by Jon Sharpe
“About as friendly as you are.”
“That buffalo over there doesn’t look very friendly.” Gerty pointed up at the rim.
Silhouetted against the sun was a bull buffalo.
2
“Oh, hell.”
Fargo raised the reins but didn’t use his spurs. Movement might provoke the bull into attacking. He waited for it to make up its mind what it was going to do. The wallow hadn’t been used recently, and Fargo had seen no other sign of a herd’s recent passage. So the bull might be by itself. No sooner did the thought cross his mind than two more bulls appeared behind the first.
It wasn’t unusual. Bulls fought fiercely for their harems. Those that lost, or those not quite mature enough to do battle, often gathered in small herds of their own.
“There’s more,” Gerty said.
The total was now six. The first one stamped a hoof and shook its shaggy head, angry at the intrusion.
“Hold tight,” Fargo cautioned, and took a gamble. He reined away from the bulls and rode at a walk toward the opposite rim. He hoped the buffalo would let them be, but the brutes were temperamental and hard to predict.
Gerty giggled. “They sure are funny-looking.”
“Hush.”
“I’m tired of you telling me that. You’re not my father. I don’t have to listen to you.”
Fargo imagined the buffalo charging, and him throwing Gerty in its path, and he grinned. Not that he would. Sure, he’d done his share of what some folks would call wicked things in his life, but there was a line he wouldn’t cross and killing children was one of them.
“Why does that one keep stomping its foot?”
“It doesn’t like the sound of your voice.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that so I’ll shut up.”
Which was true, but Fargo would be damned if he would admit it. They were near the top of the wallow. Once they reached the grass he would give the Ovaro its head.
Then two more buffalo appeared—in front of them.
Fargo drew rein. He hadn’t counted on this. Like the others they were bulls. Hairy monsters, weighing upward of two thousand pounds when full grown, with a horn spread of three feet from tip to tip. They had few natural enemies. On rare occasions a wolf pack might bring down a crippled or old buff, and grizzlies were known to go after buffalo calves. But generally, buffalo were the lords of the prairie.
“They look almost as mean as you are.”
“They’re trying to decide whether to eat you,” Fargo said as he reined to the right to swing wide of the pair ahead.
“Buffalo don’t eat people, they eat grass. You’re nothing but a big old liar.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass, so we’re even.” Her chatter was distracting him and Fargo couldn’t afford to be distracted. He glanced at the other buffs across the wallow. They hadn’t moved.
“Why don’t you shoot one for our supper? You’ve shot others and I like the meat.”
So did Fargo. He liked it even more than venison but not quite as much as he liked the delicious flesh of mountain lion.
“You’re rude, do you know that? I asked you a question and you didn’t answer.”
Fargo resisted an urge to cuff her. They were almost out of the wallow. Another few moments and they could fly like the wind.
“Do you know what else you are? You’re what Father calls a lout. Do you know what that is? A lout is a person with no manners. You have no manners.” Gerty smiled sweetly.
“And you’re a brat, so we’re even.”
Without warning, Gerty let out with a shrill, “I hate you!”
That was all it took; the two nearest buffalo charged.
Fargo used his spurs. The Ovaro exploded into motion and they were up and out of the wallow and flying across the flatland with the two huge buffalo in pursuit. Gerty clutched the saddle horn and squealed in fright. He gripped her arm to steady her and she bit his finger.
The buffalo were gaining. When they wanted to, the monsters could move incredibly fast.
Fargo used his spurs a second time. He held on to Gerty, intent on saving her despite herself.
For a while the issue was in doubt. The bulls stubbornly kept after them. Then the larger of the two came to a stop and the other followed suit, and the pair stood stomping and blowing and tossing their horns.
Fargo didn’t slow. Not until he had gone several hundred yards more and he was sure it was safe.
“Let go of me,” Gerty snapped. “I don’t like people to touch me unless I say they can and I didn’t say you could.”
