by Jon Sharpe
On and on John Carter talked. About his sister. About a girl he once cared for. About a girl Jack once cared for. About the pet dog he’d had as a boy. About the time he had the measles.
Fargo had seldom been so thankful to pitch camp. He asked John to fetch enough firewood to last the night, and for twenty blessed minutes he enjoyed marvelous quiet. He stripped the Ovaro, kindled a small fire, and fashioned a makeshift spit. Then he took the Henry and roved off among the dry hills and gullies after game. He found rabbit tracks but they were several days old. He also saw where several grouse had taken dirt baths, but the grouse had also long since gone elsewhere.
The sun was a golden sliver on the rim of the world when Fargo came to the crest of a low rise and saw that below him stood a buck and four does. The deer fled, bounding toward a patch of brush, the buck in the lead. Fargo fixed a hasty bead on the slowest doe, held his breath to steady his body and his aim, and fired at a range of forty-five yards. The doe flipped in the air, thrashed a few times, and was done for.
The Carters were seated across the fire from each other, their rifles across their laps, when Fargo walked into camp with the doe across his shoulders. They had filled a coffee pot from a water skin and placed the pot on a flat rock partly in the flames.
John was scribbling in a leather-bound book. “It’s my journal,” he disclosed when Fargo asked. “I’ve been keeping a daily record of our travels. Maybe I’ll get it published one day.”
Jack glanced at Fargo and rolled his eyes skyward as if to suggest his younger brother was a few cards shy of a deck. “Who would read it?” he asked. “No one cares about our little adventures.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” John said, unfazed by the criticism. “The last time I was at the newsstand, I counted over two dozen penny dreadfuls.”
Fargo deposited the doe ten yards from the fire and drew the Arkansas toothpick. He poured some scalding hot water onto the blade before applying it to the doe’s belly. In short order he had her skinned, and had suspended a haunch over the flames. The delicious odor made his mouth water. His stomach rumbled, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since the day before.
While the meat roasted, Fargo scooped out a shallow hole and buried the entrails and other remains to discourage bears and wolves from paying them a visit. The rest of the meat he wrapped in the doe’s hide to cook the next day.
“You’re a handy gentleman to have around,” Jack paid him a compliment as he hunkered by the spit. “Most evenings we make do with beans. We’re not very skilled at hunting.”
“Our father would never take us with him when we were young,” John explained. “We asked a few times, but he always had an excuse not to.”
“Some men like to hunt, some don’t,” Fargo remarked. Those who didn’t were usually too squeamish or too lazy to hunt their own food. If it weren’t for butchers, markets, and restaurants, they would starve. Civilization was a refuge for those unable to make do on their own.
“I can’t wait until we reach the river tomorrow,” Jack said excitedly. “Every time we go there I keep hoping we’ll find something the rest missed.”
Fargo looked at each of their hopeful faces. “What will you do if we don’t find anything?” he bluntly asked. It was time they faced up to the truth they had been denying for so long. They could criticize Tanager and Maxwell all they wanted, but they were clutching at the thinnest of straws.
Jack answered. “We’ll have to pack it in and go home. I hate to give up, but if Susie is gone, she’s gone, and we’ll have to deal with her loss as best we’re able.”
“How can you say that?” John demanded. “We both know she’s still alive. We can feel it in our bones. I’ll never give up on her so long as I draw breath.”
“Ever heard of wishful thinking?” Fargo asked.
John’s face pinched in stubborn denial. “Sure, I’ve heard of it. Don’t treat me like I’m some kid. But I’m telling you she is alive somewhere.” Suddenly rising, he stalked off toward the horses.
Jack leaned forward and whispered. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s a bit of a hothead.”
“Out here that can get a man killed,” Fargo observed. He said no more on the subject the rest of the night. They would learn the hard way, if need be, but they would learn.
John returned after a while and sat off to one side, sulking. His mood lightened somewhat when the meat was done, and he ate as hungrily as his brother.
About ten o’clock Fargo decided to turn in and asked the Carters which of them wanted to take first watch.
