Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  “Cougars out here are more bold than they are back East,” Jerrold remarked. “Most have been exterminated. Along with wolves and anything else that is a threat to man.”

  “Do you approve?” Fargo had always regarded the wholesale slaughter of predators as the last resort of timid types who prized their safety above all else. People who wanted to go from cradle to grave without once ever being at risk. People who thought they could shape things the way they wanted life to be, rather than deal with life as it was and would always be.

  “Of killing wolves and the like?” Jerrold asked. “I don’t see the harm. Not in heavily populated areas, anyway.”

  Fargo had heard that argument before. “Indians manage to get by without killing every meat eater around.”

  “But they’re used to living in the wild,” Jerrold said. “Most whites would rather live in safety and comfort.” He paused. “Except Teague, of course. He thrives on danger, on looking down the barrel of his rifle at a charging brute and knowing he has only seconds to kill it or he will die. He must be a lot like Indians in that regard.”

  “Indians aren’t stupid,” Fargo said. “They don’t put their lives at risk unless they have to. Your brother does it for the thrill.”

  “I won’t dispute that. He’s been that way since I was old enough to remember. Even as a kid he was always taking risks. He would climb the tallest of trees to the uppermost branches, or leap off a quarry cliff into a pond, those sorts of things. When our father gave him his first rifle, he spent every spare minute hunting. Birds, rabbits, squirrels, he shot everything he saw. By the time he was fourteen he was the best hunter in the county. By sixteen he had shot everything that walked, crawled or flew.”

  In Fargo’s opinion that wasn’t worth bragging about. “And you? Did you follow in his footsteps?”

  “Goodness, no. I don’t like to kill nearly as much as Teague does. Or Garrick or Anson, for that matter.”

  “A man should only kill when he has to,” Fargo said.

  “I agree. But Teague likes sporting matches where the purpose is to shoot as many game animals as possible in a given amount of time. Whoever shoots the most, wins. Once he shot fifty-seven ducks in one hour, a new record for the sportsmen’s club he belongs to.”

  “What did they do with all the dead ducks? Let the meat go to waste?”

  “Oh, no. The ducks were roasted and served at a big banquet to raise money for charity.”

  Fargo grunted. That was something, at least.

  “Teague took us to Africa and those other places because he was tired of shooting the same old things. He wanted new challenges, new excitement. It’s much more exciting shooting a tiger than a pigeon.”

  Everyone was waiting for them. Jerrold explained about the mauling, and Teague instructed Leslie to tend Vern with the medical kit she always kept handy. After she was done and Vern had stopped blubbering, Teague suggested that they turn in.

  Fargo was stripping the Ovaro and had just lowered his saddle when he sensed he was not alone.

  “A word in your ear, if you please,” Teague Synnet said.

  “If it’s about the horses, they won’t go far.” Fargo unfolded the blanket he would cover himself with.

  “It’s about my sister.” Teague had lowered his voice. “Man to man, as it were.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.” Fargo’s private affairs were just that.

  “I beg to differ,” Teague replied. “You see, Leslie has this—” Teague paused, searching for the right words. “How shall I put this?”

  “She likes to make love,” Fargo said.

  “I was going to say she has a certain similarity to a female alley cat, but yes, my sister has an unfortunate habit of being intimate with every handsome face she fancies.”

  “Last I looked, she was fully grown.”

  “Too true, I’m afraid,” Teague agreed. “But it always leaves me in the unenviable position of having to conduct little talks like this to ensure that the objects of her affection don’t do something they’ll regret.”

  “Such as?” Fargo asked.

  “I would take it as a personal favor that her dalliance with you not become common knowledge. A lady has her reputation to think of. Or should. Since Leslie can’t be bothered, it falls on me to protect the family name.”

  Fargo disliked being treated like a child who had been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Protect it how?”

  Teague adopted a stern expression. “I know better than to threaten you. But I must point out that I would take it most unkindly were I to learn you have been spreading stories about Leslie behind her back.”

