Authors: Jon Sharpe
Idaho Gold Fever (10 page)
It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was no light to guide him, not so much as a finger of campfire flame. He relied on his instincts to pinpoint the approximate area the scream came from.
The somber mountains gave way to a narrow valley so thickly chocked with timber that Fargo couldn’t see ten feet. Wary as a cat in a room full of sleeping dogs, he went a quarter of a mile. Far enough, he thought, to show he must be mistaken. He was about to rein around when an acrid odor tingled his nose.
Smoke.
Fargo sniffed. He turned his head from right to left and back again. There could be no mistake. The smoke was drifting his way from deeper in the inky valley.
The clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves were the only sounds. Although they were muffled by the carpet of pine needles, to Fargo they were thunderclaps that could be heard by hostile ears. He kept his hand on his Colt.
The acrid smoke scent grew stronger.
Up ahead a tiny red sprite flared, a flickering dervish that writhed and danced to the whispers of the wind.
A clearing spread before him.
Fargo came to a stop. At its center was the sprite, all that remained of a campfire. It didn’t cast enough light to illuminate the vague shapes and figures that littered the ground around it.
A new odor struck Fargo. Another unmistakable smell. This time it was the scent of blood. Freshly spilled blood, and a lot of it. He waited, refusing to expose himself until he was sure it was safe. After several minutes of complete silence, he kneed the Ovaro. Ever so warily, he picked his way around the sprawled figures.
Dismounting, Fargo hunkered. He puffed on the flame and it grew, revealing a nearby pile of broken sticks. He added a few and blew on the smoldering embers and soon had a fire. A small fire, a fire that wouldn’t be seen from any great distance.
It revealed a slaughter.
Five white men lay in the throes of violent death. One had his throat slit. Another had his head bashed in by a war club. A third had taken an arrow to the chest and another shaft low down in the ribs. Their end had been swift, the attack so sudden that they had not gotten off a shot. They had not been dead long. It was impossible to say which one had uttered the death scream Fargo had heard.
None had been scalped.
Their guns and knives had been taken. Packs had been torn open and the contents scattered about. Whatever did not interest their slayers had been left where it lay.
Picks and shovels and pans told Fargo what he had already guessed. The five were gold hounds. They had heard the rumors about gold in Nez Perce territory and snuck in to find it, and paid for their arrogance with the coin of their lives.
Ironically, Fargo found no proof the Nez Perce were responsible. No arrows had been left. No lances. There was nothing that would identify the killers. But this was their land and it was unlikely another tribe was to blame.
Fargo figured the attack took place about sunset, when the whites were settling in for the night and their guard was down. Believing them dead, the Nez Perce took what they wanted and rode off. But one man had lingered at death’s door for hours, voicing that scream when he finally succumbed to the reaper.
Fargo wished Lester Winston and the other farmers could see this. Maybe it would convince them to turn back before it was too late. Before the Nez Perce discovered them and drenched the soil with more blood.
Since he had the fire going, Fargo made use of it. A coffeepot had been knocked over. He righted it and put fresh coffee on to brew. He needed some to stay awake and alert. The Nez Perce were gone, so there was little danger. He wondered if it was the same war party he had been trailing.
Surrounded by bodies, the pungent smell of blood in the air, Fargo cupped the hot tin cup in his hands and savored each swallow. Warmth spread from his stomach to his limbs.
Fargo was glad to relax for a bit. He leaned back and looked at the Ovaro and saw that the pinto was staring off up the valley. Swiveling, he did the same but dark baffled his efforts to penetrate it. He raised the cup to drink more coffee.
That was when, faint but clear, a horse whinnied.
In the bat of an eye Fargo was on his feet. He upended the cup as he dashed to the Ovaro. Swinging up, he reined around and flew into the forest.
Thirty yards was enough.
Fargo came to stop, took a moment to shove his cup into a saddlebag and palmed his Colt.
It was a good ten minutes before a mounted warrior came out of the trees on the far side of the clearing and stopped. Others joined him. Fifteen in all, their faces painted. The first warrior brought his Appaloosa up next to the fire. He regarded the flames with obvious puzzlement, then glanced at each of the bodies. Another warrior said something and the first one answered.
