The Trailsman 317 (2 page)

Skye Fargo's hand streaked to his Colt but he did not draw.

“What are you waiting for?” Mabel anxiously demanded. She had reined up in alarm and was wide-eyed with amazement. “Shoot it!”

The bear had stopped and was regarding them with interest. It did not bare its teeth or growl or otherwise seem disposed to attack.

Fargo saw that it was a young bear, no more than two years old. It was more curious than anything else. “Sit real still and it might leave us be.”

“But it is a
bear
!” Mabel said breathlessly. “And bears kill people!”

“Grizzlies do on occasion,” Fargo quietly allowed. “But black bears hardly ever. Now hush, and don't let your horse act up.” His pinto had encountered bears before and was not prone to be skittish, but her mare was prancing, a sure sign of fright.

“Well, I never!” Mabel declared. She tugged on her reins and the mare stopped prancing. But it would not take much to send the horse racing off in panicked flight.

The black bear was tilting its head from side to side, and sniffing. It pawed the ground, its long claws leaving deep furrows.

“Please shoot it!” Mabel whispered. “Can't you see it is about to tear into us?”

Fargo saw no such thing. He was content to sit there until the bear wandered off. “Be still.”

“I will not!” Mabel Landry said. Her hand inched toward the Remington on her hip.

“What caliber is your revolver?”

Mabel's hand stopped. “Caliber? Oh. The nice man who sold it to me in Denver said it is a thirty-two. He assured me I could kill most anything with it.”

“The nice man was a liar,” Fargo enlightened her. “It is fit for rabbits and quail and might drop a man if you hit him in his vitals, but anything bigger and you might as well throw it and run.”

“You are just saying that because you don't want me to shoot this bear,” Mabel said.

“I am saying it because if you do shoot, all you are liable to do is make him mad,” Fargo cautioned. “Bear skulls are ungodly thick, and the rest is mainly muscle and fat. Even a Sharps doesn't always penetrate.”

“Unlike you, I am not afraid to try.” Mabel wrapped her slender fingers around the Remington's grips.

“Leave it be. This bear is harmless.”

“Says you,” Mabel said. “Perhaps this one isn't all that big but it could still rip my mount's belly open and then once my horse was done do the same to me, besides.”

Fargo was tired of her bickering. “You are a fool. I will see to your burial. Whatever is left of you, that is.”

Mabel scowled, but she did not unlimber her hardware. “You are just trying to scare me, like you did with Mr. Cyst and Mr. Welt. But I am not timid. I do not faint at the sight of blood, nor do I falter and run when my life is threatened.”

The black bear chose that moment to rear onto its hind legs. Still sniffing, it lumbered a step nearer.

“Oh, Lordy!” Mabel bleated, and had the Remington half out when Fargo's hand clamped on her wrist.

“I said no and I meant no.”

“Let go!” Mabel fumed, and sought to wrench free. In doing so, she wrenched too hard, lost her balance, and started to fall from her saddle.

Only Fargo's hold on her wrist kept her in place. He glanced at the black bear and hollered, “Shoo!”

Clutching at her saddle horn, Mabel urged, “You have a rifle! Use it, for heaven's sake.”

“I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty.”

That was when the black bear uttered a loud grunt, dropped onto all fours, and barreled off into the brush. Presently the crackling and snapping faded, leaving the woods uncommonly still except for the chirping of a sparrow.

Fargo let go of her wrist and rode on. He did not look back when she called his name. The drum of hooves heralded her return to his side.

“That was mean.”

“No meaner than you wanting to kill a bear that did not need killing,” Fargo said.

Mabel's green eyes studied him intently. “What kind of scout are you? I remember hearing about two of your kind who shot hundreds of buffalo in one day just to see who could kill the most.”

“Your point?” Fargo asked. Not that he cared. His interest in her, despite her obvious physical charms, was waning.

“Killing is what you do. Animals, redskins, white men, you name it. Or so I have been led to believe.”

“I take life only when I have to,” Fargo informed her. “I don't kill for the sake of killing. If that is the kind of man you want, then catch up to Cyst. He would have shot that bear just so he could make a necklace of its claws.”

“You are very strange,” Mabel Landry said.

Fargo did not reply, and thankfully she fell silent and slowed to follow along behind him. He stayed alert for signs of Cyst and Welt even though their tracks showed they had hurried on, almost as if the pair wanted to get to Skagg's Landing well ahead of him.

The sun dipped to the tops of the mountains that formed the backbone of the Sawatch Range. Soon twilight would descend. Fargo began watching for a spot to camp and chose a small clearing. Swinging down, he arched his back to relieve a cramp.

“Here?” Mabel said critically. “But there is no water.”

“The horses can go one night without,” Fargo said. “There will be plenty at Skagg's Landing.”

“I was not thinking of them. I was thinking of me. I could use a bath. I was not comfortable with the idea of taking one when I was with Mr. Cyst and Mr. Welt.”

“But you are comfortable taking one with me around?” Fargo marveled.

“I want to look my best when we arrive tomorrow,” Mabel said. “I must impress on them how earnest I am.”

“They will be more impressed by you being female,” Fargo bluntly told her. “There aren't many women there, and those there are—” He caught himself. “Well, you will find out for yourself.”

“Are you suggesting I should be concerned for my virtue?” Mabel Landry asked.

