Idaho Gold Fever (3 page)

“I had to give up all I knew. I may never see my friends again. Or my aunts and uncles and cousins. Or Grandma and Grandpa.” Rachel gazed at the shadowed woods on the slopes above the valley. “Now here we are, in the middle of nowhere with hostiles and outlaws as thick as fleas, or so they say. No, I’m not happy about it. I’d rather be in Ohio.”

“Not me,” Billy declared. “Out here there are grizzlies and mountain lions and timber wolves.”

“What’s so wonderful about that?” Rachel asked. “In Ohio we didn’t have to worry. I’d rather be safe than end up in some animal’s belly.”

“That’s because you’re a girl.” Billy turned to Fargo. “How about you, mister? Where would you rather be?”

“In a saloon drinking whiskey and playing cards.”

Rachel tilted her head. “Do a lot of that, do you?”

“Every chance I get,” Fargo admitted. He admired how her bosom swelled against her dress and the outline of her thighs, and a familiar hunger stirred. He was content to go on admiring her but someone in another wagon shouted something about riders coming, and Fargo spotted Slag and Perkins tearing hell-bent for leather toward the wagons. From the way they kept glancing over their shoulders, it gave the impression they were being chased. But no one came out of the woods after them.

At a bellow from Rinson the covered wagons were brought to a halt. Lester Winston and the other farmers, armed with rifles and shotguns, jumped down.

Slag and Perkins brought their lathered mounts to a halt and were promptly surrounded, with everyone asking questions at once. Rinson silenced them with another bellow.

“Let these two talk, damn it. We can’t find out what happened with all of you lunkheads jabbering at once.”

“I won’t tell you again about your language,” Lester said. “You keep forgetting there are women and children present.”

“Oh, hell.” Rinson motioned at Slag and Perkins. “Out with it. What brought you back on the run?”

“Injuns,” Slag said grimly.

“A war party,” Perkins said. “Must be thirty or more.”

Another commotion broke out, with the farmers voicing their opinions of Indians in general, and concern for their families. Once again Rinson had to quiet them before he could quiz Slag and Perkins.

“Did they attack you? Did they try to lift your hair?”

Perkins shook his head. “My momma didn’t raise no jackass. As soon as we spotted them, we lit a shuck.”

“That’s all that happened?”

“Go to hell,” Perkins said. “We weren’t about to stick around and be skinned alive, or worse. There ain’t a white cuss in this world I’m afraid of, but those red devils are a whole different critter.”

Fargo almost laughed out loud. This was the man Slag claimed would make a good Comanche or Apache? Perkins was right in one respect. There was a big difference between him and most Indians. Few Indians were cowards.

Slag was saying, “When he lit out, I did the same. I don’t think the redskins saw us, but they might have.”

“And followed you back to us?” Rinson said in some disgust.

All eyes swung toward the woods. Rifles and shotguns were raised and a few hammers clicked.

“I wish Victor Gore was here,” Rinson said. “But since he’s not, it’s up to us to deal with this.” He shifted toward Fargo. “How about it, mister? Didn’t I hear you were a scout? You must know more about Injuns than any of us.”

“A little.” Fargo wasn’t about to tell them he had lived with several tribes at various times.

A farmer named Harvey nervously cleared his throat. “Are we in any danger? Should we circle the wagons to protect our families?”

“It depends on the tribe,” Fargo answered. “The Shoshones and the Flatheads are friendly. The Blackfeet and the Nez Perce aren’t.”

“Which do you think it is?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro on past them and made for the greenery. No one called out for him to stop. None of the farmers jumped on a horse and came along. He looked back when he reached the tree line. They were still there, watching. Lester Winston waved.

Fargo set to work backtracking Slag and Perkins. It wasn’t hard. They had crashed through the brush like buffalo gone amok. He rode with his hand on his Colt, every sense alert.

The trees were mostly white pine, with here and there some fir and spruce. Higher up Fargo came on ranks of lodgepole pines and ponderosa. The brush consisted mostly of dogwood. Elderberry and occasional thimble-berry helped break the monotony.

