by Jon Sharpe
‘‘Keep your eyes peeled for that other party we saw,’’ Toomey cautioned. ‘‘We don’t want them to find us.’’
‘‘If they do it will be just too bad for them,’’ Lester said. ‘‘We are well armed, and it’s not like I haven’t killed before.’’
‘‘Hush, you infant,’’ Earl said. ‘‘You will have Frank thinking we are cutthroats.’’
‘‘I would never think that,’’ Toomey assured him. ‘‘Not after all you have done for me. You two are about the best friends I have ever had.’’
‘‘You hear that, Lester?’’ Earl grinned. ‘‘Doesn’t it warm the cockles of your heart?’’
‘‘What’s a cockle?’’ Lester asked.
When the coffee was ready, Fargo filled his cup and sat back, thinking. He did not like to leave Toomey but it could not be helped. If he insisted he should stay, Earl and Lester might wonder why he was being so pigheaded. Besides, he told himself, whatever happened, Toomey had brought it on himself. There was only so much he could do.
The other three were in good spirits. They joked and laughed, paying no attention to the beastly din that came from down the valley. Fargo paid attention to it. The cries told him the valley was home to wolves and a bear and a female mountain lion that screeched like a woman in labor.
Earl produced a whiskey bottle. ‘‘How about a few sips to celebrate? The rest we can save until our packs are crammed with ore.’’
‘‘Fine by me,’’ Lester said, smacking his lips.
Toomey had reservations. ‘‘I guess it can’t hurt so long as none of us gets drunk.’’
Fargo had them add a little to his coffee. A familiar warmth spread down his throat to his belly, and he would have dearly loved to drink more. But a clear head was called for.
‘‘What I don’t get,’’ Earl commented, ‘‘is why the old Indian who brought you here didn’t dig out the gold for himself. Most Indians have learned by now how valuable gold is.’’
‘‘Something else I should have asked him but didn’t,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘But it honestly never occurred to me.’’
‘‘The old Indian’s loss is our gain,’’ Lester said, then quickly changed it to, ‘‘Your gain, I mean, Frank. Yours and Fargo’s.’’
‘‘Lucky them,’’ Earl said.
Fargo was the last to turn in. He did not give in to the demands of his tired body until the others were sound asleep. Now that they had found the gold, he must stay vigilant. That which he expected to happen could happen at any time.
The new day dawned clear and cold. Fargo was the first up and rekindled the fire. He made a fresh pot of coffee. The aroma brought Toomey out of dreamland. Stretching, Toomey smiled at him.
‘‘Good morning. It promises to be a glorious day.’’
‘‘Don’t let it be too glorious,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘I don’t understand.’’ Toomey extended an arm toward the hole. ‘‘I am on the threshold of having every dream I have ever had come true. How can it be anything less than one of the best days of my life?’’
‘‘You are not safe here.’’
Toomey laughed and said, ‘‘Is anyone ever safe anywhere? I refuse to let a little danger spoil my mood.’’
‘‘The dangers are more than little,’’ Fargo stressed. ‘‘And I will be gone most of the day butchering the moose.’’
‘‘Don’t fret on my account,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘I’ll be fine. Earl and Lester are with me.’’
‘‘If you do run into trouble,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘fire three shots into the air. Sound carries a long way. I should hear, and I will come on the run.’’
That was when Earl sat up and cast off his blankets. ‘‘I don’t know if I can get used to this,’’ he said with a yawn. ‘‘I like to sleep in until noon.’’
‘‘You waste half the day that way,’’ Toomey said.
‘‘Show me where it does any harm,’’ Earl said. ‘‘My mother was fond of saying the early bird gets the worm but who in hell likes to eat worms except birds?’’
Frank Toomey laughed. ‘‘I never quite thought of it like that. I have always been an early riser.’’
So was Fargo. He liked the dawn, liked to see each new day born out of the womb of night. Now he remarked, ‘‘I will need to take an extra horse with me to pack in the meat.’’
‘‘You can take mine,’’ Toomey offered. ‘‘I won’t have any use for it. I will be busy all day digging.’’
