Idaho Gold Fever (16 page)

“Why us?” Perkins said. “Why not Stern or Larson or some of the others?”

“Because I picked you,” Victor Gore said ominously. “And I don’t like being challenged.”

Slag said, “I don’t mind going. It beats digging out ore.”

They ignored Fargo. He tried working his wrists back and forth to create slack but the rope was too tight. Arching his back, he slid his hands to his boots and pried at the knots. They wouldn’t give. He was so intent on freeing himself that he didn’t hear someone come over. But he saw the shadow that fell across him and felt excruciating pain in his ribs.

“What did I tell you?” Victor Gore said. “I should kill you where you lie but I might have need of you.”

Grimacing, Fargo spat out, “Oh?”

“On the off chance you were telling the truth. The army won’t dare do anything so long as I have you.”

“Use me as a hostage? It won’t work.”

“You place too little value on your hide. You’re a famous scout. They won’t want anything to happen to you.” Gore walked off.

Fargo eased onto his other side to spare his aching ribs. He hated to admit it, but he was helpless. All he could do was lie there. The minutes dragged and became hours.

Gore hadn’t forgotten about him. Every so often, he glanced over.

His ear to the ground, Fargo heard the rumble of hooves before anyone else. Perkins, alone, came flying back up the canyon and vaulted from his mount before the animal came to a stop. “It’s not the army! It’s Injuns! Rinson and Slag are keeping an eye on them while I came back to let you know.”

“Are they Nez Perce?” Victor Gore asked.

“Hell, I wouldn’t know a Nez Perce from a Blackfoot. One redskin looks pretty much the same as any other.”

“How many? And more to the point, were they wearing war paint?”

“I should say they were,” Perkins confirmed. “I counted seventeen but I might have missed a few.”

“How far off are they?”

“A mile, maybe a mile and a half. They were holding some kind of powwow.”

“Damn,” Gore said. “This complicates things. But we needn’t pull out. Not until we have every last ounce of gold.”

“We’re taking an awful chance,” Larson said.

Gore gestured at the burlap sacks. “But well worth it. Or would you rather spend the rest of your life miserably poor?” He began to pace. “At the rate we’re digging, if we stick at it all day and all night, we should have most of the gold out by tomorrow morning. Agreed?”

Someone said, “Yes.”

“Then all we need to do is keep the war party busy until then. Once we’ve loaded the gold on the wagons and disposed of the farmers, we can hightail it out of here.”

“By ‘busy’ you mean attack them?” Stern asked.

“Are you insane? No. I aim to distract them another way.” Gore glanced at Fargo, and grinned. “Yes, sir. I believe we can give them something to do that will keep them out of our hair. We’ll give them a gift, as it were.”

Fargo didn’t like the sound of that.

“I don’t savvy,” Larson said.

“You will.”

Gore crooked a finger at Perkins and they moved out of earshot. Whatever Gore said made Perkins cackle. As Perkins ran up the canyon to do Gore’s bidding, Gore came back, and hunkered.

“This will be our last talk. I want to thank you for showing up when you did. And for telling me about the war party you saw.”

“I didn’t see one,” Fargo confessed.

Gore laughed and slapped his thigh. “Then the joke’s on you, isn’t it? How fitting. The army will never learn what became of you. All they will know is that you rode off into the wilds to do their bidding and were never heard from again.” He chuckled. “Any kin you want me to send word to?”

“Your true nature is showing.”

“I have put on a bit of an act, haven’t I? And I’ve done quite well, if I do say so myself.”

Fargo almost told him he had lied about the army, too. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

“True,” Gore agreed. “Every moment we stay, we’re in mortal peril. But my prospects are a lot rosier than yours.”

“You’re really going to do it? Kill all those women and children?”

“What are they to me? It’s no different than drowning a litter of puppies you don’t want.”

“You hide it well,” Fargo said.

Gore sobered, and frowned. “Save your insults. None of us are perfect. Except for Martha Winston.” He snickered.

“When your turn comes I hope you die screaming.”

“Now, now. Is that any way to talk to someone who has arranged a special surprise for you?”