Half a mile of cautious riding brought Fargo to the base of a steep slope. Only partially wooded, it didn’t offer enough cover to suit him so he reined to the left and circled until he came to a strip of vegetation that ran clear to the top.

With a light jab of his spurs, Fargo started up. He had gone only a short way when he realized how quiet it was. The birds had stopped warbling and the trees were deathly still. It was unnatural. Drawing rein, he scoured the heights. He must be careful not to ride into an ambush.

Fargo hoped it wasn’t the Nez Perce. Years back the tribe had been friendly, but then whites heard rumors of gold on Nez Perce land, and now hardly a month went by without word of yet another clash between Nez Perce warriors and the gold-hungry invaders. The Nez Perce had made it known they wouldn’t tolerate more intrusions. Open war threatened to break out.

Off to the left a twig snapped.

Instantly, Fargo whipped around, palming his Colt as he turned. The woods were undisturbed save for a bee that buzzed within an arm’s length of the Ovaro and caused the pinto to prick its ears and nicker.

Fargo had a decision to make. Should he go on or should he go back? He reminded himself that he was under no obligation to the settlers. The man who hired him was interested only in his missing kin.

To the right a bush rustled ever so slightly.

From the rear came a whisper of movement.

Fargo kept on riding. They had him surrounded, and if he made a break for it, they would be on him before he went ten yards. He willed himself to relax so he wouldn’t give away that he knew, but it was hard; at any moment he expected an arrow between his shoulder blades or a lance in his chest. He looked for a spot to make a stand but there weren’t any that suited him.

A low limb brushed the crown of his hat. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and as he did the limb bounced up and down. Since he hadn’t bumped it that hard, something else made it bounce. Belatedly, he went to look up. Just as a heavy form slammed into his back, muscular arms banded his chest, and he was bodily torn from the saddle.

The ground swept toward his head.

Fargo twisted to absorb the fall on his shoulder. He still hit hard, what with the weight of the warrior on his back. The world swam and fireflies flickered before his eyes. He felt hands on his wrists. Other hands shifted him to get at his holster. His head abruptly cleared and he looked up into a ring of unfriendly faces. They were Nez Perce. “Damn.”

Four young warriors and an older one ringed him. Fargo tried to rise and discovered his wrists were tied. “Do any of you speak the white man’s tongue?” he asked.

None of them answered.

Fargo was lucky in one respect. They weren’t wearing war paint, which told him they were a hunting party, not a war party. Evidently they were tracking Slag and Perkins when he came along. “I’m not your enemy.”

The warriors went on staring.

Like most tribes, the Nez Perce favored buckskins. Although they lived in the mountains, they often traveled to the plains after buffalo, and lived much as the plains tribes did. They were famed for their horse breeding. The Appaloosas they raised were highly sought after. Bigger and heavier than most Indian mounts, Appaloosas were noted for their stamina, and were as sure-footed as mountain goats. Fargo got to see five of the famous horses for himself when one of the young warriors went off into the trees and came back leading them.

“You’re taking me somewhere,” Fargo said, relieved they weren’t going to kill him outright. Then he switched to their tongue. He wasn’t as fluent in it as he was in some other tongues, but he knew enough to say, “I am friend.”

That got their attention. They studied him anew. The old one leaned down, looked him right in the eyes, and said in English, “No white man friend to Nimi’ipuu.”

“So you speak the white tongue,” Fargo said.

“Missionaries,” the old warrior replied. His craggy face was seamed by age and experience, and his hair, which hung in braids, was streaked with gray.

Fargo grunted. Priests and ministers had been trying to convert the Indians for years. Not just the Nez Perce, but every tribe on the frontier. Men of the cloth had even gone to the Blackfeet, those implacable haters of white ways, and managed to convert some. When Fargo heard that, he couldn’t believe it. “The missionaries were friends to the Nez Perce. I am a friend, too,” he tried again.

“You not missionary.”

“The Crows call me He Who Walks Many Trails,” Fargo said. “I am their friend.” He mentioned the Crows for a reason; they were on good terms with the Nez Perce, and the two often visited one another.

The old warrior touched his chest. “I be Wilupup Hemeen.”

