Authors: C. J. Cherryh

Range War (9781101559215) (13 page)

BOOK: Range War (9781101559215)

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“He is young and always thinks he knows best,” Porfiro said.

“He would listen to me,” Constanza insisted. “That boy worships the ground I walk on.”

Must be nice, Fargo almost said. Instead, he gripped the saddle horn and swung back onto the Ovaro. “I'll go have a look.”

“You won't be back until after midnight,” Porfiro said, “and we must get an early start tomorrow.”

“Don't you care about your grandson?” Constanza demanded. “If the gringo wants to go, let him.”

“What good can he do in the dark?” Porfiro argued.

The matter was decided by a savage bray from out of the woods to the east of the camp. The horses did as the Bar T animals had done, and acted up.

“The Hound is after our mounts!” a sheepherder cried.

Fargo gigged the Ovaro. While the men calmed their animals, he rode back and forth between the trees and the string. He yearned for a shot, just one clear shot, but the creature was too clever to show itself.

The string quieted, and in a while Fargo drew rein. He was sitting there when Delicia's hand found his boot.

“A word, if you please,” she said quietly.

Fargo didn't take his eyes off the benighted vegetation. “I'm listening.”

“Carlos is my brother and I care for him even though he can be obnoxious at times.”

“And?” Fargo prompted when she stopped.

“I care for you, too. Stay the night and go look for him in the morning. It is too dangerous to go off by yourself.”

Fargo had no real hankering to go. He felt he should only because he'd taken their horses. And in the dark he couldn't do much other than shout their names. As he was debating, two men with rifles were posted to stand guard and Porfiro ushered the rest of his people back to the fires.

“You haven't answered me,” Delicia said.

Fargo swung down to talk it overâand Constanza was in front of him.

“What do you think you are doing? Climb back on and go find my grandson.”

“I have convinced him to do it in the morning, Grandmother,” Delicia said.

“Now.” Constanza poked Fargo in the chest. “I warn you. If he comes to harm because of you, I will kill you myself.”

“Abuela!”
Delicia exclaimed.

“I will,” Constanza said, and stormed off.

“I'm sorry,” Delicia said. “She has never been shy in expressing her sentiments. But I do not think she would really kill you.”

Fargo wasn't so certain. He stripped the stallion and carried his saddle and bedroll to the wagon, slid them under, and bent to slide under himself.

“Turning in so early?” Delicia asked.

“It's been a long day,” Fargo said. And he'd gotten little sleep the night before.

“I was thinking you and I might go for a walk.”

Fargo couldn't believe he was about to say what he was about to say. “Not tonight.”

Her disappointment as plain as her lovely nose, Delicia pouted and said, “I guess you're right. My grandmother is mad enough as it is.” She turned away and glanced over her shoulder. “But there is always tomorrow night.”

Undoing his bedroll, Fargo spread his blankets, propped his saddle behind him, and laid back. All that he had been through, and he hadn't accomplished much. The cowboys and the sheepherders were still at odds. Then there was the Hound or whatever it was, still out there, killing to its heart's content.

Fargo closed his eyes and pulled his hat brim down. He should be grateful for the truce, he supposed, but it was only temporary. Once the Hound was dead, all hell was liable to break loose.

As if to taunt him, an eerie howl pierced the night to the south. The creature was paying the Texans and their cows a visit.

Fargo marveled at how swiftly it had gotten from the north end of the valley to the south end. He hoped the cowboys got a shot at it. He didn't care who killed it, just so it was dead.

He thought about the dogs the thing had killed, and how the hunch he had might not be so crazy, after all. Before he could ponder further, he was sucked into the void of sleep.

The cowboys came up the valley riding two abreast with Ben Trask and Griff Wexler at their head. The morning sun glinted off their cartridges and belt buckles and hardware. From a distance they could pass for an army patrol.

“Hay tantos,”
Porfiro said. “There are so many.”

“We can't trust them, Grandfather,” Carlos said.

