The Trailsman 317 (14 page)

Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than shadowy figures swarmed him from all directions.

To resist would be pointless. There were too many, and they were on Fargo in a rush. Hands seized his arms and legs and he was carried bodily at a brisk run. He could not see them well in the dark, but he did not need to. Their buckskins, the smell of bear fat in their hair, and their short, stocky builds identified them as surely as if it were daylight.

The Untillas had him.

From one frying pan into another, Fargo realized, remembering the chief's threat. He had failed to free Morning Dove so now the Untillas would punish him. If they were anything like the Apaches or the Comanches when it came to dealing with their enemies, he might not live to greet the dawn.

They moved with uncanny stealth, human ghosts flitting through the forest. The shouts of Skagg's men fell further and further behind, until Fargo heard them no more.

From the glimpses Fargo had of the stars, he judged that he was being borne to the northwest. The ground underfoot grew steep; they were climbing a mountain. The timber became thicker, dotted by random clearings. As they crossed one, he twisted his head and counted fourteen warriors. Eight were carrying him. The rest were flankers with arrows nocked to their bows.

The next slope brought them to a ridge that the Untillas traversed along a well-worn trail. Wider than a game trail would be, it suggested regular human use. They followed it down the other side of the mountain and into a valley.

By then they had covered some five miles, by Fargo's reckoning. He imagined the warriors holding him must be tiring but they showed no signs of fatigue. He marveled at their stamina. He marveled even more when they crossed the valley and started up the mountain beyond. But they climbed only partway, to the mouth of a canyon with high rock walls. Funneled by those walls, the breeze became stronger. It brought with it a faint acrid scent, the unmistakable odor of wood smoke. They had rounded several sharp bends when unexpectedly the canyon widened into another valley. Hidden from the outside world, it was ten miles from end to end and about three miles wide. A trail brought them to a stream that they followed for a spell.

The forest ended. Ahead spread a broad grassy meadow over a half mile in extent, what the old-timers called a park, sprinkled by cottonwoods. Bathed in starlight were dozens of dwellings. Not the buffalo-hide lodges of the plains tribes and a few mountain tribes, but circular lodges constructed from interlaced tree limbs, grasses, and reeds. They reminded Fargo of the wigwams used by various southwest tribes, and elsewhere.

One was larger than the rest, and it was there they carried Fargo. He was set on his feet in front of a bear hide that covered the entrance.

Despite the late hour a lot of Untillas were abroad, men, women, and even children. His arrival created a stir, and as word spread, they gathered from all points to study him and whisper among themselves.

Fargo patiently waited. They had not tried to harm him but that did not encourage him much. They would get to it in their own good time.

Then the buffalo hide parted and out strode Morning Dove's father. He wore buckskins and moccasins, bleached white, and a headdress of bald eagle feathers. His wrinkled features were set in severe lines as he addressed his people at some length in their own tongue.

Fargo knew better than to interrupt. Only when the old man stopped did he clear his throat and say, “I did my best to get your daughter away from Skagg. I want you to know that.”

“I know, white-eyes,” the chief said. “We watch whites. We see you, see daughter. See run from trading post.”

“Then why the hell didn't you help us?” Fargo snapped. “We could have gotten away.”

“We not fight whites.”

“So your daughter told me,” Fargo said. “But you might have to, whether you want to or not.”

“We not fight whites,” the chief repeated.

Fargo sighed in exasperation. “Fine. Leave your daughter in Skagg's hands. But if he kills her, don't blame me.”

“He not kill. He want secret.”

“What secret?”

The old warrior did not answer.

“If you want my help, I need answers,” Fargo said. “Starting with your name.”

“I called Beaver Tail.”

“And what is the big secret that—” Fargo stopped. “Wait. First things first.” He shifted and wriggled his bound wrists. “How about cutting me free? Or did you bring me here to slit my throat?”

“We not kill you,” Beaver Tail said. “You friend.” He barked a few words in the Untilla language and a young warrior stepped forward, knife in hand. A swift slash and the deed was done.

“At last,” Fargo said, rubbing his wrists. “You were about to tell me the secret behind all this.”

“I do better,” Beaver Tail said. “I show you.” He held the bear hide aside, and beckoned. “After you.”

The interior was warm and musty. In the center crackled a small fire. Tendrils of smoke curled up and out a hole in the roof. To one side sat an old woman sewing a buckskin dress. She grinned at Fargo.

“Sit,” Beaver Tail directed, pointing at a spot next to the fire.

Fargo sank down cross-legged, his elbows on his knees. Several warriors had followed them in but stood by the entrance. “Well?” he prompted as the old man sat next to him.

Beaver Tail pointed at the fire.

Uncertain what he meant, Fargo said, “You were going to show me the big secret. Where is it?”

Again Beaver Tail pointed at the fire.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Fargo stared at the fire, at the burning logs that fed it, and at charred pieces of wood from previous fires mixed in with the logs.

“You have eyes but you not see,” Beaver Tail said.

Annoyed, Fargo bent closer. Several of the logs and pieces of wood were red hot. His face grew warm from the heat, and some of the smoke got into his nose and mouth and made him cough.

“You see secret?” Beaver Tail asked.

“There is nothing special about a fire.”

“Chester Landry think special,” Beaver Tail said. “He think burning rocks much special.”

Burning rocks?
Fargo peered at the logs, and they were exactly what they appeared to be. Then he looked at what he had assumed were charred pieces of wood—only they were no such thing. “Damn!” he exclaimed, and bent so low he nearly singed his eyebrows.

“We call black rocks,” Beaver Tail explained. “Our people use when father's father boy.”

Fargo sat up. “And the Untillas know where there are more of these black rocks?”

