Beartooth Incident

by Jon Sharpe

  “Ain’t that just like a female?” blurted the man who been cuffed. He recoiled, expecting another blow, but Cud was glaring at Mary.

  “We need to get a few things straight, gal. I’m willing to bend my ways to suit you, but only to a point. I won’t stop drinking whiskey on account of you don’t like it.”

  “Then you won’t be welcome under my roof anymore.”

  Cud half came out of his chair. Fargo tensed to move between them, but Cud sat back down and grumbled.

  “You seem to forget I’m a lady, Mr. Sten. Perhaps you have become so accustomed to women of loose morals that you think all women are the same. I assure you we’re not.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying that if I mend my ways, you’ll think more highly of me?”

  “How could I not?”

  The veiled insult was lost on Cud, who grinned and declared, “Well, now, if that’s the case, I reckon I can be as much of a gentleman as simpleton over there.” He fixed his dark eyes on Fargo. “Why don’t you come over and join us, simpleton?”

  “Be glad to.” Fargo sat in an empty chair across from Sten so he would have a split-second warning if Sten went for his revolver. “There’s nothing I like better than whiskey and a good game of cards.” He reached for the flask but Cud snatched it from the table.

  “I don’t share my coffin varnish with anybody.” Cud capped the flask and shoved it into a pocket. “I didn’t ask you over to drink nor take a hand, neither. It’s time.”

  “For what?” Fargo played his part.

  “To decide what I’m going to do with you.” Cud’s thick brows pinched together and he drummed on the table. “It appears you were telling the truth about Tull. The damn Injuns got him.”

  The others at the table showed little interest. One man was picking his teeth with a card.

  Fargo moved his head just enough to see Rika over in the corner. Rika held the Henry trained on his back. All it was take was a nod from Cud Sten, and Rika would blow a hole in him. “Does this mean I can have my horse and my effects and be on my way?”

  “The horse is Rika’s now. The sooner you get used to that notion, the better off you’ll be.” Cud paused. “I haven’t seen many like it. It’s not an Appaloosa and it’s not a pinto.”

  “It’s a kind of pinto,” Fargo educated him. “Some folks call it an Ovaro.” The markings told the difference; the dark spots on the Ovaro were smaller than on most pintos, and there were more of them.

  “Ovaro,” Cud rolled the word on his tongue. “It has a fancy sound, don’t you think?”

  “I think Rika should pay for him.”

  Cud Sten blinked and half his men either laughed or looked at Fargo as if he were five bales short of a wagonload. “What did you just say?”

  “It’s not right that your friend just takes him. Rika should pay me for my horse. That’s only fair.”

  “Why should he pay for it when it’s already his?” Cud did more finger-drumming, and a slow smirk spread across his face. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You can make this easy, or you can make it hard, but I don’t think you’ll like hard.”

  “What’s your idea of easy?”

  “I let you keep Tull’s horse and you go on breathing. His for yours. I call that a fair trade.”

  “And my rifle and the pearl-handled Colt?”

  “That Colt was never yours to begin with so you don’t have a claim. The rifle, well—” Cud nodded at Rika.

  Fargo held his anger in check. There was a time and a place for anger, and this wasn’t it. But he did say, “That’s your notion of fair?”

  “You keep missing the important part,” Cud Sten said. “Or doesn’t it matter to you whether you breathe air or dirt?”

  There it was: Either Fargo agreed or they killed him and if he did agree, they might kill him later, anyway. He tested his suspicion. “Let’s say I agree. Can I saddle up and head out right this minute?”

  “What’s your hurry? It’ll be dark soon. You should stick around, have some of my Mary’s cooking, and get a good night’s rest.”

  Fargo saw Mary’s back go rigid and her hand clench a wood spoon until her knuckles were pale. She didn’t like that “my Mary.” “You must want me dead.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Sending me off unarmed. I’ll end up like your friend Tull.”

  “Those Injuns are probably long gone. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep Tull’s pearl-handled Colt for myself and give you my revolver. How would that be?”