Fargo left about an hour after sunrise. He had a long day ahead of him and the sooner he got started, the sooner he could get back and keep an eye on Toomey. He cantered for a while and then held the bay to a walk.
The valley pulsed with life. Fargo could not get over how much of it there was. He had always thought the prairies and the mountains he roamed were abundant with animals of every kind but they were anemic compared to Alaska. It was a Garden of Eden, except that instead of a single serpent to worry about, this Eden was rife with countless creatures that would not hesitate to end his life given half a chance.
Circling vultures were a sign Fargo was getting close. Next he spied a pair of coyotes. They were not at the meat but were standing near a bend and staring hungrily at the feast being denied them. On hearing the horses, they immediately fled. A minute later Fargo drew rein at the same spot.
The moose carcass and the body of the disemboweled horse were where he had last seen them, but they had company. A large black bear, the largest Fargo ever saw, was tearing at the intestines of the stricken horse, its maw buried in the dead animal’s innards.
Fargo did not want to kill it if he could help it. Gigging the bay closer, he again drew rein and shucked the Henry. He mentally crossed his fingers that black bears in Alaska were like black bears everywhere, and bellowed, ‘‘Ho! Bear! Scat!’’
With a loud grunt the black bear pulled its head out of the horse and reared onto its hind legs. It turned its head from side to side but did not spot Fargo until he shouted again.
‘‘Go be a nuisance somewhere else! I have work to do!’’
Fargo expected to see it go running off. Instead, it dropped onto all fours and came lumbering toward him, staring fixedly with its ears up in the manner black bears had when they were about to attack.
‘‘Hell,’’ Fargo said. He aimed at the ground in front of the bear. Since he already had a cartridge in the chamber, all he had to do was thumb back the hammer, curl his finger around the trigger, and apply the slightest pressure. At the crack, a dirt geyser spewed over one of the bear’s forepaws. The bear stopped and reared.
Fargo centered the Henry’s sights on its throat. Given his druthers he would let the bear live. He waited for it to do something but all it did was stare.
Suddenly the black bear opened its mouth and growled. Fargo construed that as a prelude to rushing him, but as if to prove the axiom that bears were the most unpredictable creatures on God’s green earth, the black bear dropped onto all fours, wheeled, and vanished into the forest.
Fargo stayed where he was a while, to be safe. At length he gigged the bay forward.
The dead horse showed signs of swelling and the odor it gave off was far from pleasant. Loosening his bandanna, Fargo pulled it up over his mouth and nose, then retightened the knot. It kept out the worst of the stench, which would be considerably worse in a few days.
Since they had no need for the hide, Fargo did not skin the moose as he would if they intended to use it. He started by cutting down the hind legs, making a single cut from the tail to the chin, and then slicing a line up the inside of each front leg. From that point he peeled the hide from the body, using the knife only when the membranes proved stubborn.
The hide was still pliable but not nearly as manageable as it would be if cured. He cut it into thirds and set the sections aside with the hair facing down. The next step was to carve up the meat. He could not take it all. He chose the softer, choice parts, which on a moose were not as tender as, say, the choicest parts
of a cow but were nowhere near as lean as the meat on, say, a mountain goat.
It was hard work. His toothpick was sharp but there were a lot of tendons and bones to deal with. He became so engrossed that he paid no heed to the passage of time. He did have the presence of mind to scan the valley now and again for sign of anything that might be inclined to do him harm.
As it was, by the clock it would be pushing four in the afternoon when Fargo tied the last of the bundles onto Toomey’s horse and stepped back with a nod of satisfaction. He would take the meat back and in the morning slice it into strips so it could be hung over racks and dried.
Fargo walked to the stream and knelt to wash his hands. They were caked with blood and other internal juices and smelled almost as bad as the dead horse. He dipped his hands in the cold water and rubbed his fingers and palms. His reflection stared back at him.
Seconds later, so did another.
Men had come out of the spruce on the other side of the stream and one of them came to the edge of the bank and smiled down at him.
‘‘Surprised to see me, American?’’ Vassily Baranof asked.