“Black rock in ground. We dig out.” Beaver Tail said something to the old woman. She rose and brought over a beaded parfleche, which Beaver Tail indicated she should give to Fargo.

Lifting the flap, Fargo discovered the bag was crammed with pieces of different sizes, apparently chipped from a deposit. He held a piece the size of an apple in his palm, and hefted it. “So the newspapers were right.”

A lot had been written about the mineral wealth waiting to be unearthed in the Rockies. Already there had been a few gold strikes, and several silver mines were in operation. Geologists believed there was a lot more gold and silver to be found, along with other minerals. Among them, coal.

Back east, coal was widely used to heat homes and businesses. In New York City alone, tons of coal were burned each winter. Coal mines flourished, and those who owned them grew wealthy off the proceeds.

“Let me put the pieces of the puzzle together,” Fargo said to Beaver Tail. “Your friend Chester found out about the coal you use, and you showed him where it is?”

“Yes,” the chief confirmed. “Him much excited.”

“So excited that he made the mistake of telling Malachi Skagg,” Fargo deduced. “Now Skagg wants the coal for himself. He tried to make Chester tell him where it is but something went wrong.”

“Skagg beat Chester and Chester die,” Beaver Tail said sorrowfully. “But Skagg not give up. He take daughter. Say I give him secret or he kill her.”

And along about then, Fargo and Mabel had shown up, and now they were embroiled in Skagg's scheme to become the first coal king of the Rocky Mountains. “We can't let that bastard get away with this.”

“My people not kill whites,” Beaver Tail reiterated yet again.

“Which is why you forced me to lend a hand,” Fargo suspected. He should be mad at them but he wasn't. The Untillas were not fools. They knew the fate of tribes who opposed the white man. Only the strongest held out for long. The rest were relocated onto reservations, or were slaughtered. “You are caught between a rock and a hard place.”

“Sorry?” Beaver Tail said.

“A white saying,” Fargo explained. “It means that no matter what you do, you lose. If you tell Skagg what he wants to know, you will be up to your necks in miners and settlers and might be forced off your land. But if you don't tell him, you stand to lose your daughter and whoever else he takes hostage to try and force you to talk.”

“You understand,” Beaver Tail said in obvious relief.

Fargo stabbed a finger at him. “You should have told me all this sooner. It would have spared me a lot of pain and trouble.” To say nothing of a dip in the Untilla River.

“I sorry. But you white. I not trust you.”

“Chester Landry was white.”

“I learn trust Chester,” Beaver Tail said. “I learn trust you.” He held out his gnarled hands in appeal. “What we do? How we save Morning Dove? How we stop Skagg?”

“You leave that to me,” Fargo said. After the hell Skagg had put him through, a reckoning was due. “But it will have to wait until morning. In the meantime, I need to get some sleep.” Which was an understatement. He was bone tired. Without rest he would be of no use to anyone.

“Come,” Beaver Tail said. Rising, he ushered Fargo from the council lodge. The Untillas had not dispersed, and listened attentively as their leader talked at length. Whatever Beaver Tail said resulted in a marked change toward Fargo. Where before he had been the object of cold looks and suspicious stares, now he was lavished with warm smiles and friendly gestures.

Fargo was taken to a small lodge. The chief motioned for him to enter, saying, “We talk when sun come.”

“There won't be much to talk about,” Fargo told him. “Find me a horse and I will take care of the rest.”

“You go fight Skagg?”

“I aim to make maggot bait of him.”

“Sorry?”

“Another white expression,” Fargo elaborated. “The same as saying either him or me will not live out the week.”

Beaver Tail smiled. “I—how you say?—savvy.” He placed his hand on Fargo's shoulder. “My people happy call you friend.”

“Save your praise until it is over,” Fargo cautioned. “Skagg is no greenhorn. He will not be easy.”

“Skagg big, Skagg mean, Skagg tough,” Beaver Tail agreed. “But grizzly big, grizzly mean, grizzly tough, and grizzly die.”

“And I savvy you,” Fargo said, grinning. The old man had a point. “I will do my best.” Turning, he pushed the bear hide out of his way. Scant starlight came through the ventilation hole. The interior was mired in gloom. It took a half minute for his eyes to adjust. He was about to sit when movement hinted he was not alone. In the darkest corner someone or something had stirred.

“Who is there?” a female voice timidly asked.

“Mabel?” Fargo moved toward her. He was unprepared for what she did—namely, throw herself out of the shadows and wrap her arms around him, clinging to him as if she were drowning and he was her sole hope of staying alive.

“It's you! Thank God! I have never been so scared in my life as I have been since we parted company.” Mabel broke into low sobs.

“Did they harm you?”

Shaking her head, Mabel sniffled noisily. “No. They threw me in here and forgot about me. A woman brought food a while ago, but that was all.”

Fargo stroked her hair to comfort her. “You are safe now. The Untillas are our friends.”

“Maybe you think so but I don't,” Mabel said. “I want out of this horrid village. I want to go back to Denver. Better yet, back to the States.”

“You will live to see your family and friends again.”

“I am not so sure,” Mabel said apprehensively. “I have this awful feeling that something dreadful is going to happen, that the thread of my life will be cut short.”

“We should sit,” Fargo suggested, and eased her down beside him. He tried to pry her off his chest but she embraced him tighter. The warmth of her body and the feel of her bosom stirred thoughts better left alone. “Why don't we try to get some rest?”

“Sleep at a time like this? Are you insane?” Mabel uttered a fragile laugh. “My nerves are so on edge, I can barely think straight. I doubt I could sleep if I tried.”

“You need to relax,” Fargo said. “If you want, I can help.”

In her anxiety Mabel Landry innocently asked, “How do you go about relaxing someone?”