Fargo had been wrong. The Nez Perce hadn’t left. They had gone up the valley and made camp. His rekindled fire had caught their eye and they had come to investigate.
The first warrior climbed down. He sank to one knee and lightly touched a finger to the coffeepot. Jerking it back, he stood and scanned the clearing, then said a few words that caused the rest to raise their bows and lances and begin to spread out.
“Damn it to hell,” Fargo said under his breath. They knew someone must be close by.
Fargo moved off at a slow walk, twisting at the hips so he could keep one eye on the Nez Perce. Contrary to popular belief, Indians weren’t cats. They couldn’t see any better in the dark than white men. But their ears worked just as well, and the slightest sound would bring them in a rush.
So much for some coffee and some rest.
The minutes crawled on the scales of a slow snake. Fargo’s every nerve jangled when the Ovaro stepped on a twig that crunched loudly. He was sure the warriors had heard, but they gave no sign that they did.
It took some doing but he made it to the end of the valley. Once around the mountain, he breathed easier.
The rest of the night proved uneventful.
A pink blush marked the eastern sky when Fargo at long last set eyes on the covered wagons. The camp was astir, the women making breakfast while the men prepared to get under way. Bone weary, he rode past a sentry, who didn’t say a word, and into the circle.
The farmers gathered around, eager to hear what Fargo had to say. So did most of their self-styled protectors. He didn’t make much of his escape but he did of the dead gold hunters, finishing with, “If you don’t turn back, you could end up the same. You’ve been lucky so far but no one’s luck holds forever.”
“What you call luck,” Lester Winston said, “we call the hand of providence. The Lord will watch over us.”
“Those gold hounds probably thought the same,” Fargo pointed out, but he was wasting his breath. The farmers were determined to get to the Payette River Valley, come what may.
Fargo needed sleep, needed sleep badly He mentioned it to Rachel who went and talked to her father, and Lester came over to offer Fargo the use of their wagon.
“You can tie your horse on the back. We have plenty of blankets and a quilt we spread out at night. Make yourself comfortable.”
Fargo was grateful. The creak and rattle of the wagon bed didn’t bother him a bit. Nor did the bouncing and the swaying. He drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep from which he didn’t awaken until the middle of the afternoon. Poking his head out of the blankets, he blinked in the bright sunlight that streamed in under the canvas.
“About time you woke up, mister.” Billy was sitting cross-legged, his elbows on his knees. “I’m tired of being a mouse.”
Befuddled with sleep, Fargo had no idea what the boy was talking about. “A what?”
“Ma said I had to be as quiet as a little mouse while you were sleeping or she would have Pa take a switch to me.”
“Oh.” Fargo slowly sat up. They were alone. Rachel was on the front seat with her parents.
“They say you fought Indians yesterday. Is that true?”
“I ran more than I fought.”
“But you did fight?” Billy grinned excitedly. “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to tangle with some of those red devils.”
“They’re people, like us,” Fargo said. He rubbed his chin, then jammed his hat back on.
“What kind of talk is that? Indians are savages. Everybody knows that. They kill whites every chance they get. My grandpa used to say that the only good redskin is a dead redskin.”
“Your grandpa is a jackass.”
Billy stiffened and balled his small fists. “Take that back. No one talks about Gramps like that. He was the best man I ever knew.” Billy paused. “He died a year ago. Came down sick with a cough and got worse and worse until one morning Ma sent me to wake him for breakfast and he wouldn’t answer me or move or anything. He was dead.”
“He was wrong about Indians.”
“Mister, I liked you until now. I’m not stupid. Most Indians hate us and we hate them right back.”
Fargo cast off the blankets. “I’ve lived with Indians, boy. Sure, some hate us. But a lot more don’t. A lot of tribes would rather live in peace than lift our hair.”
“Grandpa used to say we can’t trust anyone with red skin, even the friendly ones. He said they’re all heathens.”
“Do you even know what that word means?”
