“Count me out,” Hank said.
Billy-Bob shook his head. “Count me out, too. I’m sorry, Shorty, but I won’t cross Mr. Trask.”
“Fine,” Shorty snapped. “Be yellow, then.” He sidled to the left, his eyes glittering. “You have it to do,” he said to Fargo.
“Kill him, senor!” Carlos cried.
“Shut up, greaser,” Shorty growled, not taking his gaze from Fargo.
“Shorty, please,” Hank said.
“It’s not worth it,” Billy-Bob urged.
“Weak sisters, the both of you,” Shorty insulted them. His body went rigid. “How about you, scout? Nothin’ to say before we get to it?”
“Die if you want to,” Fargo said.
Shorty went for his six-shooter.
32
Fargo had gone out of his way to avoid trouble. But he was done avoiding. There was only so much stupid he would abide. He drew and his Colt was out and up before Shorty cleared leather. He shot Shorty in the shoulder and the cowboy spun half around but didn’t go down. Cursing, Shorty did a border shift, flipping his six-gun to his other hand.
“Don’t,” Fargo said.
Shorty didn’t listen. He raised the revolver to take better aim.
Fargo shot him again. The slug smashed into Shorty’s gut, folding Shorty in half and knocking the breath out of him. Shorty staggered, dropped his smoke wagon, and clasped his hands to his belly.
“I’m hit, boys.”
Fargo cocked the Colt and leveled it at Billy-Bob and Hank.
“No sir,” Hank said, holding up his hands. “I want no part of this.”
“Shorty shouldn’t of drawn on you,” Billy-Bob said. “Mr. Trask said we’re not to give you trouble.”
“Cut Carlos down,” Fargo commanded. He eased the hammer on his Colt but kept the Colt in his hand and swung down and went over to Shorty, who had collapsed on his side.
Shorty’s mouth was clenched and blood was streaming from between his fingers.
“Damn you,” Fargo said.
Shorty sputtered and said, “I couldn’t help it. I hate woollies. I hate those who raise them.”
“Sheep aren’t worth dying over,” Fargo said.
Shorty coughed and groaned and said to Hank, “Tell Mr. Trask it wasn’t Fargo’s fault. It was me.”
Hank nodded, and his throat bobbed.
Billy-Bob got Carlos down.
Casting the rope aside, Carlos came over and sneered at Shorty.
“Serves you right, gringo, for being so stupid.”
“You should talk,” Fargo said.
“He’s a pig. All gringos are pigs. I will spit on him when he dies.”
“You do,” Fargo said, “and you’ll be gumming your food the rest of your life.”
“You don’t scare me,” Carlos declared.
Fargo cocked the Colt again and with a quick motion pressed the muzzle to Carlos’ forehead. “Don’t I?”
Carlos gulped, and glowered, and backed away. “You’d do it, too. You like to squeeze the trigger, don’t you?”
“I like to shoot jackasses,” Fargo said. “Which puts you at the top of the list.”
“Go to hell,” Carlos spat, and turning, he walked toward the horses.
“I wish you’d plugged him,” Hank said.
“I still might before this is done. What brought this on?”
“Oh,” Billy-Bob said. “We were followin’ you and Shorty took it into his head to cut the sheepherder off. The sheepherder called him names and Shorty called him names and one thing led to another and Shorty roped him and hung him by his heels.”
“Everyone forgot about the animals we’re after?”
“I reckon we did,” Hank said sheepishly.
“There’s no shortage of idiots in this world,” Fargo said in disgust.
Shorty did more coughing and gazed at the sky. “I don’t want to die.”
“Who does?” Fargo said.
“What was I thinkin’?”
Fargo almost said, “You weren’t,” but he held his anger in check. “I can try to dig the slug out.”
“No need,” Shorty said. “I can feel myself fadin’.”
Fargo holstered his Colt. Belly wounds, as he well knew, were unpredictable. Sometimes the victim lasted for days, sometimes they went fast.
