Black Hills Badman (3 page)

“Don’t you mean
us
, my dear?”

Senator Fulton Keever was an imposing figure. Six and a half feet tall in his bare feet, he favored expensive clothes and boots with high heels so that he seemed even taller. Although only in his forties, he had hair as white as snow. His face was broad and handsome. He carried himself with dignity, his shoulders always squared, his carriage erect. Now he came up and held out his arms and his wife handed Gerty to him. “How’s my precious?”

Gerty beamed in delight, and hugged him. “I’ve had the most awful time.”

“You’re lucky Mr. Fargo was able to find you.”

“It was him that made it awful. I didn’t want to come back but he made me.”

“He was doing his job.”

“But he called me names and threatened to hit me.” Gerty smacked her father on the shoulder. “Do something. Punish him. Have him whipped or something.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Senator Keever said. “I’d be voted out of office at the next election.”

“You won’t have him beaten for me?” Gerty let her resentment show. “I bet you’re scared. He wears a gun and you don’t so you won’t do anything to make him mad.”

“Gertrude!” Rebecca exclaimed.

“What else can it be?” Gerty said coldly. “Father always does what I ask.
Always
. Except get rid of that awful Fargo, and get rid of you.”

Rebecca recoiled as if she had been slapped. “Gertrude Priscilla Keever, that will be enough. I’m your mother and you will treat me with the respect I deserve.”

“There are mothers and there are mothers.”

Fargo wondered what she meant by that. Were she his kid, he’d introduce her backside to his belt. Some people claimed that was crude and uncivilized, something “only a heathen Indian would do,” as one man put it. Ironically, most Indians never hit their children. They believed it did lasting harm.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” Rebecca was saying. “Well, I don’t. For running off like that, you’ll help the cook wash dishes the next three days. And you will be under your blankets by ten at night.”

Gerty pressed against her father. “Wash dishes? Me? I’ve never washed a dish in my life.”

“Fulton, tell her,” Rebecca said.

“Ahh, now.” Senator Keever pecked Gerty on the forehead and lowered her to the ground. “I don’t think we have to go quite that far.”

“What?”

“You heard me, my dear. She’s young yet. Children her age like to explore. Yes, she strayed too far, and yes, Mr. Fargo had to go find her. But really, now. Must we punish the girl for acting her age? I say no. I say we should be thankful she’s safe, and let it go.”

The hurt in Rebecca’s eyes said more than words ever could.

Senator Keever patted Gerty on the head. “There now. All’s well that ends well. Why don’t you run along and play and we’ll call you when supper is ready?”

Gerty pointed at Fargo. “What about him?”

“I’ve already said I’m not having him whipped. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. When we return to civilization, I’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires. A new dress, a new hat, a new pony since you’re no longer fond of your old one. How does that sound?”

“I guess that’s all right,” Gerty said reluctantly.

They walked off and Fargo turned to tend to the Ovaro.

“Wait,” Rebecca said, coming closer. “I want to thank you for what you did. How you found her so fast, I’ll never know.”

“I was lucky.”

Rebecca had a lovely smile. “You’re much too modest. My husband might not appreciate you but I do.”

Fargo wondered how he should take that.

Gazing after Fulton and Gerty, Rebecca sighed. “I try to rear her right. I truly do. But you saw how he is. He spoils her. He spoils her terribly. Anything she wants, all she has to do is say so. It’s been like that since she learned to talk.”

Fargo was puzzled by why she was telling him this. “Your family squabbles are none of my concern, ma’am.”

“True. But in this instance it’s more than a squabble. You’ve made an enemy, Mr. Fargo.”

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t tremble in my boots.”

“Don’t take her lightly, I warn you. She’s a shark, that one. And she never forgets or forgives a slight.”

“She’s thirteen years old.”

“So? Just because she’s a child doesn’t mean she won’t figure out a way to get back at you.” Rebecca leaned so close she was practically breathing on his neck. “Let me tell you a story. Back home we had a gardener, a most wonderful man. Kindly. Thoughtful. You couldn’t ask for better. One day he caught Gerty cutting some of my roses. She had found his shears.”

