Range War (9781101559215)

by Cherryh, C. J.

  Fargo took to thinking about Delicia and the ten kisses he’d earned. He grinned in anticipation—and suddenly became aware of movement on the slope above. He was close to the west edge of the valley, only a few yards from the tree line, and he saw . . . something . . . dart from behind a pine tree and around a thicket.

  Drawing rein, Fargo palmed the Colt. He’d had only a glimpse but he was sure it wasn’t a deer or an elk. It was too low to the ground. “I wonder,” he said, and reined into the trees. There was a chance it might be the creature that killed Ramon and the others. Cocking his Colt, he warily approached the thicket.

  The Ovaro didn’t shy or whinny. He found out why when he rounded the thicket and a coyote lit off up the mountain. He didn’t shoot it. Coyotes were seldom a threat. Not long ago he’d been tied to a tree by an enemy and several coyotes had tried to eat him but that was a special circumstance.

  Fargo twirled the Colt into his holster and resumed his ride. The sun was halfway gone. It didn’t worry him that the wolf or dog or whatever it was might soon be abroad. Shorty’s experience suggested it was gun-shy.

  If he had any sense, Fargo told himself, he’d be on his way to Dallas. He had no stake in the sheepmen/cattlemen war shaping up. He should make himself scarce and let them do as they will.

  But there was Delicia.

  Fargo envisioned her eyes and those long legs of hers and felt a twitch below his belt. He’d be the first to admit that women were his weakness. He liked bedding them more than he liked just about anything. Give him a willing filly, and a bottle or three of whiskey, and he was as content as a man could be.

  Fargo smacked his lips. He wouldn’t mind a drink right about now.

  In the forest above, a twig snapped.

  Once again Fargo brought the stallion to a halt. He scanned the woods but saw nothing. He was about to raise the reins when an uneasy feeling came over him, a feeling he sometimes had when unseen eyes were watching. He sat and waited but except for a pair of sparrows flitting gaily about, the woodland was still.

  As a precaution Fargo reined away from the tree line until he was a hundred yards out. Then he continued to the north. His unease persisted. It could be that whatever was up in the trees was shadowing him. Then again, how did he know it was a what and not a who? He wondered if one of the cowboys was keeping an eye on him.

  Before long, the sun sank. The blue sky changed to gray and then black, and a sparkling legion of stars blossomed.

  The fires and the lights in the sheepherder camp came into view.

  Fargo thought again of Delicia, of the two of them alone in a wagon, of him pressing her warm body to his and—

  The Ovaro whinnied.

  Fargo swore. It was damned careless to let his attention lapse. He looked around but saw no cause for the stallion’s agitation.

  Smoke was curling from the stovepipes in the wagons. Others were doing their cooking over the campfires. Large pots hung on tripods and women were stirring the concoctions.

  A boy spotted Fargo and yelled.

  Once again the sheepherders converged. This time Porfiro was one of the first to reach him and when he raised an arm, the rest stopped.

  “You came back. I thought we might have seen the last of you.”

  Fargo glanced at Delicia, who blushed. “I gave my word. I relayed your message.”

  “What did the cowboys say?”

  Fargo gave it to them straight. “As soon as more of them show up they’re driving you out.”

  Heated outbursts resulted. Curses were heaped on the punchers.

  “Let them try!” Carlos cried. “They have more guns but we have right on our side.”

  “Big help that will be,” Fargo said.

  Delicia put her hands on her hips. “You mock our will to fight for what is ours?”

  “You can’t fight bullets with good intentions,” Fargo said. “The bullets win every time.”

  “Did they say when they will come for us?” Porfiro asked.

  “They don’t have a set date,” Fargo said. “It depends on when their big augur shows up.”

  “Their what?” a man asked.

  “Ben Trask, the rancher they work for.” Fargo alighted and grinned at Delicia. “Miss me?”

  “Not even a little bit.” She whirled and stalked off, her dress swirling about her long legs.

  “That granddaughter of mine has fire in her veins,” Porfiro said, smiling.

