Northwoods Nightmare (16 page)

“What if he spots us?”

“Let's make sure he doesn't.”

Hermit came to a side street and turned into it. Fargo stopped at the corner and poked his head around. For a few moments he couldn't spot him and he wondered if Hermit had gone into a building. Then Hermit unfurled from next to a hitch rail where he had untied a mule, and after ponderously climbing on, Hermit reined the animal up the street.

“He's leaving town.”

“Damn.” Fargo let go of her hand. “Get back to the hotel and stay with your family.”

“What are you going to do?”

Fargo thought it was obvious. He made for the stable as quickly as he could, saddled the Ovaro, and was back at the side street in less than ten minutes. His hope was that Hermit wasn't in any particular hurry.

Beyond lay a slope dotted with a mix of pines and boulders. A seldom-used trail led up it.

Fargo tapped his spurs. He climbed rapidly and at the top drew rein. The trail led into the mountains, not toward the canyon. He glimpsed a rider just as the man entered timber higher up. From the size, he had to be Hermit.

For the next couple of hours Fargo played cat and mouse. He was the cat, his stalking slow and careful. To the west the sun dipped. When it was poised on the rim of the world, blazing red against a sky of pink and orange, he rode faster to narrow the gap. He didn't want to lose Hermit once dark set in. But he need not have worried.

Hermit didn't go much farther. He turned up a gully that brought them to a strip of timber, and there, hidden among the trees, stood a cabin made of logs and stone. Hermit put the mule in a pole corral. He opened the cabin door and seemed to be saying something to someone inside. Then the door closed.

Fargo slid down and tied the reins to a branch. Shucking the Henry, he cat-footed nearer. From a window came muffled voices. It sounded like several men besides Hermit were in there. Hunkering behind a trunk, he debated sneaking closer.

The sun was almost gone. The shadows had lengthened. Soon night would fall.

Light flared. A lantern or lamp had been lit. A shadow passed the window and moved back again. It was a man, pacing.

Darkness plunged the timber into gloom.

Fargo was about to drop onto his belly and crawl to the window when the cabin door opened. Out came three men. Not white men, Indians. It looked to him as if one of the warriors did most of the talking and was upset about whatever they were talking about. Finally Hermit and the warrior shook hands, and the three warriors turned to leave.

Fargo flattened. When he didn't hear footsteps, he raised his head. The three had gone past the end of the cabin and were well into the trees. He would lose them if he didn't act fast. He couldn't go after them on horseback; they were bound to hear or spot him. It had to be on foot, and he was loath to leave the Ovaro.

Fargo went to stand and froze. He was so intent on the Indians, he hadn't noticed that Hermit had come out of the cabin and was staring after them. If he stood up, the man would see him.

Hermit gazed up the stars blossoming in the sky. Spreading his big arms, he said out loud, “This would be so much easier, Lord, if people could just get along.”

What did that mean? Fargo wondered.

Hermit wasn't done. “But then, I've never had it happen to me, not like he has, so maybe I'd do the same.”

Fargo stared after the warriors, who were out of sight. He swore under his breath.

With a loud sigh, Hermit moved to go back in. He paused in the doorway. “I wish them luck,” he said, and went in.

Fargo ran to the Ovaro. He would take the chance. He searched for a quarter of an hour but the Indians were gone. He couldn't track in the dark, so he did the only thing left to him. He rode back to the cabin and drew rein out in front. “Hermit! I know you're in there.”

A bulk filled the window and a rifle muzzle was trained on him. “You! How did you find my place?”

“I asked around,” Fargo lied. “We need to talk.”

“Like hell we do. I should shoot you. I don't like people coming to my cabin unless I say they can.”

“What were those three Indians doing here?”

“You saw them? Damn, you're nosy. They're friends of mine. The Knifes and me get along real well.”

“What do they have to do with Miss Havard?”

“Who said they did?” Hermit demanded.

Something in his tone told Fargo he had guessed right. “You were bringing her to them, weren't you?”