The hothead and his friends had turned up in the middle of the night. It took them so long to get back because Carlos had sprained his ankle and couldn't bear to put weight on it. He'd cut a tree limb for a crutch and was using it now.

“You will behave,” Porfiro said. “I will only warn you once.”

The sheepherders had been talking excitedly but they fell silent and fidgeted and cast anxious glances at one another as the Texans approached.

“How do we know they will not exterminate us where we stand?” Constanza said.

“Trask gave his word,” Fargo said.

Constanza mimicked spitting on the ground. “The word of a gringo. What is it worth?”

“A man like Trask,” Fargo replied, “his word is everything.”

“I don't trust any of you Anglos as far as I can throw you.”

“I'm shocked,” Fargo said.

The rancher brought his men to a stop. “Folks,” he said simply, and stayed on his horse.

Porfiro walked over and held out his hand. “Mr. Trask,
yo soy, el lÃder aqui
.”

“Say that in white talk,” Trask said gruffly.

“I am the leader here. On behalf of my people, I welcome you and your vaqueros, and thank you for your help.”

“We're not here for your benefit,” Trask said. “We're here because I don't like losin' cows to man nor beast.”

“Still, you came. Why not climb down? We have made extra coffee and have food.”

“I wouldn't eat sheep if I was starvin',” Trask said. “Mutton is the worst meat there is.”

“Have you ever had any, senor?” Porfiro asked.

“Hell no.”

“We have other food besides meat. There are frijoles. Tortillas. And more. All of it good, I promise you.”

“No is no,” Trask said.

“Very well,” Porfiro said. “Then at least let us welcome you in traditional fashion.” He clapped his hands and half a dozen children stepped forward. Four were girls, holding flowers.

Yoana stepped up and held her flowers aloft. “For you, senor.”

“It won't work,” Trask said to Porfiro.

“Senor?”

“Usin' your kids to get at me.” Trask motioned at Yoana. “I don't want the damn flowers, girl.”

“It is to thank you, senor,” Yoana said, “for helping to hunt the animal that killed my friend, Angelita.”

Trask glowered at Fargo. “Was this your idea? Tell them they're wastin' their breath. I'll do what I have to when the time comes.”

“I had no part in it,” Fargo said.

“That is true, Senor Trask,” Porfiro said. “Please. Yoana and the others will be most upset if you do not accept their gifts.”

Trask started to swear and caught himself. His jaw muscles twitching, he bent down. “Hand 'em over girl. But it doesn't make us friends.”

“Would you like to see Angelita's grave?” Yoana asked.

“Why should I bother? She's nothin' to me.”

“She was my best friend, senor,” Yoana said sadly. “The Hound tore her throat out.”

“Damn you for this,” Trask said to Porfiro.

“Senor?”

Trask looked at the flowers in his hand. He made as if to cast them down, then glanced at Yoana. Reaching behind him, he opened a saddlebag, carefully placed the flowers inside, and closed it. “We'll get the thing that did it, girl. Your friend can rest easy.”

“I would rather Angelita was alive, senor,” Yoana said. “We had such good times. She made me laugh a lot.”

“My own girls made me smile when they were little,” Trask said. “They're pretty near full grown now.”

“And they don't make you smile anymore?” Yoana asked.

Trask's throat bobbed and he nodded, once. “Yes, girl, they do.” Suddenly straightening, he barked at Porfiro, “Enough jawin'. Let's get this hunt started.”

Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and reined it next to the rancher. “You handled that well.”

“I should shoot the son of a bitch.”

“He didn't do it to win you over.”

“The hell he didn't,” Trask said. “And we're done talkin' about it.”

“Why don't you leave Mr. Trask be?” Griff Wexler said.

“Say the word, Mr. Trask,” Shorty said. “We'll show these sheep lovers how we feel about 'em.”

“No one lifts a finger unless I say so,” Trask commanded.

“Of course, boss,” Griff said.

Trask turned to Fargo. “You've hunted this animal. You've seen it, you said. Where do you suggest we start lookin'?”