9
Fargo calmly finished washing his hands and wiped them on his buckskin pants. Slowly rising, he returned Vassily’s smug smile with his own. ‘‘I am not surprised at all, Russian,’’ he answered. ‘‘Truth is, I was wondering why you were taking so long.’’
‘‘You have been expecting me? I find that hard to believe.’’ Vassily motioned, and half of the eighteen men who had come out of the woods with him turned and went back in. The rest warily converged, their rifles leveled.
‘‘I saw your face in the Motherland when Toomey mentioned the gold,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘As we Americans like to say, you wear your greed on your sleeve.’’
‘‘Or you are more observant than most,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘But not so observant that you saw us creep up on you.’’
‘‘Is that what you were doing?’’ Fargo retorted. ‘‘The way your men were clumping around, I figured you didn’t care if I knew.’’
The big Russian laughed. ‘‘You fight with words as superbly as you do with your fists.’’ He pointed at the Colt. ‘‘Which makes me suspect you are also skilled with your revolver. Hand it over, if you please, and even if you do not.’’
With all those rifles pointed at him it would be suicide to resist. Fargo carefully drew the Colt and just as carefully held it out. ‘‘I never argue with a gent who has a private army.’’
The big Russian jumped the stream in a long bound and relieved Fargo of his six-shooter. ‘‘You amuse me. I think I will keep you alive a while yet.’’
‘‘Until you have the gold, anyway,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘Oh, I know where it is,’’ Vassily taunted. ‘‘One of my men is watching your friends as we speak.’’
‘‘Acquaintances.’’
‘‘Eh? Are you suggesting you are not on good terms with them? Why, then, did they bring you to the gold?’’
‘‘I own a half-interest,’’ Fargo revealed.
‘‘A half-interest in nothing,’’ Vassily corrected him, ‘‘since soon it will be mine.’’
Other members of the party were crossing the stream. Those who had entered the woods were reemerging with mounts and pack animals. To Fargo’s considerable surprise, two of the figures on horseback were women. ‘‘You brought everything a person needs, I see.’’
Misunderstanding, Vassily said, ‘‘Nine packhorses with enough food and ammunition to last us indefinitely. I am always prepared. It is why I have lasted so long at what I do.’’
‘‘What would that be? Besides breaking the law?’’
Vassily’s grin was the grin of a bobcat about to pounce on a sparrow. ‘‘You sound like Captain Petrov. And like the conscientious captain, you fail to grasp that for some of us, laws are at best an inconvenience. I have never lived by the rules imposed on us by our so-called betters. I am above that.’’
‘‘Or below it,’’ Fargo said. He glimpsed movement and sidestepped a punch that would have landed solidly on his jaw. He raised his own fists but froze at the click of multiple rifle hammers.
‘‘No!’’ Vassily commanded. ‘‘He is not to be killed until I say he is to be killed.’’ To Fargo he said, ‘‘You amuse me, yes, but I have a low tolerance for insults. You would do well to keep that in mind.’’
Loud splashing erupted as the riders crossed the stream. Among them were the two women, who reined up on either side of Vassily Baranof. On the right was a black-haired beauty in a heavy coat, long skirt, and high boots. ‘‘Introduce me to your handsome friend, brother.’’
Vassily motioned at Fargo and chuckled. ‘‘An acquaintance , sister. I call him American to annoy him. American, permit me to introduce Sabina Baranof, my sister, and her best friend, Kira Ivanov.’’
The best friend was a stunning brunette with lively green eyes, full lips like ripe strawberries, and an exquisite shape her loose-fitting clothes could not conceal. She smiled at Fargo and said in throaty English, ‘‘I am much pleased to you meet, American.’’
‘‘You must excuse her,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘Her English is atrocious. Few in Sitka are as fluent as my sister and I, but then, we had a private tutor. A benefit of being a Baranof.’’
Sabina lithely dismounted and boldly walked up to Fargo, appraising him as she might a stallion she was interested in buying. ‘‘It puzzles me that my brother did not have you shot on sight. What did you do that he admires you so?’’