“I wonder,” Shorty said, “if I’ll see the pearly gates.”
“Remember to be polite to any angels you meet,” Hank said. “They’re the ones with wings.”
“Send my war bag and my poke to my brother,” Shorty requested. He closed his eyes and his cheek sank to the grass. “I’m near to death, boys.”
“God damn you, Shorty,” Billy-Bob said.
Carlos had climbed on his horse and was smiling in sadistic delight.
“Fargo?” Shorty said.
“I’m here.”
“Want to hear somethin’ funny? I never shot anyone my whole life. Never had to. You’re the first one I tried to buck out in gore.”
“You should have picked someone slower.”
Shorty grinned, and coughed, and quaked from his hat to his boots. “I never was too smart.” He sucked in a deep breath, and died.
“Well now,” Hank said. “He went out nice.”
Fargo looked at him.
“He did,” Hank said. “He didn’t blubber or whine or nothin’.”
“I might do me some blubberin’ when I die,” Billy-Bob said, “lessen I go quick.”
“Let’s get to the burying,” Fargo directed. He found a downed branch, the punchers did the same, and working together they dug a shallow grave. Hank stripped Shorty of his valuables and gun belt and they wrapped him in a blanket and lowered the body into the hole.
“Anyone want to say anythin’?” Billy-Bob asked.
“I’m not much for quotin’ Scripture,” Hank said. “All I know is ‘thou shalt not kill’ and ‘do unto others.’”
Both of them looked at Fargo.
“Do I look like a parson?” Fargo said. “But you want words? How about these.” He paused. “May Shorty rest in peace. He was loyal to the brand and he loved cows.”
“That’s beautiful,” Hank said.
“I wouldn’t mind havin’ that on my gravestone,” Billy-Bob said.
Hank began to shove dirt in. “I reckon we should cover him so we can get after those wolves or whatever they are.”
“Amen to that,” Fargo said.
33
Until well into the afternoon they wound steadily deeper into the mountains. It was pushing three o’clock by Fargo’s reckoning when they crested a ridge onto a broad tableland.
Forest so thick that even the bright sun of midday couldn’t penetrate covered most of it.
“Spooky place,” Hank said.
Fargo was more interested in gray tendrils rising into the sky half a mile away. “Look there,” he said, and pointed.
“Injuns, you think?” Billy-Bob wondered.
“I doubt it,” Fargo said. Few Indians would give their presence away like that.
“There ain’t no white men this far out,” Hank said, “unless maybe it’s a hunter.”
Carlos’ sneer had become a fixture. “Why do you assume they are white, gringo? My people were here long before yours.”
“You know of any who’d be out this way?” Hank said.
“If I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
Fargo shifted in his saddle. “If you do you better tell me.”
Carlos glanced at the Colt in Fargo’s holster. “No, senor. I am as perplexed as the rest of you.”
“We should pay them a visit,” Billy-Bob suggested.
“We’ll stick with the tracks,” Fargo said, and resumed following the sign. It was harder to do. The leaves and pine needles that covered much of the ground bore few prints. It wasn’t long before he realized that the tracks were leading toward the smoke. “Well, what do you know,” he said, and informed the others.
“Could be all we’ll fin
d are bodies,” Billy-Bob said.
Fargo went slowly, his hand always on his revolver. In a while the forest thinned and then came to an end at the mouth of a canyon. The smoke rose from somewhere in its depths.
“Maybe it really is Injuns,” Billy-Bob said. “We ain’t careful, we could be pincushions.”
Fargo climbed down and handed the Ovaro’s reins to him. “Hold on to these.”
“What are you doin’?”
“I can be quieter on foot,” Fargo said. “Wait here.”
“What if somethin’ happens to you? How will we know?”
“You’ll hear a lot of noise.” Fargo yanked the Henry from the scabbard and worked the lever to feed a cartridge into the chamber.
“Take one of us or the Mex along,” Hank said. “Just in case.”