“What kind of surprise?”

“Let me put it this way.” Victor Gore glowed with sadistic glee. “You’ll die screaming a lot sooner than I will.”

“This spot will do,” Rinson said.

Draped belly down over a horse, Fargo could see gray tendrils rising from the forest canopy half a mile away. Jostled by the ride, his side sore from rubbing against the saddle horn, he didn’t pay attention when the others dismounted and paid for his neglect when rough hands seized his legs and upended him. He tried to absorb the force of the fall by twisting so he hit with his shoulders but he only partially succeeded. A kick compounded the pain.

“That was for all the trouble you’ve caused us,” Perkins said gleefully.

Slag chuckled. “Kick him again. Kick him so hard, you stave his ribs in.”

“None of that,” Rinson said. “We need him alive to keep the redskins busy, remember?”

“A few busted ribs won’t kill him,” Slag said. “He’ll still be breathing when they find him.”

“No,” Rinson snapped. “Gore told us how he wants it done and that’s how we’ll do it.”

Perkins remarked, “I can’t get over how you let him boss us around.”

“He didn’t have to cut us in but he did. For that we should be grateful.”

“More for us if he’s worm food.”

“God, you’re a greedy bastard,” Rinson said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I gave my word and shook on it.”

“Since when does that count? We’ve always looked out for us and no one else. If you ask me, we don’t owe Gore a thing.”

“I didn’t ask you. Now get to gathering the firewood so we can get the hell out of here.”

Fargo was perplexed. It was foolhardy to make a fire so close to the war party. But Slag and Perkins hurried into the trees and shortly returned with their arms laden with broken limbs and kindling. They heaped it in a pile, and Slag rummaged in his saddlebags and produced a fire steel and flint.

“Any last words?” Rinson taunted.

“I expect to be around a good long while yet.”

“Do you, now?” Rinson laughed. “Bold talk for an hombre who won’t see the dawn.” He slowly drew his Remington and just as slowly thumbed back the hammer. “Are you sure you don’t have any last words?”

“You wouldn’t let Perkins bust my ribs but you’re fixing to shoot me?” Fargo shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Rinson waggled the Remington. “Oh, this isn’t for you.”

Slag was puffing lightly on a tiny flame so it would grow.

“I wish we could see what they do to him,” Perkins said. “I saw a soldier once after the Sioux got done with him. The things they did you wouldn’t believe. It must have taken him hours to die.”

“You almost sound as if you admire them,” Rinson said.

“I admire anyone who is good at what they do. And when it comes to carving on people, redskins have us whites beat all hollow.”

Slag stopped puffing. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it now. You’re not right in your head.”

The flames were spreading. Smoke coiled up into the sky, growing thicker by the moment.

“I get it,” Fargo said. “You’re hoping the war party will spot the smoke and come find me.”

“Oh, they’ll spot it, all right,” Rinson said. Raising the Remington, he fired three shots into the air, one right after the other. “We’re close enough; they’re bound to hear that.”

Pleased with themselves, the three cutthroats climbed on their mounts and reined around. Rinson gave a little wave. “I’ll think of them cutting on you while I’m having my way with that filly you’ve been poking.”

They cackled and were gone.

Bending his back into a bow, Fargo sought to slide his fingers into his boot. The rope thwarted him. He pried at the knot, pried so hard he thought his fingernails would tear off, to no avail.

Every second counted. The warriors were bound to have seen the smoke by now. They would come on warily, though, suspicious of a trick, and that would slow them some.

Fargo figured he had five minutes, if that. There was no way in hell he could free himself before the warriors got there. They would find him bound and helpless, exactly as Victor Gore wanted.

Crackling from the fire sparked an idea.

Quickly turning so his back was to the flames, Fargo wriggled backward. The heat was excruciating, and got worse. Gritting his teeth, he looked over his shoulder and thrust his wrists into the fire. He tried to burn the rope and only the rope but it was impossible. His sleeves were soon ablaze, and the smell of his burning flesh filled the air. He stood it as long as he could. Then, uttering a low groan, he jerked his arms from the flames and rolled back and forth on his back to smother them.