‘‘I hit him,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘You must hit hard. He has only contempt for those who are weak and craven.’’ Sabina offered her slender hand. ‘‘I share that trait.’’
Her grip was stronger than that of many men. Fargo met her frank scrutiny with his own, letting his gaze linger at her bosom, and lower down.
‘‘Do you like what you see?’’ Sabina teased.
Vassily glowered his disapproval. ‘‘Must you throw yourself at every man who interests you? Can’t you control your urges for once and pretend you are not a wanton minx?’’
‘‘Why, brother,’’ Sabina said. ‘‘That is one of the nicest compliments you have ever paid me.’’ She leaned close to Fargo. ‘‘He does not like to be reminded that he is not the only black sheep in our family.’’
Kira Ivanof had also climbed down. She smoothed her dress and, whether by design or accident, displayed quite nice legs to go with her quite nice bosom. ‘‘You eat me with your eyes,’’ she said, and she was not displeased.
‘‘To a man who is starved every woman is a feast.’’
Kira and Sabina both laughed, and the latter whispered something to her brother, who did not find it nearly as amusing.
‘‘You have made quite an impression, American. It is unfortunate I must eventually kill you.’’ Vassily pivoted toward his men, and suddenly he was authority personified, barking orders like a military commander. In short order everyone was mounted in pairs, with the two women behind Vassily and Fargo. At a wave of Vassily’s arm the entire column started up the valley.
‘‘There is one thing I do not know but would very much like to,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘Specifically, how much gold is there?’’
‘‘You are asking the wrong man,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I came after the moose meat while the rest stayed to dig.’’
‘‘You came all this way and you truly do not know? That does not strike me as being very intelligent.’’
‘‘I’ve had brighter ideas,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘About the meat,’’ Vassily remarked, ‘‘I feel a celebration is in order tonight. I trust you will not mind if your moose is the main course.’’
‘‘Not so long as I’m alive to eat some of it,’’ Fargo said.
The Russian gave a hearty laugh. ‘‘It will truly be a pity when I have you staked out and gutted.’’
‘‘In America we give the condemned a last request.’’
‘‘Then I
can do no less. What is your request? What would you ask of me?’’ Vassily asked.
‘‘That I’m not staked out and gutted.’’
More laughter ensued, and Vassily twisted in the saddle to say, ‘‘Did you hear him, sister? Where others would cringe and beg for their lives, he meets every thrust with a counterthrust.’’
‘‘He must be quite the swordsman,’’ Sabina said.
Fargo was honest with her. ‘‘I’ve hardly ever held one unless you count a cavalry saber.’’
‘‘That is not the kind of sword I had in mind,’’ Sabina enlightened him with an impish grin. ‘‘My brother must keep you alive long enough for me to find out if the tales about Americans are true.’’
‘‘Tales?’’ Fargo said.
‘‘About American—how do you say it?—prowess?’’
Kira giggled. ‘‘Like on a ship? No pants can be big enough.’’
Vassily swore in English and Russian. ‘‘Do you see what I must put up with?’’ he said to Fargo. Then, over his shoulder to the women, ‘‘It is the custom for those of one country to weave tales about those of another. The English do it with the French and the French do it with the Africans. Men from another country are always bigger than the men from their own. Women from another country are always tigresses in bed. That sort of nonsense.’’
‘‘It would still be fun to find out,’’ Sabina said.
‘‘Women,’’ Vassily sniffed.
‘‘Yes, women,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘and you brought them out here, of all places. That does not strike me as being very intelligent,’’ he mimicked Vassily’s earlier comment.
‘‘You think it stupid of me. But you try to say no to my sister. It cannot be done.’’ Swiveling at the hips, Vassily swept an arm along the long line of riders. ‘‘But I did bring, as you put it, my own army with me so they would be well protected.’’
‘‘Oh, my brother is very protective,’’ Sabina said. ‘‘Too much so at times.’’
‘‘Brothers be too bossy,’’ Kira added.
Vassily was even less amused. ‘‘Is this the thanks I get for doing my best to keep you from being harmed? Is this the thanks I get for caring?’’