“I refuse to,” Carlos said. “Let him do it on his own.”
Fargo entered the canyon. It was several hundred feet across and green with vegetation, the sort of place that Indians would like. He came to a bend. The smell of the smoke was so strong, he almost sneezed. Crouching, he peered around. To say he was surprised was an understatement.
A crude dwelling stood near a spring. Constructed of interwoven tree limbs and sticks, it was only five feet high and about six feet wide. There was no door and no windows, only an oval opening.
Two mules were tied to a tree, both dozing in the midday heat.
Fargo didn’t see their owner—or the animals he had spent most of the day tracking. Warily rising, he moved closer, the Henry pressed to his shoulder.
The mules roused and regarded him with mild interest.
Fargo smelled a foul odor and heard buzzing. Off to his right flies were swarming. He looked closer and saw bones and bits of hide, and antlers—the remains of a deer, killed not that long ago.
At the opening Fargo stopped. “Anyone home?” he called out. When he got no answer he poked his head in. The odor wasn’t much better, and it was black as pitch.
Fargo drew back. He went around to the side and found a large pile of bones and fur. Poking at it with the rifle, he recognized bits and pieces of squirrel and rabbit and other game.
He walked back to the front and placed the Henry’s stock on the ground and leaned on it. “Where could you have gotten to?” he wondered out loud.
“Right here, mister.”
A man had come around the mules. Older than Methuselah, he had snow-white hair that fell past his shoulders and a snow-white beard that fell to his waist. His face was bronzed by exposure to the sun, and seamed with wrinkles. There was nothing friendly about his expression or the old Hawken rifle he had trained on Fargo’s chest. “One wrong twitch,” he warned, “and it’ll be your last.”
“I’m friendly,” Fargo said.
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t come alone,” Fargo thought it prudent to say. The man’s head jerked up and he scoured the surrounding woods. “These friends of yours must be invisible.”
“They’re out there and they’ll hear if you shoot.”
The old man gnawed on his lips.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Fargo asked.
“That’s none of your damn business.” The man was still scanning the trees.
“I’ve got my reasons for asking.”
“You’re not just nosy?”
“We’re after two animals that have been killing cows, sheep and people.”
“Oh. Them,” the man said, and lowered the Hawken to his side but kept it pointed at Fargo.
“You’ve seen these things?” Fargo said. “You know what they are?”
“I’ve only ever caught a glimpse once or twice,” the man said. “I hear them a lot, though, mostly at night. As to what they are, they’re not wolves.”
“I already know that.”
“You do?” The man wagged the Hawken. “Suppose you drop that rifle before my trigger finger gets itchy.”
“No,” Fargo said.
“I mean it,” the old man warned. “Either you do it or I shoot you.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Fargo said.
34
Tension crackled, and for a moment Fargo thought the man would fire. Instead, he absently tugged at his beard.
“I reckon I shouldn’t have come on you like I done but I don’t trust strangers.”
“I don’t trust them much myself,” Fargo said.
The old man appraised Fargo with piercing gray eyes and finally said, “My name is Rolf. Igmar Rolf. What’s yours?”
Fargo told him.
“It’s been a coon’s age since I had visitors. I’m off the beaten path and like it that way.”
“How long have you been here?” Fargo asked.
“I haven’t kept track.”
“Weeks? Months? Years?”
“Long enough,” Rolf said. He motioned at the woods. “Call in those friends of yours so we can get acquainted.”
“When I’m ready.”
“You’re a cautious coon, sure enough.” Rolf nodded. “I admire that. Too much trust can come back to bite us on the ass. There’ve been times when I got bit but finally I learned my lesson.”
Fargo studied the ground without being obvious. He read tracks as easily as some men read books, and these told him a lot.
“Care for a drink? I got some squeezin’s I make myself,” Rolf offered.
“Why not?” Fargo said.
The mountain man went to the doorway, stooped, and disappeared into the black pitch.
Fargo moved just enough that he wasn’t visible from inside.