  “She’s isn’t the only one,” Carlos declared. He came past Porfiro and poked Fargo in the chest. “Stay away from my sister, gringo, if you know what is good for you.”

  “And if I don’t?” Fargo said.

  Carlos placed his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Three guesses,” he said.

  7

  Porfiro let Fargo add the Ovaro to the string. Fargo stripped his saddle and saddle blanket and bridle off and slid them under Porfiro’s wagon. The bottom was a good three feet off the ground so there was plenty of room.

  By the time he strolled back to the fires and the cooking pots, the sheepherders were eating and drinking. Despite the news he’d brought, they were in good spirits. There was a lot of good-natured joking and laughing. They were close-knit, these people, and he admired them for that.

  He heard his name called.

  Porfiro was seated near a pot on a tripod. The old woman from earlier was stirring the contents with a large wooden spoon. She scowled as Fargo came over.

  “I don’t believe I have introduced you,” Porfiro said. “This is the love of my life, Constanza.”

  “How do you do, ma’am,” Fargo said.

  “I was perfectly fine until the cowboys came,” Constanza said. “Why can’t your kind leave us alone?”

  “Don’t start,” Porfiro said.

  Constanza wagged the dripping spoon at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. This man knows how much our valley means to me.”

  Fargo accepted a cup of coffee from Porfiro. “I can’t speak for all whites, ma’am. Can you speak for all sheepherders?”

  “All those here I can, yes,” Constanza said. She resumed her stirring. “I am afraid, Senor Fargo. I fear for my people. Your gringos are too quick to anger and too quick to pull the trigger.”

  Fargo squatted and drank; the coffee had a chicory taste. “It’s too bad there’s not any law handy.” The nearest town was hundreds of miles away. As for the army, patrols never came this far.

  “We would not go to them in any event,” Porfiro said with a suggestion of pride. “We handle our own difficulties.”

  “Between the perro galgo terrible and the Texas vaqueros, our lives are filled with strife,” Constanza said sorrowfully.

  “Is that what your people call that thing? The Terrible Hound?”

  “Or just the Hound.” Constanza looked at him. “You didn’t see it at the cowboy camp?”

  “They don’t have a dog,” Fargo said. “Whatever that thing is, it’s been killing their cattle and tried to jump one of them. They thought it was your doing until I told them about the three of you it’s killed.”

  “They lied,” Constanza said. “It has to be theirs.”

  Porfiro stirred. “Can we talk about something else for once? I would like to relax and enjoy myself.”

  “Have you so soon forgotten Ramon? And the others?” Constanza chided.

  “You know better, woman.” Porfiro refilled his cup. To Fargo he said, “She is bitter, my wife. And I can’t blame her.”

  “Ramon. Pedro. And poor sweet Angelita. She was only ten years old, and a joy to all.” A tear trickled down Constanza’s wrinkled cheek.

  “Wait,” Fargo said. “That hound or whatever the hell it is killed a little girl?”

  “Angelita was the first,” Porfiro said, his expression now as sad as his wife’s. “A beautiful child. She always smiled. She was always so full of life.”

  “Si,” Constanza softly echoed. “And now she is gone, killed by the beast those vaqueros deny having.”

&nb
sp; “It was the night after Angelita was slain that we first heard the howls,” Porfiro mentioned. “They have chilled my blood ever since.”

  Fargo thought of Dallas, and the dove who was waiting, and sighed. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Senor?”

  “I’ll hunt this thing down and kill it. It might take me a while but I’m a damn good tracker, if I say so myself.”

  “You would do this for us?”

  Constanza turned from her pot. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Do I have to have a reason?”

  “What do you want in return?”

  “Yes,” said a voice behind Fargo, and Delicia came around and regarded him with the same suspicion. “What do you want in return?”

  Fargo grinned. “A good start would be those ten kisses you owe me.”

  “I’m serious,” Delicia said.

  “So am I.”

  “We can pay you,” Porfiro offered. “We aren’t rich but between all of us I think I can collect almost a hundred dollars. Would that be enough?”