“If by that you mean someone might try to have their way with you whether you want them to or not, the answer is yes.” Fargo left her to mull his comment while he walked into the trees to gather wood for their fire. He felt little sympathy for her. She had brought whatever happened to her down on her own head by not heeding his advice. But that was the problem with Easterners. They always thought they knew better than anyone else, even those, like him, who had lived west of the Mississippi River most of their lives.

When Fargo returned he was pleasantly surprised to find she had stripped her mare. He did the same with the Ovaro, then set to work kindling a fire.

“What do you intend to cook?” Mabel asked. “You have not shot any game for our supper.”

“You can go shoot something if you want,” Fargo replied. “Me, I aim to have some pemmican.”

“I am no hunter. Cyst and Welt took care of that. I would expect you to do the same.”

“You might want to lower your expectations,” Fargo suggested. Thanks to a fire steel and flint he always kept in his saddlebags, he soon had flames crackling and giving off tendrils of smoke.

Mabel Landry's brow was puckered in thought. “You don't like me much, do you?”

“From what I can tell you have nice legs.”

Her cheeks colored. “Now see. The whole time I was with Cyst and Welt, neither ever made a comment like that. If you ask me, I am in more danger from you than I ever was from them.”

“So long as you don't traipse around naked in front of me, you should be all right.”

Mabel laughed.

Fargo replaced the fire steel and flint and took out a bundle wrapped in an old rabbit hide.

“What is pemmican? I have never had any.”

“Meat that has been rendered fine and mixed with fat and berries,” Fargo enlightened her.

“What kind of meat?”

“Buffalo. I got this from a Cheyenne woman I spent the night with. You will not taste better anywhere.” Fargo offered her a handful.

“Spent the night with?” Mabel repeated, and when he did not take her verbal bait, she frowned. She examined a piece, sniffed it, then tentatively nipped a sliver and chewed. “Not bad,” she said. “I thought it would be like jerky but it is different.”

They ate in silence for as long as Mabel Landry could contain her curiosity. Finally she coughed and said, “I realize it is none of my business, but do you spend your nights with many Indian women?”

“You are right. It is none of your business.”

“It is my understanding that most white men want nothing to do with them,” Mabel said.

“I have lived with Indians off and on,” Fargo revealed. “They are people like you and me. No better and no worse.”

“But to sleep with their women—” Mabel did not finish what she was going to say.

“A female is a female.”

“Do they do it the way we do?”

“It?” Fargo said, and was amused by how red she became.

“You know what I mean.”

“They like to do it standing on their heads. Except for Apaches, who always do it on horseback.”

“Now you are mocking me.” Mabel's brow puckered. “You certainly are peculiar. But so long as you help me find my brother, I will not hold it against you.”

“He should never have come out here.”

Mabel started to spread out her blankets. “I agree. I told him not to come. I warned him he was asking for trouble but he wouldn't listen.” She sat and wrapped her forearms around her knees. “Chester always did as he wanted, and the rest of the world be damned.”

“Why the Rockies, of all places?” Fargo wanted to know. “Why not Oregon or California?” That was where most Easterners with a hankering to live in the West went.

“Chester said they were too tame for him,” Mabel answered. “You see, ever since he was a boy, Chester has liked tales of mountain men and trappers. He read everything he could get his hands on about the likes of Kit Carson and Jim Bridger. It was his dream to become just like them.”

“The beaver trade died out long ago,” Fargo noted. “Most of the mountain men are old-timers who traded in beaver plews and stayed on when the demand died.”

“Implying my brother was misguided for following his dream,” Mabel said resentfully.

“He has gone missing, hasn't he?” Fargo said. That hushed her for all of five seconds.

“Earlier you made a few comments that suggest Skagg's Landing is no place for a lady. What is it like, exactly?”

“It is the only outpost in these parts. As far from civilization as you can get. A lot of the men there are on the run from the law. None are what you would call sociable.”

“So they won't be very friendly. Is that it?”

“To you they will be plenty friendly. They will be so friendly, you will wish you had listened to me and stayed in Denver.”

“There you go again, bringing that up,” Mabel criticized. “But I doubt it will be as bad as you make it out to be.”

“Suit yourself.” Fargo untied his bedroll and arranged his blankets, then stretched out on his back with his head cradled in his hands. The gray of twilight had given way to a multitude of stars. Off in the woods an owl hooted. Elsewhere a coyote yipped.

“I must confess,” Mabel said. “The mountains scare me a little at night. The shrieks and roars and howls keep me up late.”

“Most meat-eaters stay shy of a fire.” Fargo removed his hat and ran his hand through his thick shock of hair, then noticed that the Ovaro had raised its head and was staring to the south with its ears pricked.

“That is small comfort,” Mabel was saying. “I am aware of how vicious grizzlies can be, but I am more afraid of wolves since they travel in packs.”

“Wolves hardly ever attack people,” Fargo set her straight. “The only time I ever heard about, it was winter, and the wolves were so starved they were skin and bones.”

The Ovaro was still staring. Fargo sat up and peered into the benighted woods but saw only the dark.

“Wild beasts are wild beasts,” Mabel flatly declared. “I would as soon not end up in the belly of one.”

Fargo slid a hand to the Henry. The Ovaro looked at him and stamped a front hoof, then stared to the south again.

“What is going on between you and your horse?” Mabel asked. “Why did he just do that?”

“Something is out there,” Fargo said. Something, or someone.

“I have not heard anything.”

“His ears are better than ours.”

“For all you know it could be a raccoon or a deer,” Mabel teased. “You worry too much.”

That was when thunder boomed, and twin flashes spat hot lead.