He heard a clank and rattling and then a thump. “You all right in there?”
Rolf filled the doorway, a jug in his hand. “I ain’t the tidiest of gents. My wife likes to say I’m the biggest mess ever born.”
“She’s here with you?” Fargo said in surprise.
Rolf’s features clouded and when he spoke his voice was choked with emotion. “Slip of the tongue. No, she ain’t. My Martha went to her reward pretty near five years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Why should you be?” Rolf said. “You didn’t know her and you don’t know me.” Shaking himself, he came out and extended the jug.
“You first.”
“Afeared I’ll poison you?” Rolf said, and laughed. He leaned the Hawken against the wall, wrestled the stopper out, and crooked his arm. “To trust,” he said, and tilted the jug to his mouth. He swallowed a few times and let out a contented sigh. “Your turn.”
Fargo wiped it on his left sleeve and took a swig. He figured it would be potent but he didn’t count on his mouth and throat filling with liquid fire, or on his eyes watering. “Damn,” he said, and coughed. “That stuff would curl a nail.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rolf said, grinning. He helped himself to the jug.
“You must have an iron gut,” Fargo said.
Rolf shrugged between swallows. “I’m used to it. Took to drinkin’ a lot after I lost Martha. Too much, I suspect, but I needed to dull the pain.”
“How did she die, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Rolf seemed to struggle with himself, then said, “I do mind. She’s one thing I never talk about. Ever.”
“I understand.”
“Like hell you do,” Rolf said. “But if you’d lost your woman the way I lost mine—” He caught himself. “Listen to me, goin’ on and on.”
“Getting back to the animals we’re hunting,” Fargo reminded him. “You say you’ve only caught a glimpse now and then?”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“I am.”
About to take another drink, Rolf lowered the jug. “You better have a damn good reason.”
Fargo swept his arm at the dirt under their feet. “I’ve got dozens of them.”
There were tracks everywhere: the old man’s tracks, the track of the mules, and the tracks of two animals that weren’t wolves and weren’t dogs.
Ro
lf looked down and gave a mild start. “I’ll be damned.” “Care to explain?”
“They must have come around when I’m not here.”
“That must be it,” Fargo said.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Not a damn word,” Fargo said. “Like you told me, too much trust can bite us on the ass.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Rolf’s hand came from behind his back; he was holding a pocket pistol, and cocked it. “I told you before and I’ll tell you again. One twitch and it’ll be your last.”
35
“Well now,” Fargo said.
Rolf raised the pistol and pointed it at Fargo’s face. “Let go of the rifle.”
Fargo relaxed his fingers and the Henry clattered on the ground.
“Kick it toward me.”
Fargo pushed the stock with his toe.
“Two fingers and two fingers only,” Rolf said, “take that Colt of yours and let it drop.”
Again Fargo complied.
“Move three steps back with your arms out from your sides,” Rolf ordered.
Simmering inside, Fargo had no choice but to do as he was told. The muzzle of the pocket pistol never wavered.
Rolf picked up the Henry and the Colt. Backing up, he placed them beside the Hawken. “Now we can talk. Who in blazes are you?”
“I already told you.”
“Not your name. What you do. Dressed like that, you sure as hell ain’t a cow nurse. And you’re not no damned sheepherder. So I ask you again. Who the hell are you, mister? And how are you involved in this?”
Fargo gave him a bare account, ending with, “And here we are.”
“A scout and a tracker. That explains it.” Rolf let out a loud sigh.
“Suppose you return the favor. What are you up to? And where are they?”
“Have some of it figured out, do you?” Rolf said. “What gave it away?”
“When the sheepherders told me their dogs were killed first.”
“You reckoned that someone wanted to keep their dogs from following the scent back?”
“Something like that, yes,” Fargo said.
Rolf uttered an odd laugh. “They did the dogs on their own. They hate dogs.” He added almost as an afterthought. “They do a lot on their own, damn them. It’s the blood. They taste it and go half wild.”
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