  Before Fargo could answer, the front door opened and in came the pair who had butchered the cow. Their clothes were spattered with blood and gore caked their hands. They were carrying thick slabs of meat, which they brought to the table, dripping blood with every step.

  “Here’re those steaks you wanted, Cud.”

  “I can see that, Howell. But what I don’t get is why you’re making a mess of my gal’s floor.”

  “What?” Howell glanced down. “Is she going to fuss over a little blood?”

  Cud stabbed a finger at them. “Put the meat on the counter and clean the floor on your way back. Then get to work smoking the rest of the meat.”

  “We don’t have that cow half cut up yet. It could take us until midnight.”

  “So? We’re not going anywhere. I’ll call you when it’s time to eat.” Cud looked at Mary, evidently thinking he deserved a compliment of some kind, but she had her back to them. Cud turned to Fargo. “Now, then, where were we?”

  “You were saying as how you’re going to give my rifle back and let me saddle my Ovaro and light a shuck.”

  “You don’t give up, do you? It’s Tull’s horse and my revolver, or it’s nothing. Which will it be?”

  “You don’t leave me much choice.”

  “I don’t leave you none.”

  Fargo was a bit surprised that Sten hadn’t tried to blow out his wick. Now that Sten had learned the truth about Tull, or thought he had, there was no reason for Sten to keep him alive. Fargo figured Mary must have something to do with it; Cud was trying to impress her by not killing him.

  The dealer began shuffling the cards.

  “Deal me in,” Fargo said, and jerked a thumb at where Rika still stood over in the corner. “How about your friend? Does he want to join us?”

  “What the hell do you care? He does what he wants. Unlike these other lunkheads, I can always count on him to do what’s best.”

  Lear glared at Fargo. “I don’t like this varmint much. I get the notion he’s a tricky son of a bitch.”

  From over at the stove Mary said, “Mr. Lear, your language, please.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Lear switched his glare to Cud Sten. “How much longer do we have to put up with her? This ain’t a church social, for God’s sake.”

  “You’ll treat her nice and like it,” Cud said flatly, and placed his hand on his club.

  “Oh, hell,” Lear said again.

  Fargo considered the cards he was dealt. “I have an idea,” he announced.

  “Not another one,” Cud said.

  “How about if we play a hand with my horse and rifle as the stake? I win, I get them back.”

  “Mister, you plumb amaze me. When you gnaw on a bone, you don’t let up. What makes you think I’d gamble for them when we already have them?”

  Fargo decided to put his immunity to the test. “I just thought you might want to show Mrs. Harper that you’re not as big a bastard as everyone says you are.”

  Everyone at the table froze.

  That included Cud Sten. His face resembled stone. But then, ever so slowly, his features shifted until they mirrored pure, vicious hate. “No one talks to me like that.”

  Mary picked that moment to come over carrying the coffeepot and several cups. “I don’t have enough for everyone, so you’ll have to use some of your own.” She set a cup next to Cud and began filling it.

  Sten was
struggling to control himself. His face twitched, his mouth worked, and his jaw muscles bulged.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Mary asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Cud said harshly. “It’s him. You didn’t hear what he just said to me.”

  “Oh, I heard,” Mary said sweetly. “I’ve heard everything. And I’m appalled, Mr. Sten. You steal from him and act like you’re doing him a favor. Here I thought you were trying to show me how much of a gentleman you could be.”

  Cud’s eyes were twin daggers. “You can’t expect me not to be me. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “All I know is that I couldn’t like a man who lords it over other folks. I’m disappointed. Here we were starting to be friends, too.” Mary turned and placed a cup in front of Fargo and began pouring.

  Cud Sten’s whole body seemed to swell with rage but gradually the fury drained away and a cold smile replaced his bloodlust. “I don’t want you thinking poorly of me, gal. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll gamble for them like he wants. How would that be?”

  “You would do that? For me?”

  Cud was like a puppy that had been patted on the head. “All I care about is pleasing you.”