Fargo had little interest in her tale but he patiently waited for her to finish while roving his gaze from her neck to her toes, admiring her full bosom and the sweep of her thighs.

“He took them from her and scolded her, and do you know what she did? She kicked him in the shins. Without thinking, he slapped her.” Rebecca was whispering now. “Gerty ran to Fulton and had the poor man fired.”

“She’s a firebrand,” Fargo said dryly.

“There’s more. The gardener was devastated. He’d worked for us for years. He begged to keep his job. He pleaded. Fulton might have given in if not for Gerty.”

“And?” Fargo prompted when she didn’t go on.

“The gardener went to collect his things. Everyone thought he left the estate. But the next morning a maid found him out by the roses with the pruning shears sticking out of his chest.”

Fargo looked at her. “How did it happen?”

“It was ruled an accident. That he tripped and fell on the shears as he was about to hang them on a nail. But between you and me, that just won’t wash. He was always careful with his tools.”

“Are you saying Gerty did it?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Someone did. No one else had a motive. So watch your back from here on out. Watch it very closely.”

The black bear lumbered along in search of food. It was following its nose, as bears always did. It had no idea it was being watched.

The broken country was ideal for game. Bear and deer were plentiful. So were antelope but they were hard to spot and a lot harder to shoot. The wariest critters on God’s green earth, was how an old-timer once described them. Fargo agreed.

“What do you think? Do you want to take a shot or not?”

Senator Fulton Keever was studying the bear through a spyglass. “It’s a big one, Mr. Owen. I’ll grant you that. But I’m after trophies. I want a head I can hang on my wall and boast about to my colleagues.”

Fargo frowned. He’d spent the better part of an hour tracking that bear. Most hunters would rate it more than big enough.

“I suppose I could use it for practice.” Senator Keever held the spyglass out to Lem Owen and Owen took it and handed Keever his hunting rifle.

Fargo saw no need for Owen to be there but the senator wanted him along. One of Owen’s pards came too, a weasel called Lichen. Skinny and sallow, Lichen wore a broad-bladed knife high in a brown leather sheath, and carried a Sharps. He had the habit of chewing on blades of grass.

The senator had nearly a dozen rifles. No hunter needed that many but Keever was putting money in Fargo’s poke so Fargo didn’t say anything. The rifle Keever was holding at the moment was a British model made by a well-known Brit gunsmith named Joseph Whitworth. Around the campfire one evening, the senator had mentioned that Whitworth’s guns were highly sought after. “They cost more than most people earn in a year.” Keever had stroked the rifle, which he was cleaning at the time. “He custom-made this to my specifications. With it I can shoot a bee out of the air at a hundred yards.”

Fargo doubted that. But he was impressed by the thin tube attached to the top of the barrel. It was a spyglass in itself, enabling the shooter to see an animal as clearly as if he were standing next to it.

Now, Keever raised the rifle to his shoulder.

“Hold on.”

Keever glanced up. “Is something the matter, Mr. Fargo?”

“That bear has as much right to go on breathing as you or me. If all you want is practice, shoot a tree.”

“Are you serious?”

“If you did shoot it, then what?” Fargo asked.

The senator’s brow puckered. “I’m not quite sure I understand. I’ll shoot it and it will be dead. What more is there?”

“You’ll just leave it there for the buzzards and the coyotes?”

Keever acted considerably surprised. “I must say, I never expected this from you, of all people. You have a reputation for being not only a fine tracker but a superb hunter in your own right. How can you be so squeamish over killing a bear?”

“The game I shoot, I use. I eat the meat. Sometimes I cure the hides and sell or trade them.”

“That’s what is bothering you? An issue easily solved. We’ll butcher the bear and pack the meat to camp. Would that make you happy?”

Lem Owen snorted. “That’s an awful lot of bother to go to, if you ask me. If I were in charge, Senator, I’d let you kill whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“That’d decent of you. But Mr. Fargo is, and it would please me greatly if you would remember that.”

“Your choice. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be the wrong one.”

Fargo turned. This wasn’t the first time Owen had implied he could do a better job as guide. “I don’t get many complaints.”

