're smart, you'll make yourselves scarce before the Texans find those dead cows.”
“Enough with the cows,” Alejandro said.

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