  “See? You can be nice when you try.” Mary set the pot down. “Help yourselves. I have to finish supper.”

  Cud watched her, and when she was over at the counter, he leaned toward Fargo and said so she couldn’t hear, “Your horse and rifle ain’t all you’re playing for, you rotten son of a btich.” Sitting back, he smiled and said, “Now, then, how many cards do you want?”

  Fargo had two kings, two twos, and a ten. Another king or another two and he would have a full house. The odds were high against drawing either, but even if he didn’t, he’d still have two pair. He discarded the ten. “I’ll take one.”

  “I’ll stick with these.” Cud dealt a card from the top of the deck and slid it across.

  Covering it with his hand, Fargo peeked. It was a queen. Of no use to him whatsoever.

  “What do you have?” Fargo flipped his cards over. “Two pair, kings and twos.”

  “Ain’t that a shame.” Cud Sten slowly turned his cards over. “I’ve got me a straight. You lose, mister. You lose big.”

  14

  “You have to escape. He’s going to kill you,” Mary whispered to Fargo when she brought his plate.

  He was seated by the fireplace, his back to the wall, his knees drawn to his chest. “I know.”

  Cud Sten kept staring over at him, always with the same cold grin, a cat playing with a mouse.

  “Why did you bait him like that?” Mary whispered. “If you’d kept quiet, maybe he would have let you live.”

  “Who’s fooling who?” Fargo never doubted for a moment that Sten intended to turn him into maggot bait.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing.” Fargo didn’t want her to be part of it. He didn’t want her hurt. Cud Sten might easily turn on her if she got him mad enough.

  Mary straightened. Her eyes were moist and she had to swallow to say, “I can’t just stand by and let that beast murder you. Not after we—” She couldn’t finish.

  “It’s not just me you have to think of,” Fargo reminded her.

  “We’re in this together. They want to help, too.”

  From the table came an angry bellow. “What are you two whispering about over there? Mary, gal, you shouldn’t have anything to do with him. I don’t like him much.”

  Mary wheeled. “I”ll choose my own friends, Mr. Sten, thank you very much.”

  The vehemence in her voice made Cud sit up. “Now, now, don’t get all female on me.”

  Fargo marveled at Mary’s self-control. Her spine ramrod stiff, she marched to the stove and put two plates on a tray. “I’m taking these to Nelly and Jayce.”

  “They’re welcome to join us at the table,” Cud said. “I like your sprouts. That girl of yours is almost as pretty as you.”

  Mary glanced at Sten and Fargo saw a new fear creep into her eyes. But she smothered it, crossed to their bedroom, knocked, and went in.

  No sooner did the door close behind her than Cud Sten was out of his chair, his club in his right hand. The others rose, too, their hands on their hardware. Over in the corner, Rika raised the Henry to his shoulder.

  About to cut a piece of steak, Fargo grinned. “Looks like I won, after all.”

  Halfway to the hearth, Cud stopped in puzzlement. “Won what?”

  “I bet myself you couldn’t wait until she goes to bed to do it. You and her boy are about the same age.”

  “Are you loco? I’m a grown man.” Cud wagged his club. “On your feet. You’re going to the outhouse.”

  “I am?”

  Cud took another step. “Don’t make me do it here. She won’t like having your brains smeared all over her floor.”

  “Easy, now,” Fargo said, rising. He would wait until they got him outside. It was safer for the Harpers that way.

  Keeping his voice low, Cud turned to Lear. “You and Charlie take him out. Tie him and gag him and stick him in the woodshed.”

  “You’re not going to kill him?”

  “Of course I am, you stupid son of a bitch. But I want to do it nice and slow. I’ll wait until the gal and her sprouts are asleep.”

  Lear drew his six-shooter. “Let’s go, mister.”

  Fargo held his hands up and moved toward the door. The skin on his back prickled as he passed Cud Sten. He half expected Sten to club him. He took another step, and suddenly his head exploded with pain. His legs gave out and he clutched at a chair to stay on his feet but missed. Rough hands grabbed his arms. He heard laughter, and then he was sucked into blackness.