  Fargo came close to punching him in the mouth. He had to remember that Synnet did not know him all that well and might think he was the kind of rake who went around boasting about his conquests. “Take it any way you want since it’s never going to happen.”

  Teague was quiet a bit, then, “You continue to surprise me, Mr. Fargo. You’re nothing like most of your ilk.”

  “I pull on my buckskins one leg at a time, just like anyone else.” Fargo was ready to turn in and patted his blankets so Synnet would take the hint.

  “In that regard, yes. But there’s more to you than the usual bluster and bravado. I’m not stupid. I know you agreed to guide us because you’re worried about the women. Now you pledge that your lips are sealed about your interlude with Leslie.” Teague grinned. “You’re the last thing I expected. An honorable man.”

  “Don’t make more out of it than there is.”

  “Very well. I won’t press the point, except to say that were circumstances different, we might be close friends.”

  Fargo doubted it but all he said was, “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” Lying down with his saddle for a pillow, he pulled his hat brim low over his eyes to show he was done talking. “Get some sleep.”

  Try as he might, though, slumber would not come. Too many unanswered questions gnawed at him like the sharp teeth of a beaver gnawing at a tree: Who was the rider shadowing their trail? Was it the same man he saw on the ridge? Why was Horner against his being along? And how did Teague Synnet really feel about his frolic with Leslie?

  When sleep finally did come, it snuck up on him much as the puma had snuck up on the horses. One moment he was awake, thoughtfully contemplating the constellations, the next moment, birds were warbling to herald the dawn and a faint golden glow framed the eastern horizon. He had slept the night through.

  Standing, Fargo rekindled the nearest fire and set a cooking pot on to brew. From all quarters rose loud snores. Some of the loudest came from inside the tent erected for the women.

  The two men standing guard weren’t standing and weren’t awake. Fargo nudged each with his boot, and they leaped to their feet and sheepishly apologized, pledging it would never happen again.

  “I hope not,” Fargo said. “Because the next time it might be a Blackfoot or Piegan who wakes you up by slitting your throats.”

  Four more missing horses had returned on their own. Fargo hobbled them, then saddled the Ovaro and was ready to ride out before anyone else woke up. The tracks were easy to follow. The horses had been in a blind panic and plowed through the underbrush like buffalo gone amok.

  A mile to the east lay a grassy meadow flanked by a stream. The rest of the horses, save one, were dozing or grazing, and did not act up when he herded them together and started them back.

  By then the sun had risen. Dawn, as always at that altitude, was spectacular, the morning crisp and clear, the vegetation damp with dew.

  Now and then Fargo glimpsed the base camp down in the valley. Smoke from several fires showed they were up and about. He was a hundred yards from their own camp when a twig snapped and a figure popped out from under a pine. In a heartbeat Fargo had the Colt in his hand but when he saw who it was, he eased his thumb off the hammer. “Are you trying to get yourself shot?”

  It was a mouse of a helper who always kept to himself. He had rummy eyes and a
nervous tic he couldn’t control. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Fargo. I saw you ride off but I couldn’t catch you in time.” Under his right arm were broken limbs he had gathered for firewood.

  “What do you want?”

  “I have something to tell you,” the man said, with a sharp glance toward the clearing. “Something important. It’s why I took a horse when no one was looking and came to find you last night.”

  “That was you on the ridge?” Fargo was puzzled by the fear that oozed from the man’s every pore.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to be with Miss Synnet, so I lit out. Thank God the panther had run off the other horses or they would have caught me and I’d be breathing dirt right now.”

  “You’re not making much sense,” Fargo said. “Why did you come looking for me? What’s this all about?”

  Before the little man could answer, from out of the pines strode Horner. “Wildon! There you are! How damn long does it take? The fire has about gone out.”

  “Sorry!” Wildon bleated, and scurried toward camp like a timid rabbit fleeing a hungry coyote.

  Horner turned toward the Ovaro. “What were the two of you talkin’ about just now?”