“Would you rather fall off?” Fargo remembered the warriors he had seen on the horizon. He gazed to the west but they were gone.
“You squeezed too hard. It hurts.” Gerty rubbed her arm. “I’m going to ask Father to get rid of you. We don’t need you, anyhow. That other man, Owen, knows just as much as you do, and he’s a lot nicer to me.”
Fargo frowned. Lem Owen was a fellow frontiersman, but there any resemblance ended. Owen was short and stubby and never, ever, bathed. On hot days he stank to high heaven. Back East they had a saying that “cleanliness was next to godliness”; west of the Mississippi people were more fond of their sweat.
The real difference between Fargo and Owen was in their outlook. Fargo never killed unless he had to, even when it came to game. Owen loved to kill for killing’s sake. A while back Owen made headlines by taking part in a wager with another hunter over who could shoot the most buffalo in a single day. The other man shot 204, Owen brought down 263. They left the buffs to rot.
There were other incidents. Once, drunk, Owen roped a dog and dragged it up and down a street for the fun of it. The dog died.
Another time, Owen heard about a farmer who had raised a buck from a fawn so that the buck was as tame as a kitten and would eat out of the farmer’s hand. The buck also had antlers that were the talk of the territory. Owen decided he wanted the rack so he shot the buck dead one morning when the farmer called it in to eat, and when the farmer objected, Owen and a few of his friends beat the man senseless. The farmer was so scared, he didn’t press charges.
Fargo was surprised Senator Keever had hired Owen. When he asked why, the senator shrugged and remarked that he needed men with experience, and there was no denying Owen knew the plains and mountains as well as any man alive, Fargo included.
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to ask Father to get rid of you.”
“Be my guest.” Fargo spied the ribbon of trees that bordered the stream they had camped by. “I’d be happy to be shed of you.”
“You would? Then I won’t ask him. I don’t want to do anything that will make you happy.”
A tent had been pitched. The horses were in a string. A fire crackled, and the aroma of coffee filled the clearing. In addition to the senator and his wife and daughter, there were eleven men in the hunting party.
Rebecca Keever was pacing in front of the tent. The instant she saw Fargo and Gerty, she rushed to meet them, her dress clinging to her willowy legs. She had thick auburn hair and an oval face with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Her lips were small but full, and they parted now in a smile of relief. “You found her! Thank God.”
Fargo reined up. Gripping Gerty’s wrist, he swung her down before she had a chance to squawk or resist. “Here. Take her.”
Rebecca held her daughter to her bosom. “Thank God. Don’t ever wander off like that again. You had me worried sick.”
“Don’t you mean us, my dear?”
Senator Fulton Keever was an imposing figure. Six and a half feet tall in his bare feet, he favored expensive clothes and boots with high heels so that he seemed even taller. Although only in his forties, he had hair as white as snow. His face was broad and handsome. He carried himself with dignity, his shoulders always squared, his carriage erect. Now he came up and held out his arms and his wife handed Gerty to him. “How’s my precious?”
Gerty beamed in delight, and hugged him. “I’ve had the mos
t awful time.”
“You’re lucky Mr. Fargo was able to find you.”
“It was him that made it awful. I didn’t want to come back but he made me.”
“He was doing his job.”
“But he called me names and threatened to hit me.” Gerty smacked her father on the shoulder. “Do something. Punish him. Have him whipped or something.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Senator Keever said. “I’d be voted out of office at the next election.”
“You won’t have him beaten for me?” Gerty let her resentment show. “I bet you’re scared. He wears a gun and you don’t so you won’t do anything to make him mad.”
“Gertrude!” Rebecca exclaimed.
“What else can it be?” Gerty said coldly. “Father always does what I ask. Always. Except get rid of that awful Fargo, and get rid of you.”
Rebecca recoiled as if she had been slapped. “Gertrude Priscilla Keever, that will be enough. I’m your mother and you will treat me with the respect I deserve.”
“There are mothers and there are mothers.”