  “Did I ask for money?”

  “No one does something for nothing,” Constanza said. “And a gringo, most especially, would not do a kindness for us out of the goodness of his heart. So I ask you again, senor. Why do you do this?”

  “I don’t much like the notion of little girls having their throats ripped out.”

  “That is all there is to it?”

  “Constanza!” Porfiro exclaimed.

  “That is all there is to it,” Fargo said. But he was staring at Delicia.

  8

  After their evening meal the shepherds sat around their fires talking and relaxing. A small group had joined Porfiro, Constanza, Delicia and Carlos around theirs.

  For a while no one paid much attention to Fargo, or if they looked his way, it was with open distrust. But when Porfiro mentioned that Fargo had offered to hunt the Terrible Hound, as they called it, they began to warm to him.

  The turning point came when a small girl in a plain dress came over after Porfiro’s announcement and stood in front of him with her small hands folded. “Es cerito, Senor Fargo?”

  “Si,” Fargo confirmed.

  “I would like that. Angelita was my very best friend.”

  “Yoana, here, and Angelita were born only weeks apart,” Porfiro said. “They grew up together and were rarely apart.”

  “You will kill the Hound, senor?” Yoana asked.

  “I’ll try my damnedest.”

  “Senor,” Constanza scolded.

  “Kill it,” Yoana said in grim earnest, and placed a hand on Fargo’s knee. “Kill it for Angelita and kill it for me.”

  “I’ll try,” Fargo said again.

  “My madre and padre will not let me tend the sheep until it is dead. They are afraid it will do to me as it did to poor Angelita.”

  “You can’t blame them.”

  “I miss the sheep,” Yoana said. “I miss sitting in the sun and watching over them. I miss it very much.”

  Fargo drank some coffee.

  “I am afraid, senor,” Yoana went on. “I am afraid of the Hound and I am afraid of the vaqueros. Life was good before they came. I was happy.” She lowered her arm. “If you kill the Hound I will be happy again.”

  “What about the cowboys?” Fargo asked. “Do you want them dead, too?”

  “Oh, no, senor. They are people, like us. I wish they would go but I do not wish them dead.”

  Several adults nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll do what I can for all of you,” Fargo heard himself saying.

  From then on he was accepted. Not fully by some, though. Carlos and a few others were constantly casting looks that could kill.

  About ten o’clock the little ones were trundled off to their wagons for bed. A lot of the mothers stayed with them so that it was mostly men and a few females left around the campfires.

  Someone else had been casting looks at Fargo all night: Delicia. Her looks weren’t laced with hate. They were looks Fargo had seen before, and they secretly made him smile.

  About eleven, five sheepherders came out of the dark on horseback and five others climbed on and went out to replace them on night watch. All five were armed, three with old rifles and two with old Colt Dragoon revolvers. That was the extent of the sheepherders’ armory.

  “Normally we would not take guns or use horses,” Porfiro mentioned. “But with the Hound . . .” He stopped and gestured.

  Not a minute later the valley pealed to a bray so fierce that it prickled the short hairs at the nape of Fargo’s neck.

  “El perro terrible,” a woman said, and crossed herself.

  Fargo stood. “Reckon I’ll go for a little ride,” he announced.

  Porfiro rose, too, and said, “It would be pointless for you to go after it now.”

  “I might get lucky,” Fargo said. Truth was, all that coffee had him wide awake. An hour or two in the saddle and he’d be ready to turn in.

  “Hermanos Valley is big, senor,” Porfiro said. “For you to be lucky, as you say, would be like—” He paused. “What is that expression? Ah, yes. Like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “It’s worth trying.” Fargo went to Porfiro’s wagon, reclaimed his saddle blanket from underneath, and was smoothing it on the Ovaro when footsteps came up behind him.

  “I wish you would rethink this, senor,” Delicia said softly.

  Fargo inhaled her musky scent as he turned. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  Delicia averted her gaze. “I don’t. I just don’t want you dead on our account.”