“Don't be stupid. Anyone who turned a white woman over to the Knifes would be beat to death.”

“Then why were you bringing her here? You don't strike me as a badman. You must have a reason.”

“I want you to go, mister.”

“I can help if you'll let me.”

The rifle barrel wagged. “You don't listen very good. I gave my word to keep it a secret.” Hermit paused. “But I'll tell you this. It's all the hate that's to blame. It's the hate that kills. And since I'd rather not see any of my friends die, leave it be before you stir that hate up.”

“I don't understand.”

“I've said all I'm going to.” Hermit sighted down the barrel. “I've been reasonable, but if you don't light a shuck, I won't be. Off you go.”

Arguing was pointless. Fargo reined around and headed for Yale. The little bit he had learned left him more puzzled than ever. He had the feeling that if he didn't figure it out, blood would flow, and some of that blood might end up being his.

There was talk that the British planned to build a road between Yale and Spuzzum by blasting with dynamite. There was also talk of them building a bridge at Spuzzum for the next leg to Boston Bar.

But Fargo and his party didn't have the luxury of a road. They had to follow the narrow, winding, perilous trail that had cost a score of lives since the gold rush. It made for slow going.

It didn't help that nearly everyone was in irritable spirits. Edith wasn't speaking to Theodore and cast barbed looks at Cosmo. Allen visibly stiffened whenever Fargo rode past, as if afraid Fargo would shoot him. Angeline frowned a lot; something was bothering her. McKern kept wanting to use the stock of his Sharps on Allen's head and make Allen confess he had put Santee up to killing them. Rohan was the most cheerful of the entire party, but then he had the packhorses for companions.

Fargo kept trying to make sense of the events in Yale and had to admit to being stumped. The only conclusions he could come to were: Frst, someone was out to kill him and had tried twice, using Strath and Santee; and second, odds were that whoever sent the man called Hermit to bring Angeline to his cabin must be someone who knew her. How the three Knife Indians fit in, Fargo had no idea.

Several hours of beating his head against the problem persuaded Fargo to stop trying. He needed to keep his mind on the treacherous trail. At times it narrowed to where it was barely wide enough for a horse, and it never failed but that the trail was the most dangerous when they were moving along sheer heights, with rapids far below. They had to go slow and, once past the dangerous stretch, wait for the rest to catch up.

Fargo gave orders everyone was to stick together. The young Knifes who haunted the canyon seeking whites to slay could be anywhere.

Allen didn't like the waiting. About the fourth time, when everyone except Rohan had made it across a cliff face and Rohan was picking his way with the pack animals, Allen announced that he was sick and tired of the delays and was going on ahead alone.

“Like hell you are,” Fargo informed him.

Allen made a haughty face. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“In an arm or a leg. Then you won't be going anywhere.”

Fargo figured the matter was settled and turned to wait for Rohan. One of the packhorses was balking. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, it tried to pull loose of the lead rope. Rohan, superb handler that he was, quietly coaxed the frightened animal toward safety.

“I must admit,” Edith said, watching him, “that smelly man is quite good with horses.”

Cosmo happened to be hear her and drily remarked, “You can't judge a person by their smell.”

“Don't talk to me,” Edith said bitterly.

“I wish I could put you at ease, madam.”

“I don't want to be at ease when you're around. And you will call me ‘Mrs. Havard' and only ‘Mrs. Havard.' ”

“Honestly,” Cosmo said with an exaggerated sigh. “This constant clawing is tedious.”

“Go to hell and take my husband with you.”

Cosmo went to reply, glanced at Fargo, and frowned. “This isn't the right time or place to talk about that. But I would ask that you keep in mind we are what we are.”

“Not in your case, you mouser.”

“That applies more to ladies than to gentlemen.”

Edith appeared about to hit him. “As if either merits the distinction. How about if I call you a Molly? Or is that too ladylike for you?”

“Please don't be this way.”

