Northwoods Nightmare (6 page)

“Honest work has one advantage.”

“What, besides a sore back?”

“It doesn't get you hanged.”

Bucktooth laughed. “Why sweat for it when it's there for the taking?” He put his hands on his hips. “You won't believe this, but I sort of like you. It's a shame we have to buck you out in gore like the rest.”

One of the others asked, “Shouldn't we get to it?”

“And have them hear the shot below?” Bucktooth shook his head. “Use your head, Wiggins. We'll keep him here with us so when they come over that rise, they'll think we're peaceable. Let them get nice and close before we open up on them. They won't stand a prayer.”

“You think of everything,” Fargo said.

Bucktooth beamed at his friends. “Did you hear? Haven't I been saying that all along? You gents should put more trust in me.”

“All except one thing,” Fargo amended.

“Eh?” Bucktooth glanced up.” I have this all thought out. Don't tell me I don't.”

“You don't.”

Bucktooth's features hardened. “Where did I make a mistake?”

“How do I explain this?” Fargo thoughtfully scratched his chin with his left hand while easing forward another inch so his right hand brushed his Colt. “Earlier I saw a marmot—”

“Oh Lord,” Bucktooth interrupted. “Not the marmots again.”

“It was snug and safe in its burrow until a griz came along, dug it out, and ate it.”

“What does that have to do with me and my pards? We're not marmots, you dimwit.”

“But you think that because you have me covered, you're as safe as that marmot thought he was. But the grizzly got in so close, there was nothing the marmot could do.”

“You're no griz.”

“But I'm close,” Fargo said.

“So what?”

“You let me ride up, thinking I was like most anyone else. But you've made the same mistake that marmot made.”

“Lordy, if I hear one more word about marmots, I'm liable to throw a fit. But I'll humor you. Is there a point to this?”

“That marmot didn't count on something coming along that was strong enough to dig it out of the ground. And you and your lunkhead pards didn't count on someone coming along who can draw and empty his six-gun in the time it takes you to blink.”

“Oh, hell. You don't scare us none. We're not slouches ourselves,” Bucktooth said smugly.

“It's the practice,” Fargo said.

“The what?”

“More hours than you can count. More lead than would fill a Conestoga.”

“Brag and more brag,” Bucktooth said, but uncertainty tinged his tone and he glanced sharply at Fargo's holster. “Damn me. I should have taken that smoke wagon of yours right off.”

“Yes, you should have.”

One of the men covering Fargo gave a loud snort. “What the hell is this? If he so much as twitches, we'll put windows in his noggin. Just have him drop that lead chucker, and do it quick.”

Bucktooth looked Fargo in the eyes and seemed to shiver slightly. “Damn me. They say it likely as not happens when you least expect.”

“What does?” one of the others asked.

“I didn't count on dying today,” Bucktooth said rather sadly. And he went for his revolver.

Fargo drew and slammed off two shots, one for each of the men covering him. He shot them in the head so it only took one shot each, and even as they fell and the blasts had yet to echo off the surrounding slopes, he swiveled and shot the third man high in the sternum and swiveled again and pointed the Colt at Bucktooth, who only had his six-shooter half out.

Bucktooth froze, his face twisted in a sickly grimace. “Hell in a basket. You're no bluff.” His throat bobbed. “What if I raise my hands and let you turn me over to the Brits?”

“How many others have you done this to?”

“Huh? What kind of question is that? I've never counted them. Thirty or forty, I reckon. What difference does it make?”

“None at all,” Fargo said, and shot him between the eyes.

“You can't just go around shooting people whenever you feel like it,” Edith Havard complained.

“It was either that or let them shoot you.” Fargo had waited for the rest and now they were done with the burying and he was ready to ride on, but Edith insisted on bending his ear.

“Surely there was a better way to handle the situation.”

“You're right. The best way would have been to let them shoot you and
then
shoot them.”

“I'm only saying.”

“You're bitching, lady, is what you're doing.” Fargo wheeled and walked to the Ovaro. He was reaching for the saddle horn when Theodore Havard caught up with him.

“A word before you go, if you please, Mr. Fargo.”

Fargo turned. Cosmo was with Theodore and Allen had followed them but stayed well back. “Your wife had it coming.”

“Oh, it's not about her. I don't care what she does.”

“We're wasting daylight.”

“It's about Mr. Strath,” Theodore said.

“I can shoot him, too.”

“Honestly. Your attitude toward gunning down the populace is much too cavalier.”

“When someone is asking for lead to the head, I oblige.”

Theodore looked at Cosmo and then over his shoulder at his son. “We're straying from the point.” He coughed for no reason. “Mr. Strath denies he tried to steal anything.”

Fargo glanced at Cosmo, who would make a good poker player; the butler's face was a blank slate. “What did you expect?”

“My son believes a mistake has been made. He doubts very much that Mr. Strath would resort to common thievery.”

“I've said it before and I'll say it again. Your son is a jackass.” The saddle creaked as Fargo swung on. He slid his other boot into the stirrup. “As your guide I have the final say. That was one of the things you agreed to, if you'll recollect.”

“Yes, I remember. But what if you misjudged the man's intent?”

“Strath stays tied until we come across a sheriff or someone else who can take him off our hands.”

“And that's your final word?”

Fargo reined around and tapped his spurs. If they could get over the pass before nightfall, tomorrow they would have easy going for the most part. Or as easy as the rugged British Columbian mountains ever got.

Tangling with the outlaws had reminded Fargo how dangerous this country was. He rode warily, his hand nearly always on his Colt.

The British were doing what they could but the few sheriffs weren't enough to handle the scores of killers and cutthroats. There was talk, Fargo had heard, of organizing some sort of police force, but nothing had come of it.