“Winter Wolf?” Fargo translated.

“We take you our village. Sit in council. Could be you live. Could be you not live.”

Fargo had to submit to being hauled to his feet and swung onto the Ovaro. Winter Wolf took the reins and climbed on his Appaloosa. The other warriors followed.

“Mind if we talk?”

“Talk when at village.”

Fargo sighed. He’d met a few Nez Perce in his travels. He hoped he would run across one of them when they got there. “There was a time when the Nez Perce treated whites as brothers.”

Winter Wolf glanced back. “You not listen.”

“I don’t want your people to make a mistake,” Fargo said. “Harm me and the bluecoats will come. There will be war between the Nez Perce and the white man.” He was exaggerating. It was unlikely the United States government would go to that extreme over the death of one man.

“We maybe take warpath anyway,” Winter Wolf said. “All whites like you. They not listen. We tell stay away. But more whites come. And more and more and more.”

“After gold. Yes, I know all about it. But I’m not in your land for that reason.”

“All whites hungry for yellow rock,” Winter Wolf said gruffly. “They try take our land. We not let them.”

“I don’t blame you. I would fight the whites, too, if I was a Nez Perce. But only the whites who were after gold.”

To his surprise, Winter Wolf chuckled. “You think I dumb but I not dumb.”

“I never said any such thing.”

“How I know you not after gold? How I know you not speak with two tongues?”

“I could be lying, yes,” Fargo admitted. “You have to take my word that I’m not.”

Winter Wolf chuckled again. “Take word of a white man? You, how you say, funny.”

The old warrior fell silent. Fargo tried to draw him out but Winter Wolf had apparently said all he was going to. They rode along until about sunset when they came to a small clearing near a stream. The warriors climbed down and two of the younger ones none too gently pulled him from the saddle.

“We’re camping for the night?” Fargo asked. He tried to sound as if it didn’t mean anything to him, when in fact the prospect of escape was being handed to him on a double-edged platter.

“We reach village in three sleeps,” Winter Wolf disclosed.

Fargo was thrown onto his side next to the fire a warrior was kindling. Rising on an elbow, he saw two of the younger ones go off into the trees with their bows to hunt. That whittled the odds but he wasn’t about to do anything in broad daylight. Patience was called for.

The hunters returned with a doe, which was promptly butchered. The Nez Perce roasted their meat but they weren’t finicky about how well done it was. Fargo’s mouth watered and his belly growled but no one offered a piece to him. Finally he said, “My belly is empty. I sure could use some of that venison.”

His mouth dripping, Winter Wolf said, “Good for you not eat. Maybe you listen better.”

“Is this what you call Nez Perce hospitality?”

“It what I call smart,” Winter Wolf said, and laughed.

Fargo sank onto his side and closed his eyes. He wanted them to think he was resigned to his fate. He listened to them talk, catching snatches of words here and there, enough to glean that the Nez Perce were on the brink of open hostilities with the whites. There had been clashes between gold seekers and warriors, and blood was spilled.

A young warrior made a comment to the effect that the gold hunters weren’t the only ones the Nez Perce had to be concerned about. Some whites wanted to till the soil and build wooden lodges, as the warrior called cabins. The Nez Perce weren’t going to allow that, either.

Fargo immediately thought of the wagon train. Sooner or later the Nez Perce were bound to come across it. Then again, the tribe laid claim to a large territory encompassing thousands of square miles, and they couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was entirely possible Winston’s bunch would have their cabins built before the Nez Perce discovered them. Either way, the outcome wasn’t in doubt. The farmers would be wiped out.

A sliver of moon had been up several hours when Winter Wolf and his companions turned in. But first Winter Wolf came over and checked that Fargo’s wrists were still tied. He also bound Fargo’s ankles.

Fargo had a few anxious moments as Winter Wolf looped the rope around his boots. But the old warrior didn’t think to slip a hand inside them to check for hidden weapons. Fargo’s Arkansas stayed snug in its sheath. “I’m sorry we can’t be friends,” he remarked.

Winter Wolf had stood and turned but he stopped. “You white. I red. White and red fight. White and red kill.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”