“You’re making a fuss over a lousy bear.”

“Too bad there’s not a couple of hundred so you can shoot them like you did all those buffalo.”

Owen chuckled. “There must be a million of the damn things. I could have dropped them all day and all night and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“It would to the Indians who rely on the herds to live.”

Owen’s eyes widened. “Listen to yourself. Who in hell cares what redskins think? You know, I’d heard you were an Injun lover. But I never figured you for stupid.”

Fargo hit him, a solid right cross to the jaw that knocked Owen against Lichen. Both men stumbled, and Owen would have fallen if Lichen hadn’t caught him and held him up.

“What on earth!” Senator Keever exclaimed.

Owen shook himself and put a hand to his chin. Then, swearing, he clawed for the Remington revolver on his hip.

In the blink of an eye Fargo’s Colt was up and out. They all heard the click of the hammer being thumbed back.

Owen turned to stone. His throat bobbed, and he said, “Hold on, now, hoss. There’s no call to blow out my wick.”

“Take your hand off your revolver.”

Forcing a crooked grin, Owen obeyed. “I wouldn’t really have drawn on you. I was mad, is all, you slugging me like that.”

“When you go around insulting people that’s what happens.” Fargo let down the hammer and twirled the Colt into his holster.

Senator Keever stood. “Enough of this. I hired the two of you and I expect you to get along. Mr. Fargo, I’ve noticed that you’re not overly fond of Mr. Owen. Mr. Owen, I’m aware that you don’t think highly of Mr. Fargo. Whatever the cause of this silliness, either behave like adults or leave my employ.”

“I’m all for getting along with folks,” Owen said.

Fargo almost laughed in his face. Owen was the kind to smile while stabbing a person in the back. If ever there was such a thing as a human sidewinder, Lem Owen filled the bill.

“Mr. Fargo?” the senator prompted.

“What?”

“Your turn. Do you agree to get along with Mr. Owen for the duration of our hunt?”

“So long as he doesn’t insult me, we’ll get along fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Keever said curtly. “I want your word that you will be on your best behavior.”

“I’ll do as I damn well please.” Fargo took a step and poked Owen in the chest. “And so long as I’m guiding this outfit, I don’t want any more guff out of you.”

“Or what? You’d cut me loose in Sioux country? That’s not very white of you.”

Fargo almost hit him a second time.

“If word got out that you abandoned a white man in the Black Hills, there’s not a soul alive who would hire you.”

Senator Keever was staring in the direction of the black bear. “Look at what your bickering has done. You’ve made me lose my shot. The bear has gone into cover. We’ll have to follow it in.”

Up ahead, an isolated bluff was fringed by woodland. The undergrowth was particularly thick. Somewhere in there was their quarry.

They climbed on their mounts and rode to within fifty yards of the woods. Fargo dismounted, saying, “I’ll come with you, Senator. Owen and Lichen will watch the horses.” The Sioux were as fond of stealing horses as they were of counting coup.

“It’ll take forever to flush that bear with just the two of you,” Owen objected.

“An excellent point,” Senator Keever agreed. “You may tag along. But remember what I said about behaving.”

Fargo shucked his Henry from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.

Owen had a .58 caliber rifle made by Parker, Snow and Company. They were supposedly accurate as could be but were single-shot.

The senator was wiping dust from his Whitworth. “Shall we bait the beast, gentlemen?” He grinned and made for the trees.

“We should stick together,” Fargo proposed. For two reasons. First, he wanted Owen where he could see him; rumor had it that Owen wasn’t above shooting people he disliked in the back. Second, he had yet to take the senator’s measure as a hunter. Keever might have nerves of iron—or he might be prone to panic if the bear charged.

“Whatever for?” was the senator’s reply. “We’re all of us armed, and good shots. We can cover more ground by separating.” As he spoke he bore to the right. “Good luck.”

Owen bore to the left.

Leaving Fargo to stop and stare after them in mild frustration. Since arguing was pointless, he shrugged and made for the bluff.

That was the thing with guide work. Sometimes those he guided had enough sense to listen. Others were jackasses and did as they pleased, and often as not paid a high price for their folly.