“There are a lot of other words I can use. But I won't. Despite what you might think of me, I really
am
a lady.”

“Why blame me?” Cosmo asked sadly. “Your husband is a grown man and can do as he pleases. Besides, he hasn't asked for a divorce, has he?”

Edith spun around, her fists balled, her face flush with rage. “How dare you? You miserable toad!”

“Let's be civil, madam.”

“Civil?” Edith virtually shrieked. She took a step but caught herself and became aware of the stares she was getting. Fargo was nearest, and she looked at him and said sheepishly, “My apologies. It's unseemly to air dirty linen in public. It's just that I've kept it bottled up inside me for so long.” She bowed her head and walked off.

“The poor dear,” Cosmo said. “She can't for the life of her grasp how it has come to this. She makes the mistake all females do.”

“What would that be?” Fargo couldn't resist asking.

“That being female is enough. But there is so much more involved. Theodore is a perfect example.”

That reminded Fargo. “Where did he get to?” It was unusual for the pair to be separated.

“He went to look for Allen.”

Only then did Fargo realize the younger son wasn't there. Hurrying up the trail, he met the father coming the other way. “Where's your youngest?”

Theodore pointed to the north. “He refused to wait. Frankly, I don't know what got into him. I insisted he do as you advised and stay with the rest but he refused to listen.”

“Imagine that.” Fargo found McKern and told him to bring the others on once Rohan and the packhorses were safely past the cliff. Then he climbed on the Ovaro and rode as fast as the winding trail permitted. He was confident he would overtake Allen fairly quickly, but half an hour went by and there was no sign of him. Fargo almost turned back. The fool hadn't listened, so if he ran into trouble, it was his own fault. But Fargo kept riding. Like it or not, he had agreed to get them to Boston Bar.
All
of them, idiots included.

To his right rose tree-covered slopes. Across the chasm was a barren bluff that amplified the roar of the rapids drowning out the clomp of the Ovaro's heavy hooves. Fargo came to a bend. He was looking down at the foam-capped waters and didn't realize what lay beyond the turn until he was almost on top of them.

Allen Havard was on his back in the middle of the trail. His arms were flung out, his open eyes fixed on the blue vault of sky. Blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. More blood, a lot of it, had formed a pool under him. His intestines were oozing from his abdomen.

Allen had been gutted.

The five warriors who had done the gutting were the same young Knifes Fargo ran into before. They were hunkered around Allen and one was cutting at him. The warrior held up what looked to be Allen's heart in his dripping hand.

Fargo drew rein and swung down. Thanks to the roar of the rapids they hadn't heard him.

The warrior holding Allen's heart said something and the others laughed.

Fargo drew his Colt and shot the warrior in the chest. The others spun and came at him, four red wolves out for more white blood. He shot the first in the forehead. The second warrior tripped over the first, and before he could rise, Fargo shot him in the eye. A knife flew past Fargo's neck; he shot the one who threw it. That left the last warrior—the same Knife Fargo had encountered when the prospectors were killed.

“You!” the warrior exclaimed.

“Me,” Fargo said, and shot him dead. He replaced the spent cartridges, twirled the Colt into his holster, and stepped over the bodies.

Allen Havard's eyes betrayed the shock of dying. He had been stabbed twice besides the belly wound, and his tongue lolled out. The ground around him was slick with scarlet.

Fargo glanced to the south. It would be a while before the others caught up. He had plenty of time.

Finding a spot to bury the body proved harder than he expected; the ground itself was so hard he couldn't use his hands but had to resort to large rocks and a broken tree branch. A shallow grave sufficed. He covered the body with dirt and rocks and tramped on the mound.

The warriors he dragged off the trail and placed in a row with their arms folded across their chests.

Then came the waiting.

The Havards took the news about as Fargo expected. Edith swooned and, when she was brought around, burst into a flood of tears. Angeline buried her face in her hands and turned away. Theodore knelt next to the grave, his chin on his chest. Cosmo stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.