“I told you I’m not stupid. It means they don’t believe in God. They don’t go to church or read the Bible or anything.”
“Some do. Some convert. But most have their own religion. It’s not the same but it’s religion.”
“Our religion is better, my ma says. If redskins lived like we do, there wouldn’t be any blood spilled.”
Fargo sighed. Arguing was pointless. The boy had had hate pounded into his head from an early age, and nothing Fargo could say or do would change his outlook.
Suddenly the wagon gave a lurch. Fargo steadied himself and moved to the front. “Did you hit a log?” he joked.
Rachel squealed, “You’re awake!” and grasped his hand. “I was beginning to think you would sleep the whole day away.”
Fargo wouldn’t mind more rest but he elected to stay up. “Have I missed anything?”
“A lot of bumps,” Lester said. “Martha thought she saw some smoke to the east a while ago. I looked but didn’t see any.”
“I saw it as clear as anything,” Martha insisted. “I can’t help it if my eyes are better than his.”
“Was it campfire smoke or smoke signals?” Fargo asked.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know the difference,” Martha answered.
“Campfire smoke rises straight up. Smoke signals rise in puffs or small clouds,” Fargo explained.
“Oh. In that case it was campfire smoke. More gold hunters, I’d wager.”
Fargo hoped not. The Nez Perce were riled enough as it was. “Any chance you’ve changed your mind about the Payette River Valley?” he said to Lester.
The big farmer chuckled. “You never give up, do you? Why can’t you understand what this means to us?”
“Why can’t you understand that all of you could be massacred?” Fargo rejoined.
Lester half turned in the seat. “The Nez Perce wouldn’t dare try. We have too many men and too many guns.”
“You could have an entire regiment of troops and it wouldn’t be enough,” Fargo said.
“There you go again.”
“I’m just trying to save your hides.”
“And I appreciate that. But I think that once I’ve sat down with their chiefs for a parley, they will come to terms. We’re prepared to offer the Nez Perce a third of the crops we harvest. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“They might want something else.”
“Like what?”
“The land you’re taking from them.”
“They have so much, I doubt they will begrudge us one valley,” Lester predicted.
Fargo frowned. Once again arguing was pointless. Lester Winston had never been west of the Mississippi River, yet he thought he knew the Nez Perce better than someone who had lived on the frontier for years.
“Don’t look so glum. Be happy for us. We’re happy. Our dream is about to come true.”
“You’re a fool.”
Lester lost some of his good mood. “I’ll forgive you the slur. But don’t make a habit of it. I have the best interests of my people at heart, and we will not be denied.”
“Even if it gets you all killed?”
“Enough. We have listened to you and you have our answer. Be considerate enough to drop the subject.”
Fargo got in one last lick. “I’ll be considerate enough to bury you, too.”
11
Days of slow travel. Nights of hot passion.
That was how Skye Fargo spent the next three days. The farmers treated him as a friend. If anyone regarded his nightly “walks” with Rachel as improper, they were polite enough not to say anything. It didn’t occur to Fargo why until the third evening. He had just eaten his supper and was downing his third cup of coffee when Billy grinned at him and made a remark that explained everything.
“My sis sure will be busy at the stove, the way you stuff food down.”
“The stove?” Fargo repeated.
Billy nodded. “When you’re hitched. I heard Ma say as how she hopes you’ll ask Rachel soon.”
Fargo nearly choked on the coffee.
“Pa says you’ll make a fine son-in-law. He likes that you’re not green behind the ears. His own words.” Billy grinned. “Ma says she figures she’ll be a grandma before she can blink.”
“Hell.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you have that funny look? Are you sick or something?”
“My coffee went down the wrong pipe.”
“I’ve done that before. With milk. Once it came back out my nose. Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
Fargo should have seen it sooner. The settlers were being so nice because they expected him to do the right thing. They expected him to wed Rachel. He wondered what Rachel thought. He’d made it plain to her that he wasn’t ready to be tied down. She’d said she understood. But women could say one thing and feel another. Could well be, she secretly hoped he would change his mind and pop the question. “Damn.”
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