Fargo wondered what she meant by that. Were she his kid, he’d introduce her backside to his belt. Some people claimed that was crude and uncivilized, something “only a heathen Indian would do,” as one man put it. Ironically, most Indians never hit their children. They believed it did lasting harm.
“Think you’re funny, do you?” Rebecca was saying. “Well, I don’t. For running off like that, you’ll help the cook wash dishes the next three days. And you will be under your blankets by ten at night.”
Gerty pressed against her father. “Wash dishes? Me? I’ve never washed a dish in my life.”
“Fulton, tell her,” Rebecca said.
“Ahh, now.” Senator Keever pecked Gerty on the forehead and lowered her to the ground. “I don’t think we have to go quite that far.”
“What?”
“You heard me, my dear. She’s young yet. Children her age like to explore. Yes, she strayed too far, and yes, Mr. Fargo had to go find her. But really, now. Must we punish the girl for acting her age? I say no. I say we should be thankful she’s safe, and let it go.”
The hurt in Rebecca’s eyes said more than words ever could.
Senator Keever patted Gerty on the head. “There now. All’s well that ends well. Why don’t you run along and play and we’ll call you when supper is ready?”
Gerty pointed at Fargo. “What about him?”
“I’ve already said I’m not having him whipped. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. When we return to civilization, I’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires. A new dress, a new hat, a new pony since you’re no longer fond of your old one. How does that sound?”
“I guess that’s all right,” Gerty said reluctantly.
They walked off and Fargo turned to tend to the Ovaro.
“Wait,” Rebecca said, coming closer. “I want to thank you for what you did. How you found her so fast, I’ll never know.”
“I was lucky.”
Rebecca had a lovely smile. “You’re much too modest. My husband might not appreciate you but I do.”
Fargo wondered how he should take that.
Gazing after Fulton and Gerty, Rebecca sighed. “I try to rear her right. I truly do. But you saw how he is. He spoils her. He spoils her terribly. Anything she wants, all she has to do is say so. It’s been like that since she learned to talk.”
Fargo was puzzled by why she was telling him this. “Your family squabbles are none of my concern, ma’am.”
“True. But in this instance it’s more than a squabble. You’ve made an enemy, Mr. Fargo.”
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t tremble in my boots.”
“Don’t take her lightly, I warn you. She’s a shark, that one. And she never forgets or forgives a slight.”
“She’s thirteen years old.”
“So? Just because she’s a child doesn’t mean she won’t figure out a way to get back at you.” Rebecca leaned so close she was practically breathing on his neck. “Let me tell you a story. Back home we had a gardener, a most wonderful man. Kindly. Thoughtful. You couldn’t ask for better. One day he caught Gerty cutting some of my roses. She had found his shears.”
Fargo had little interest in her tale but he patiently waited for her to finish while roving his gaze from her neck to her toes, admiring her full bosom and the sweep of her thighs.
“He took them from her and scolded her, and do you know what she did? She kicked him in the shins. Without thinking, he slapped her.” Rebecca was whispering now. “Gerty ran to Fulton and had the poor man fired.”
“She’s a firebrand,” Fargo said dryly.
“There’s more. The gardener was devastated. He’d worked for us for years. He begged to keep his job. He pleaded. Fulton might have given in if not for Gerty.”
“And?” Fargo prompted when she didn’t go on.
“The gardener went to collect his things. Everyone thought he left the estate. But the next morning a maid found him out by the roses with the pruning shears sticking out of his chest.”
Fargo looked at her. “How did it happen?”
“It was ruled an accident. That he tripped and fell on the shears as he was about to hang them on a nail. But between you and me, that just won’t wash. He was always careful with his tools.”
“Are you saying Gerty did it?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Someone did. No one else had a motive. So watch your back from here on out. Watch it very closely.”
3
The black bear lumbered along in search of food. It was following its nose, as bears always did. It had no idea it was being watched.