Bunching his shoulders, Fargo exerted all his strength. But all he succeeded in doing was dig the rope deeper into his wrists. He tried again, exerting every sinew in his arms and shoulders, and felt himself grow red in the face. But once again the rope refused to break.

Fargo was sure the flames had weakened it. Again his muscles bulged. If he failed this time, he would stick his boots in the fire and try to burn the rope around his ankles before his feet were charred and useless.

A
snap
threw Fargo off balance. Although his hands and wrists were welters of pain, he rolled over and set to work on his ankles. Untying the knots now was easy.

Fargo started to stand. A whinny off in the underbrush warned him the warriors were almost there.

Fargo ran. He made it into the woods and threw himself to the ground just as the first warrior appeared—a Nez Perce with a bow, an arrow nocked. The warrior drew rein and gazed about. Presently he was joined by others, until fully twenty painted warriors were trying to make sense of the shots and the untended fire.

Fargo reckoned they would spread out and search for sign. In which case they were bound to find the tracks of the shod horses, and would follow them to the canyon. But to his consternation, the warriors just sat there, talking. Not one climbed down to examine the ground.

Then another Nez Perce arrived. Why he came so late, Fargo couldn’t say. But it was Winter Wolf. The others stopped talking and patiently waited while the old warrior did what they should have done. Dismounting, Winter Wolf walked in ever widening circles, his aged form bent. Finally he said something that excited the rest.

Fargo wished he could see the expression on Victor Gore’s face when the Nez Perce blocked the mouth of the canyon and fired down on the white invaders from the canyon rim. The whites had rifles but the Indians had numbers.

Winter Wolf straightened. He spoke and the others listened. His horse was brought. Raising an arm, he uttered a sharp cry and led the war party in the direction Rinson, Perkins and Slag had gone.

Fargo smiled. It would serve Victor Gore and the so-called protectors right if they were wiped out.

When the last of the Nez Perce had melted into the greenery, Fargo cautiously stood. Only when he was convinced they were gone did he walk to the fire. What now? he wondered. He was unarmed and on foot and miles from the valley and the settlers. He broke into a jog.

The swatch of broken undergrowth made by the Nez Perce enabled Fargo to travel faster than he otherwise could. He prided himself on his ability to run long distances without tiring, and now that ability was put to the test.

Fargo was about halfway to the canyon when the unexpected occurred. The trail veered to the east. His first thought was that Rinson realized they were being chased and sought to lead the war party away from Gore and the gold. But as Fargo moved about reading sign, he discovered a track that changed his thinking. It was a human footprint. A boot print. He soon found others. Three sets, in all. And all three pointed toward the canyon.

It wasn’t hard to figure out. Rinson, Perkins and Slag had dismounted and given their animals slaps on the rump. Then they set out on foot for the canyon. The Nez Perce, eager to overtake them, saw where the horse tracks led on east and didn’t bother to stop. The warriors were chasing riderless mounts.

Fargo pushed on. When he was within sight of the canyon, he drew back into the trees and hurried to where he had left the Ovaro. Shock stopped him dead in midstride.

The pinto was gone.

Once again Fargo searched for sign. He worried that the Nez Perce were to blame, in which case recovering the pinto might prove impossible. But no, boot prints showed where a white man had led the stallion off.

But now a new mystery presented itself.

Fargo figured one of Gore’s men found it and took it into the canyon. But no. The tracks led
away
. Fargo followed them and came to a spot where another man and two horses had been waiting. The pair climbed on and rode off, taking the Ovaro with them.

“What the hell?” Fargo said out loud. If Gore and his men weren’t to blame, then who was?

Fargo could push on after the pinto, or he could pay Gore and company a visit and help himself to one of their animals. He liked that idea, and bent his steps toward the canyon.

A mount wasn’t his only reason. They had taken his Colt and Henry, and he wanted the rifle and six-shooter back. Some might argue that one gun was as good as any other, but that wasn’t true. When a man was used to a gun, it became part of him. He was better with it than with any other. Fargo had used his Colt for so long, he would feel awkward using any other.