“Stand guard, you mean?” Jack asked in surprise. “Is that really necessary? We’ve never done it before.”
It took a moment for the full implication to sink in. Genuinely stunned, Fargo paused in the act of polishing off his fourth cup of coffee. “The two of you came all this way from Ohio, traveled clear across the prairie and the mountains, went on to Oregon and back again, and neither of you ever once stood guard at night?”
“Should we have?” Jack asked. “We honestly didn’t think it was necessary. We never saw any Indians. And the only bear we ever saw was a black bear, and it was far off.”
“The two of you should take up gambling,” Fargo said with a grin. They had more luck than a hundred men. It was rare for anyone to cover as much territory as they had and not encounter some sort of trouble along the way. Even large wagon trains weren’t immune. The disappearance of their sister was proof of that.
Jack agreed to take a three-hour watch. John would stand guard next, and Fargo last. Fargo unrolled his bedroll and spread out his blankets. For a pillow, he had his saddle. Lying on his back with his fingers entwined behind his head, he reveled in the celestial spectacle overhead. Twice he saw the fiery streaks of meteors. Finally, sleep claimed him. But it seemed as if he had been asleep only five minutes when he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “My turn already?” he asked, sitting up.
“You have another hour yet,” John said. He was holding a nickel-plated, short-barreled Remington revolver, and he had it cocked.
“What’s with the artillery?”
“We have visitors,” John said, and nodded at the encircling darkness.
Fargo looked, and beheld dozens of reddish eyes blazing at them from all sides like the eyes of disembodied demons. Throwing his blanket off, he rose and lowered his right hand to his Colt.
“They appeared out of nowhere,” John informed him. “I never heard them come up. One second they weren’t there, the next they were.” He anxiously licked his lips. “What are they, anyhow?”
“Wolves,” Fargo said. “Lots and lots of wolves.”
5
John Carter snapped his rifle to his shoulder to fire.
“Don’t!” Fargo commanded. Grabbing the barrel, he tilted the muzzle at the ground. “Don’t shoot unless they attack.” Which was highly unlikely. Normally, wolves posed little danger unless they were starved. Highly intelligent and innately curious, they often came close to campfires. But Fargo knew of only a handful of incidents in which they had gone after humans, and then only when the wolves were desperate for food.
“But there are so many!” John declared. “We should drop one or two so the rest will run off.”
“It might anger them into attacking, instead,” Fargo said. And there had to be twenty-five to thirty out there. Large packs weren’t all that uncommon. It was fortunate the wolves weren’t hostiles, Fargo reflected. Working in concert, the wolves easily brought down deer and elk. Once, he’d seen a pack drag down an old bull moose.
John nervously licked his lips. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The other brother hadn’t stirred. Jack was blissfully sleeping through the whole thing.
One of the larger wolves padded toward them slowly and halted at the edge of the firelight. It had a thick, dark coat, and a long, bushy tail. Raising its nose into the wind, it sniffed loudly several times, then uttered a low yip. At the signal, the entire pa
ck turned and trotted off into the night.
“Thank goodness,” John exclaimed. “I thought for sure they would eat us alive.”
“Most wild animals fight shy of humans,” Fargo said. There were exceptions. Grizzlies, for instance. The massive lords of the mountains weren’t scared of anything, including two-legged invaders of their territory. Mountain lions would kill, but they weren’t as bold as bears. They preferred to slink up close and jump prey from behind. In contrast, a griz would come right at a person.
“Sorry I woke you,” John said. “There’s still another half an hour to go before it’s your turn to stand guard.”
“You did the right thing,” Fargo responded. Alone, John might have shot at them, and the wolves might have swarmed the camp before he could get out from under his blanket. “Go ahead and turn in. I’ll take over.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying up longer.”
“I’m sure.” Fargo wouldn’t be able to get right back to sleep anyway. And another ten or fifteen minutes of shut-eye wouldn’t make much of a difference.
John moved to his bedding. “Fair enough. I made a new pot of coffee. Feel free to help yourself.”