The broken country was ideal for game. Bear and deer were plentiful. So were antelope but they were hard to spot and a lot harder to shoot. The wariest critters on God’s green earth, was how an old-timer once described them. Fargo agreed.
“What do you think? Do you want to take a shot or not?”
Senator Fulton Keever was studying the bear through a spyglass. “It’s a big one, Mr. Owen. I’ll grant you that. But I’m after trophies. I want a head I can hang on my wall and boast about to my colleagues.”
Fargo frowned. He’d spent the better part of an hour tracking that bear. Most hunters would rate it more than big enough.
“I suppose I could use it for practice.” Senator Keever held the spyglass out to Lem Owen and Owen took it and handed Keever his hunting rifle.
Fargo saw no need for Owen to be there but the senator wanted him along. One of Owen’s pards came too, a weasel called Lichen. Skinny and sallow, Lichen wore a broad-bladed knife high in a brown leather sheath, and carried a Sharps. He had the habit of chewing on blades of grass.
The senator had nearly a dozen rifles. No hunter needed that many but Keever was putting money in Fargo’s poke so Fargo didn’t say anything. The rifle Keever was holding at the moment was a British model made by a well-known Brit gunsmith named Joseph Whitworth. Around the campfire one evening, the senator had mentioned that Whitworth’s guns were highly sought after. “They cost more than most people earn in a year.” Keever had stroked the rifle, which he was cleaning at the time. “He custom-made this to my specifications. With it I can shoot a bee out of the air at a hundred yards.”
Fargo doubted that. But he was impressed by the thin tube attached to the top of the barrel. It was a spyglass in itself, enabling the shooter to see an animal as clearly as if he were standing next to it.
Now, Keever raised the rifle to his shoulder.
“Hold on.”
Keever glanced up. “Is something the matter, Mr. Fargo?”
“That bear has as much right to go on breathing as you or me. If all you want is practice, shoot a tree.”
“Are you serious?”
“If you did shoot it, then what?” Fargo asked.
The senator’s brow puckered. “I’m not quite sure I understand. I’ll shoot it and it will be dead. What more is there?”
/>
“You’ll just leave it there for the buzzards and the coyotes?”
Keever acted considerably surprised. “I must say, I never expected this from you, of all people. You have a reputation for being not only a fine tracker but a superb hunter in your own right. How can you be so squeamish over killing a bear?”
“The game I shoot, I use. I eat the meat. Sometimes I cure the hides and sell or trade them.”
“That’s what is bothering you? An issue easily solved. We’ll butcher the bear and pack the meat to camp. Would that make you happy?”
Lem Owen snorted. “That’s an awful lot of bother to go to, if you ask me. If I were in charge, Senator, I’d let you kill whatever you want, whenever you want.”
“That’d decent of you. But Mr. Fargo is, and it would please me greatly if you would remember that.”
“Your choice. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be the wrong one.”
Fargo turned. This wasn’t the first time Owen had implied he could do a better job as guide. “I don’t get many complaints.”
“You’re making a fuss over a lousy bear.”
“Too bad there’s not a couple of hundred so you can shoot them like you did all those buffalo.”
Owen chuckled. “There must be a million of the damn things. I could have dropped them all day and all night and it wouldn’t make a difference.”
“It would to the Indians who rely on the herds to live.”
Owen’s eyes widened. “Listen to yourself. Who in hell cares what redskins think? You know, I’d heard you were an Injun lover. But I never figured you for stupid.”
Fargo hit him, a solid right cross to the jaw that knocked Owen against Lichen. Both men stumbled, and Owen would have fallen if Lichen hadn’t caught him and held him up.
“What on earth!” Senator Keever exclaimed.
Owen shook himself and put a hand to his chin. Then, swearing, he clawed for the Remington revolver on his hip.
In the blink of an eye Fargo’s Colt was up and out. They all heard the click of the hammer being thumbed back.
Owen turned to stone. His throat bobbed, and he said, “Hold on, now, hoss. There’s no call to blow out my wick.”