  The cold revived him.

  Fargo opened his eyes and groaned. His head felt as if it had been split open. He was lying on his side, his wrists and ankles tied tight. He was in a cramped space. That much he could tell. He smelled musty earth under his cheek. Groggily, he tried to raise his head and nearly passed out.

  Fargo remembered something being said about the woodshed. He’d ridden past it a few times and not paid much attention; it was on the side of the cabin, enclosed on three sides, with pine boughs for a roof. Only about waist-high, it was maybe five feet from end to end.

  Gradually his eyes adjusted. Firewood was stacked in front of him. He extended his arms as far back as he could and touched snow, which explained why his back was colder than his front. Clenching his teeth, he twisted his head. All he saw was snow-shrouded trees.

  He pried at the rope around his ankles. The knots were iron.

  From inside the cabin came gruff mirth.

  Suddenly Fargo remembered something else: Cud Sten was going to wait until Mary and the children turned in, then come out and beat him to death. Well, he would have a surprise for the bastard. Shifting his shoulder, he hiked at his pant leg and got it high enough to slide his fingers into his boot. For a few seconds he thought he had the wrong boot; the Arkansas toothpick wasn’t there. Then he felt the ankle sheath, and the terrible truth dawned. They had found the toothpick and taken it.

  A new cold spread through Fargo, a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. He tried to recall if he had seen an ax anywhere near the woodshed or anything else sharp lying around that he could use to cut himself free.

  Fargo wondered what time it was. Mary wouldn’t stay up late. Any minute now Sten might come out to kill him. Fighting off waves of pain, he tried to roll over. He had to try twice to do it, and then he lay grimacing, his stomach queasy. One of the wolf bites was hurting, too.

  One of the wolf bites.

  Fargo sat up. He had an idea. Not much of one, but he was desperate, and desperate men grasped at straws. His straw lay down the valley. Hunching his shoulders, he got to his knees.

  Now came the hard part. Fargo inched forward, moving first one knee and then the other. Once he was out from under the pine boughs, he lurched upright—and fell on his face in the snow. Spitting, he made it back to
his knees.

  “You can do this.”

  Fargo heaved erect. Again he teetered but he kept his balance. He began to hop. By bending forward he was able to keep his balance. He made it to the pines and paused to catch his breath and get his bearings. Then he was off again, hopping like an oversized jackrabbit. He had to be careful and not try to hop too far and be sure to land with both boots flat. It was slow going at first. But the more he did it, the better he got; when he emerged from the trees, he was moving faster than he thought he could.

  There was no moon. Pale starlight dulled the white of the snow so that it was almost brown.

  Fargo hopped and hopped. He had a fair idea where to find what he was looking for, but it would take time to get there. The question was, how much did he have? How soon before Cud Sten discovered he was gone and the outlaws came looking for him?

  To the north a lonesome coyote yipped. Up on the mountain an owl hooted.

  Fargo hoped he didn’t run into more starved wolves or a hungry bear. Given how his luck had been running, he wouldn’t be surprised if either happened.

  He shut everything from his mind and concentrated on hopping. His leg muscles protested but the pain in his legs was nothing compared to the throbbing in his head. Hunch, jump, land. Hunch, jump, land. He settled into a rhythm. Once, when he glanced back to see if anyone was after him, he was surprised at how far he had gone.

  Fargo wondered if he would find it. He didn’t think it was that far, but he had been fading in and out of consciousness when they’d hauled him to the cabin, and maybe his memory of things wasn’t as it was.

  He wondered, too, if maybe there was a better way, a smarter way. Maybe the knock on the head had jumbled it so bad he wasn’t thinking right.

  The pain brought him to a stop. He needed to rest a minute. He looked back again. Was it his imagination or did he hear voices?

  He definitely heard a footstep close by, the crunch of the snow as something moved toward him out of the dark. He tensed, dreading that the vague shape he discerned was a grizzly. He was helpless—totally helpless. All he would be able to do was scream, and he would be damned if he would do that.