Fargo did just that, and his first swallow made his mouth pucker. The greenhorn had added enough sugar to gag a horse. Sugar was a rare treat on the frontier and most used it in moderation. Fargo took a few small sips, then poured a third of the pot onto the ground and refilled it with water from the water skin. He set the pot on the fire, and when the brew was boiling, he refilled his cup. Now it was a lot better.
The rest of the night proved uneventful. A cougar screeched to the northeast and a roving bear grunted a few times, but neither came close to camp.
By sunrise, Fargo had the Carters up and fed and in the saddle. They ate leftover venison. Jack offered to cook flapjacks but Fargo didn’t believe in letting meat go to waste. When a man shot an animal for food, he had an obligation to eat as much of it as he could before the meat spoiled.
The air had a nice, crisp edge to it. Fargo breathed deep as they rode off. Early morning was one of his favorite times of the day. The world was always fresh and new, and it felt good to be alive.
By noon the arid ground had given way to grass and weeds and brush. Trees sprouted, and toward the middle of the afternoon Fargo spied a line of cottonwoods, a clue that the river wasn’t far off.
The Snake River wasn’t especially wide, but it was swift-flowing in spots. More importantly, it was a godsend for emigrants flocking West. The Oregon Trail paralleled the river for mile after mile, just as it had followed the course of the North Platte River back on the prairie, and as it would parallel the Columbia River later on. Without those three rivers, the route west would be infinitely harder, to say nothing of being infinitely drier, and many more untold thousands would perish along the way.
Fargo wasn’t like most whites. He seldom worried about dying of thirst. He knew the location and course of every river and most major streams between the Mississippi and the Pacific. He was also highly adept at finding water in new, unexplored territory. Yet another reason he was so highly regarded as a scout and guide.
The Carter boys became increasingly more excited the closer they drew to the Snake. After another quarter mile, they lashed their mounts into a gallop and barreled off through the trees.
Fargo came close behind. Presently, he beheld the river. He brought the Ovaro to the water’s edge and allowed the stallion to slake its thirst while he dismounted to stretch his legs.
The Carters were still in the saddle. Jack rose in the stirrups and pointed to the northwest. “If I’m right, the exact spot is a few miles in that direction. Let’s hurry.”
Removing his hat, Fargo upended it and filled the crown with water. “We’ll take it nice and easy,” he recommended.
“But we can’t wait to show you the spot!” Jack said. “We’re not tired or hungry, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking of the horses,” Fargo set him straight. “We’ve been prodding them hard since we left Les Bois. We’ll go easy for their sakes, not for yours.” Pouring out the water, he placed his hat back on his head and experienced tingling cool wetness clear down to his neck. It wouldn’t last long, but the respite from the heat was welcome.
The Carters impatiently waited as Fargo climbed on the pinto, and they were quick to head off again. Out on the Snake River some ducks were feeding. Twice they spooked deer that had emerged from hiding to get a drink. Squirrels chattered at them from high in the trees, and a long brown snake went gliding by at one point, within a few yards of shore.
A rutted track bordered the river, sometimes close to it, at other times a stone’s-throw off. The ruts were the result of thousands of wagon wheels digging deep into the soil. Intermixed with the ruts were countless hoof prints left by countless oxen, horses, and mules. The Oregon Trial stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.
John squirmed and fidgeted as if he had ants in his britches. He wasn’t pleased by their slow pace one whit.
Then a bend appeared, and both Carters whooped and raced on ahead, Jack bawling, “We’re almost there! We’re almost there!”
Fargo took his time. When he rounded a finger of woodland, he saw the brothers had hopped off their mounts and were anxiously awaiting his arrival. “This is where your sister vanished?”
Jack nodded and removed a slip of paper from a jacket pocket. “See for yourself. Mr. Tanager drew us a sketch and everything matches. This has to be the right place.”