  “Whether cows will ever sprout wings and fly.” Clucking to the stallion, Fargo rode on in. The aroma of coffee and sizzling strips of venison set his stomach to growling. He handed the lead rope to Gus, took his battered tin cup from a saddlebag, and helped himself to a brimful.

  “I wish you had told me that you were going off alone,” Teague Synnet said. “There are those who thought you had deserted us.”

  Fargo could guess which ones. “I hate to disappoint them,” he said, and smiled at Garrick and Melantha. “We ride out in half an hour.”

  “While you were gone we found some strange footprints,” Jerrold said. “Would you like to see them?”

  The tracks were a stone’s throw from camp, behind a waist-high bush. Twin impressions in the soil showed where someone had knelt to spy on them. Further back, in a bare patch of earth, were clear footprints.

  “Those were made by moccasins, weren’t they?” Leslie asked.

  “Yes,” Fargo confirmed. And since no two tribes fashioned their footwear exactly alike, it was possible to tell which tribe a warrior belonged to by his footprints. “It was a Blood.”

  “Are they friendly?” From Shelly.

  “Let me put it this way,” Fargo said. “The Bloods tend to believe that the only good white is a dead white.”

  “And where there is one there are bound to be more.” Teague expressed Fargo’s own line of thought. “Our hunt just became a lot more interesting.”

  12

  All morning Fargo alternated between riding at the head of the line and riding back to bring up the rear for a while, the whole time keeping his eyes primed for sign of the Bloods. It had to be a war party, he reasoned, come south to raid a Shoshone or Crow village. But now that they knew whites were in the area, they would forget tribal rivalries and focus on enemies they hated even more.

  The attack would come when it was to their best advantage, when the Bloods could catch the whites by surprise and overwhelm them with as few losses on their own side as possible.

  Fargo was constantly on edge, and he wasn’t the only one. Every member of the party, including the women, rode with a rifle in their hands, and no one talked except when they absolutely had to.

  By noon the strain was beginning to tell. Some were jumping at shadows. At one point Vern began yelling about warriors in the brush, but when Fargo investigated, it turned out to be a few deer.

  “Don’t shout like that again unless you’re sure,” Fargo told him. “No sense in letting the Bloods know you’re scared.”

  “I am not!” Vern blustered, sweat beading his brow. “I just saw something move and shouted before my brain could catch up to my tongue.”

  Horner was nearby, and commented, “You knot-head. Do that again and I’ll take my rifle stock to your noggin.”

  “You can’t blame me for being a mite nervous,” Vern said. “Folks say the Bloods are the worst heathens anywhere.”

  “Not quite,” Fargo said. When it came to eliminating whites, the Apaches and the Comanches had them beat. But the Bloods were formidable in their own right, and doing their utmost to stem the growing tide of white invasion. “Try to stay calm. The Bloods won’t jump us just yet.”

  “And that’s something to be calm about?” Vern squeaked.

  A tap of Fargo’s spurs sent the Ovaro to the front of the line. He slowed when he was next to Teague Synnet’s big bay. “I’m asking you again to reconsider. Head back down while you’re all still in one piece.”

  “No,” Teague said flatly. “If you think I’ll let a few savages spoil our hunt, you have another think coming.”

  “You care that little for your sister? For Shelly and the other women?”

  “There you go again,” Teague scoffed. He glanced over his shoulder at Leslie, who smiled sweetly if tiredly. “I’ll have you know my sister has endured far worse. In Africa we were surrounded by cannibals. In India a pack of robbers tried to relieve us of our possessions. We always came out on top. And we’ll come out on top against these Bloods, too.”

  “You’ve never fought Indians. You don’t know what you’re in for.”

  “Oh, please. They bleed, just like everything else. They die when they’re shot in a vital organ.” Teague patted his rifle. “And I never miss.”

  Sighing, Fargo moved on another dozen yards and stayed in the lead until the sun was directly overheard. By now they were well up in the mountains. The slopes were steeper. Firs and stands of aspen were common. They were so high, they could no longer see their base camp, a constant reminder that if the worst came to pass, they could not rely on help from below.