  “Don’t take up poker,” Fargo said.

  “Senor?”

  “You don’t lie well. Your face gives you away.”

  Her lips compressed and her eyes flashed. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t,” Fargo said, and kissed her on the mouth, a light, fleeting brush of his lips across hers.

  Delicia didn’t start or slap him. As calm as could be, she asked, “And what was that for?”

  “The first of the ten you promised. Nine more to go.” Fargo leaned toward her but she placed her hand on his chest.

  “I get to choose when and where.”

  Fargo gestured at the well of ink around them. “What’s wrong with here and now?”

  “Someone might see.”

  “There’s no one else around.” Fargo grinned. “Admit it. You’re scared.”

  “Of you, senor?” Delicia said, and uttered a forced laughed. “Why would I be scared of you?”

  “Because you’re afraid you might like it.”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  Delicia wheeled to go but Fargo took her by the shoulders, spun her around, and kissed her again, harder this time, his mouth lingering. Once again she didn’t resist. But neither did she respond. When he pulled back, she smiled smugly.

  “Was that what you call a kiss, senor? I would call it a brotherly peck.”

  “Would you, now?” Fargo said, and molded his body to hers.

  He kissed her with ardor, his right hand roaming down her back to cup her bottom and his left cupping her breast. Her body yielded and her tongue brushed his mouth. He was about to cup her other breast when the night was rent by a savage howl that seemed to come from only a few yards away—and a child screamed.

  9

  Delicia pushed away, exclaiming in horror, “The Hound is in our camp!”

  Not in it but close by, as Fargo learned when he slicked his Colt, grabbed her wrist, and ran around the wagon. Everyone had leaped to their feet and the men were brandishing knives. Mothers poked their heads out of wagons to fearfully ask if the beast had slain another of them.

  A ferocious bray focused all eyes on a patch of blackness to the west.

  Fargo found himself standing near Porfiro.

  “The Hound is close, senor. The closest it has ever come.”

  “And all our guns are with the men watching our sheep,
” someone lamented.

  “I’m still here,” Fargo said.

  “Do something,” a woman urged, “before it attacks and some of us die.”

  Fargo doubted that any carnivore short of a grizzly would dare come closer to so many campfires. He ran to the Ovaro and saddled it anyway. It took a bit, and when he returned, Porfiro and a knot of men were at the edge of the circle of light.

  As Fargo drew rein the old man said, “We heard it growl, there.” And he pointed.

  “Build up the fires,” Fargo suggested, “and don’t let anyone stray off.”

  “No one would be that foolish, senor,” Porfiro said.

  Delicia ran up clutching a burning brand. “Here.” She held it up. “You will need something to see by.”

  Fargo thanked her. Holding it aloft, he rode at a walk into the maw of night. A tiny voice railed at him for putting himself in peril. He didn’t owe these people anything. He should light a shuck. Instead, he rode on, moving the torch back and forth.

  The Ovaro nickered at the same instant that Fargo spied a pair of gleaming eyes. Big eyes, like those the night before.

  He drew rein and raised the Colt.

  The eyes disappeared.

  “Not this time,” Fargo said, and used his spurs. The glow of the torch washed over a long shape flowing low to the ground away from him. He rode faster, the flames flickering and dancing.

  The Hound, if that is what it was, went faster, too.

  It was making for the timber, Fargo realized, and if it reached the trees it stood a good chance of getting away. He was so intent on overtaking it that he didn’t give much attention to the torch.

  Suddenly a gust of wind caused it to sputter and nearly go out.

  Fargo swore and slowed.

  The shape pulled ahead and was soon lost in the pitch.

  In frustration Fargo fired two swift shots. He doubted he hit it. He kept riding in the hope that the thing would circle back and try to jump him.

  He had covered a quarter of a mile when hooves thudded and a pair of riders swept out of the west.

  Fargo recognized them as two of the sheepherders who had ridden off earlier. Both were young and had mustaches. One carried a Sharps rifle, the other a Colt Dragoon.