Sliding down, Fargo took the paper and confirmed it for himself. The scout wasn’t much of an artist but he had done a passable job, and in his sketch he had listed three landmarks. The first was a gravel bar that jutted thirty feet into the Snake. The second was a low hill directly across the river from the gravel bar. The third, and the one that climbed it for Fargo, was a lightningscarred tree seventy yards past the gravel bar but plainly visible from where they stood.
“Were we right?” John asked.
Nodding, Fargo surveyed the shoreline. Extremely heavy undergrowth grew to the very brink of the river-bank, part of a tract seven or eight acres in extent. The Oregon Trail came within forty yards of the river, and a path had been cleared down to the gravel bar. The water around the bar was shallow, no more than two or three feet deep, and was almost still. It was an ideal spot for washing clothes and refilling canteens.
A small X on the paper marked the spot where Suzanne Maxwell had been standing when she was last seen. It was close to a low bank, within a couple of feet of the vegetation. Fargo could easily imagine a bear or a mountain lion taking her unaware. She must have had her back to the undergrowth and never known what had jumped her. “How many other women were with her that day, did you say?”
“Fourteen,” Jack answered. “And one fellow keeping watch. There.” He pointed at a log about eight yards to the south. “Tanager told us it was an older man from Connecticut. We weren’t able to find him and speak to him in person, but he had sat down to smoke a pipe. It wasn’t until one of the ladies yelled that he realized Susie was missing.”
Fargo stood in the exact spot marked by the X. Suzanne Maxwell had been less than an arm’s-reach from a dense thicket. He envisioned that day in his mind; the women jabbering and laughing, and no doubt making a lot of noise as they dipped their clothes in the river and wrung the garments out; the old man over on the log, puffing on his pipe and not really paying a lot of attention. Yes, a bear or a mountain lion were logical culprits. And yet ...
The gravel bar was only thirty feet long and about six feet wide. The women couldn’t have been spaced all that far apart. And the old man had only been twenty-four feet away. If a grizzly or a black bear were to blame, surely someone would have seen or heard something. Bears were big animals, grizzlies were huge. Often when they attacked, they roared or growled ferociously. At the very least, they made a lot of noise plowing through thick brush, as the bear would have done as it dragged Suzanne M
axwell off. Yet no one heard a thing.
Mountain lions were stealthier, and quicker, but they weren’t all that bold. They rarely attacked humans in groups. The noise the women had been making, combined with the proximity of the guard and the alien scent of his tobacco, should have been enough to deter a catamount from attacking.
Then, too, if a cougar had jumped Suzanne Maxwell, it couldn’t have dragged her off without leaving some sign to that effect. “Was any blood found?” Fargo asked as he peered into the thicket’s depths. “Any bits of your sister’s clothing?”
“Not a lick,” Jack said.
Again, that was odd. Bears and mountain lions inflicted severe wounds. Fargo gave the sketch back to the older brother and began circling the thicket, his eyes to the ground. His curiosity had been piqued. Something wasn’t quite right, and he would very much like to get to the bottom of the mystery.
Three months was an eternity in the wild. Any tracks made at the time had long since been erased by the wind and the rain. Fargo had to remember his own advice to the brothers; don’t expect a miracle.
“Mr. Tanager claimed he went over this whole area on his hands and knees,” John related. “He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t find anything.”
Fargo walked around to the far side of the thicket. Logically, if a predator had dragged the woman off, there should have been paw prints and drag marks where they emerged. Yet there weren’t any.
Fargo examined the thicket more closely. If a bear had plowed through it, there should be broken branches and crushed stems. But as near as he could tell, the thicket was untouched. Scratching the back of his head in growing bafflement, Fargo tucked at the knees and studied the thicket low down.
A cougar was a lot smaller than a bear. It would stay low to the ground, dragging Suzanne after it. And sure enough, Fargo found a narrow gap at the bottom where something had gone through. Easing onto his elbows and knees, he handed his hat to John and wormed a few feet into the opening. He saw grouse tracks, recently made. He also discovered a number of odd scrapes that seemed to extend to the other side of the thicket. Crawling in a little farther, he inspected one. It almost looked as if someone had jabbed the blunt edge of a stick into the dirt.