  The crest of a switchback afforded a level spot to stop. Fargo had them bunch the horses and post three guards. Then, taking the Henry, he descended a short distance on foot to a cluster of boulders and climbed onto the largest to check their back trail. He saw a hawk wheeling high in the sky. He saw a squirrel and a pair of ravens. But no sign of the Bloods.

  Shoes crunched on the small stones at the boulder’s base, and Fargo spun. “What the blazes do you want?”

  “Nothing special.” Susan Whirtle clambered agilely onto a smaller boulder and from there jumped to the large one. Smiling, she ran a small hand through her brown hair. “I just thought it would be nice to get to know you better.”

  “Women,” Fargo said.

  “Excuse me?” Susan curled her legs under her and sat. She wore a hunting outfit identical to her brother’s, only tailored to fit her smaller, and more shapely, form. “You had time for Shelly and Leslie.”

  “The Bloods weren’t out to count coup on us then,” Fargo said.

  “Is that the real reason? Or is it because I’m Garrick’s sister and you don’t like him?”

  Fargo shifted his gaze from the forest to her. She had brushed her hair and cleaned the dust of the trail from her face. Her lips were ripe cherries waiting to be sucked and she had that certain gleam in her eyes all women had when they wanted a certain something. “We’ll go for a walk tonight if you want.”

  Susan stared out over the panoramic vista of peaks and timber. “Are we really in that much danger? Garrick and Teague seem to think you exaggerate.”

  Fargo was about to say that her brother and Synnet didn’t know their hind ends from a buffalo’s hump when a rider abruptly appeared three-quarters of a mile below, climbing slowly.

  Susan spotted him, too. “Who’s that?”

  “Impossible to say,” Fargo answered. At that distance he couldn’t tell if the rider was white or red, although when he squinted, he thought he could make out a hat and a saddle.

  “Maybe it’s that Blood you’ve been talking about,” Susan speculated. “Maybe he’s waiting for the rest of the war party to get here.”

  “Maybe,” Fargo said, although a Blood would never be so carele
ss.

  “What do we do?”

  “We rejoin the rest.” Fargo jumped to the smaller boulder and held out his arm to help her down. Hustling her into the trees, he hurried up to the others and informed Teague Synnet about the rider. “I’ll handle this alone. Keep the rest on the move and I’ll catch up later.”

  “What if there are more than one?” Teague asked. “We’ll be without a guide. It could spoil our entire hunt.”

  “Is that all you care about?”

  “Yes,” Teague admitted. “And I won’t let anything stand in our way. I insist you stay with us. Strength in numbers, and all that.”

  “I’m not asking your permission.” Fargo started to head for the Ovaro but steely fingers clamped onto his arm and he was spun around.

  “It’s about time you realized who is in charge,” Teague said. “When I give a command I expect it to be obeyed, and I am commanding you to stay here.”

  Fargo laughed and walked on but he was spun around a second time.

  “I’m serious,” Teague warned. “Just because I hired you as a guide does not grant you the right to do as you please. I’ve been tolerant long enough.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself.” Fargo took another step but Teague didn’t listen. Once more his arm was gripped. Once more he was spun around. Only this time there was a difference. This time Fargo punched Teague Synnet in the stomach.

  Teague took a step back. “That was uncalled for.”

  Fargo looked at his fist. Usually when he walloped someone in the gut, they went down, hard. But hitting Synnet had been like hitting an adobe wall. “Stay out of my way,” he said, and took a step to go past him.

  Taking a long bound to block his way, Teague Synnet declared, “You’re not leaving and that’s final.”

  Fargo would be damned if he would let the man boss him around. “Move.”

  Teague tossed his rifle to Anson Landers and raised his fists. “Didn’t you learn anything from the pounding I gave Campbell?”

  “I learned not to take you lightly,” Fargo said as he unbuckled his gun belt. Lowering it to the grass, he tried a final time. “There’s no need for this.”