“It could be anywhere,” Fargo said. “We only hear it at night so at first I thought it lays up during the day. But then it killed those sheep and cows in broad daylight.”

“Wolves like high up,” Trask mentioned. “They dig dens ten, fifteen feet long. Even I know that much.”

“It's not a wolf.”

“So you keep sayin'. But that wasn't no dog we heard. So I ask you again. What the hell is it?”

“If I knew that,” Fargo said, “I'd be a happy man.” He remembered his last thoughts before he fell asleep, and he mentioned, “The first thing it did was kill their dogs.”

“What was that?” Trask said.

“It killed their dogs before it went after their sheep and your cows.”

“All the dogs at once?”

“I didn't think to ask.” Fargo looked over at where Porfiro was climbing onto his horse and called his name. “Those dogs of yours?”

“Senor?”

“Did the Hound kill all of them on the same night?”

“Oh, no, senor. It was over the course of a week or so. One at a time.”

“Damn,” Trask said.

“How's that matter?” Griff Wexler asked.

“It's important as hell,” Trask said.

Skye Fargo agreed.

They split into a dozen groups and fanned out in all directions.

Fargo was with four men: Carlos, Shorty and two other cowboys, Billy-Bob and Hank. Trask had told Shorty and the other two to go with him, and then Porfiro came over and asked if he'd be willing to keep an eye on Carlos.

So here they were. It was the middle of the morning and they were high on a mountain to the east of the valley. He called a halt in a meadow to rest their horses. As they climbed down, Carlos started in.

“So tell me gringo,” he said to Shorty, “what gives you the right to lord it over us?”

“Watch that mouth of yours, boy,” Shorty said, “or me and my pards will close it.”

The young puncher called Billy-Bob chuckled. “Looks to me as if someone has already pounded on him somethin' awful.”

“That was me,” Fargo said. “And none of you are laying a hand on anyone else.”

“Says you,” Shorty said. “The boss told us to ride with you. He didn't say take your orders.”

“Then we might as well get it settled.” Fargo didn't like to show off but he had to put them in their place now or it would only get worse. He faced the three cowboys. “Whenever you're ready, draw.”

“Say again?” Hank said.

“Fill your hands,” Fargo said.

Shorty chuckled. “Are you loco? You want us to throw down on you?”

“If you can.”

“Listen to him,” Billy-Bob said. “Mister, I should warn you. I'm one of the fastest on the Bar T. I don't mean to brag but it's a fact.”

“Shot a lot of men, have you?”

“Well, no,” Billy-Bob said. “Not any, actually. But I'm still fast as hell.”

“He's greased lightnin',” Shorty said.

“Then you'll do,” Fargo said. “Go for that hogleg any time you want.”

“You
are
loco,” Billy-Bob said, and his hand stabbed for his revolver.

Fargo had his Colt out and the hammer back before the cowboy began to draw.

Billy-Bob froze. “Jesus God Almighty.”

“Whoo-eee,” Hank blurted in awe. “I didn't see his hand move.”

“It don't mean nothin',” Shorty said.

Fargo let down the hammer. He twirled the Colt forward and twirled it backward and did a flip and caught it and smoothly twirled it into his holster. “I don't want any trouble from anyone.” He stared at Carlos. “That includes you.”

“I will do as I please, gringo.”

“Your face isn't swollen enough?”

Carlos' eyes became slits of hate. Wheeling on his heel, he stalked off.

The cowboys were staring at Fargo's Colt.

“Where'd you learn to handle a six-shooter like that?” Hank asked.

“Practice,” Fargo said. Many an evening on the trail, he'd amuse himself with pistol tricks and practicing his draw to where it became as natural as breathing.

“You could have gunned me without half tryin',” Billy-Bob said.

“Worth keeping in mind,” Fargo noted.

“You're awful uppity,” Shorty said. “And don't think I've forgot you killed two of our own.”

“I've been all through that with your boss.”

BOOK: Range War (9781101559215)

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