Fargo skirted a slope littered with deadfall. Later he had to skirt another covered with talus. The climb was steep. It was the middle of the afternoon when he reached the pass and climbed down to wait for the others. From up here he could see for miles and miles, breathtaking scenery the likes of which few ever beheld.

Many folks tended to forget there was more to the world than the town or city they lived in. Buildings and streets were all they saw each day. Seeped in civilization, their lives were the same, day in and day out, year after year.

That wasn't for Fargo. He preferred the wilds. The always new. The always different. Give him the mountains and the prairies, the lakes and rivers and streams. He could only take civilization in small doses. Too much of it, and he felt suffocated and couldn't wait to head back into the wild.

Fargo sat on a boulder. The Havard party was a good ways below him. He reckoned it would take them an hour and a half to two hours to reach him. He squinted up at the sun. Plenty of daylight left. He would lead them through the pass and start down the other side of the mountain before night fell.

All things considered, it wasn't going badly. The business with Allen and Strath rankled but it was nothing to worry about. Bucktooth and company he rated as minor nuisances.

Fargo thought of Angeline, and stirred, low down. She had the kind of body a man dreamed about in the quiet hours of the night. He resented Cosmo for using that against him, but he didn't resent it too much. After all, he could have said no and told Theodore the truth.

Fargo stretched. He pushed his hat back on his head. He looked down at the ants winding slowly toward him and then sighed and turned to the Ovaro. He figured he might as well get some coffee going.

Two Indians were barely ten feet away.

Fargo stiffened and swooped his hand to his Colt. Then he saw that one of the Indians was a wrinkled old warrior with white hair and the other was a young maiden as shapely as Angeline Havard, with long raven hair and a doeskin dress decorated with beads and ribbons. They had high foreheads, high cheeks, and wide mouths. Both were armed with knives on their hips and the old warrior had a quiver and a bow slung across his back.

“It must be my day for running into people,” Fargo muttered.

The woman was studying him intently. She smiled a bit uncertainly and said in English, “We are friendly.”

“That's good to hear.” Fargo returned her smile. “So am I. Unless you're out to rob me or kill me, in which case I'm no marmot.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Fargo said. He introduced himself. “I take it you two are Knifes?”

“That is what your people call us. We call ourselves the Nlaka'pamux. I am Teit and this is my grandfather, Chelahit.”

Fargo nodded at the old man and saw that he was staring off into space; his eyes were a filmy gray, not brown as they should be. “What's wrong with him?”

“My grandfather is blind.”

Rising onto the toes of his boots, Fargo peered past them into the pass. “Where are the rest?”

“Sorry?”

“The other Nlaka'pamux.” Fargo couldn't see her and her blind grandfather traipsing around by themselves.

“Thank you,” Teit said.

“I didn't do anything.”

“You called us by our name. Most whites cannot be bothered. To them we are the Knifes, whether we want to be or not.” Teit smiled. “And there are no others. Grandfather and I are alone.”

“That's dangerous.”

“Thank you,” Teit said again.

“What the hell for?”

“For saying that. You must have a good heart for a white man. I am well pleased.”

Fargo's interest perked. But he exercised caution and took a few steps to the right so he could see to the far end of the pass and confirm her claim. The pass was empty. “What are you doing way up here by yourselves?”

“Long ago my grandfather's brother took a Nicola woman for his wife and went to live with them. My grandfather wanted to see his brother one more time before he passes to the other side, so I took him for a visit. We are on our way back to our own people.”

The Nicola, Fargo knew, were a tribe to the south. “Then you're on your way north, the same as me.”

“We heard you come up the mountain and hid. I have watched you to be sure you are friendly.”

“What made you decide I am?”

“I can tell,” Teit said. “Early this morning four white men came down the trail and we hid from them, too. They were men with bad hearts.”

“Bucktooth and his pards.”

“Sorry?” Teit said yet again.

“You were right. They had bad hearts.”

“Had?”

“I don't like having guns pointed at me.”

Teit held her grandfather's hand, brought him to the boulder, and in her own tongue bade him sit.

“Does Chelahit speak the white tongue?”

“No. He is not fond of white men. He says whites want to own the world and that is wrong, so he will have nothing to do with them.”

“You speak it well,” Fargo complimented her. “Did a Catholic missionary teach you?” Priests had been active in the region in recent years.

“Father Fouquet, yes. A kind man. A good man. I learned from him, and from others. I learned well, yes?”

“You speak it better than me.”

“I try hard to say it well,” Teit said. “I also speak some French and the tongues of two tribes besides my own.”

Fargo fished for information by remarking, “You're smart as well as good-looking. There must be a warrior somewhere lucky to call you his wife.”

“I am too busy taking care of grandfather and my father and mother to think of a husband.” Teit sighed. “My parents had me late in life. My father broke his leg in a fall five winters ago and cannot get around as he used to.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Fargo said to be polite.

“And you? Is there a woman you call your own?”

“I like all women. Tall, short. Blondes, redheads, brunettes.” Fargo paused for effect. “White. Red.”

“And women like you, I suspect. You are very handsome for a white man. It is your eyes. Looking into them is like looking into a lake.”

Fargo hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Tell you what. Since you're heading in the same direction we are, you're welcome to join us, if you'd like.”

“You can speak for all the whites below?” Teit asked with a sweep of her arm at the riders.

“They're not like the badmen you saw. I'm their guide. The man in charge is called Havard. He's up here searching for his son.”

Teit gave a slight start. “Havard, you say?”

“You've heard the name before?”

“I do not think so.”

“Theordore Havard, his wife, Edith, and their son and daughter are looking for the other son, Kenneth. Have you run across him anywhere?”