Alaskan Vengeance

by Jon Sharpe

  ‘‘Why get when bear be dead.’’

  ‘‘Which is how Vassily wants me,’’ Fargo reminded her. ‘‘Gather up whatever you want to take, but hurry.’’

  ‘‘Vassily not want me dead,’’ Kira said. ‘‘Vassily my people. I stay. They come back later or sooner.’’

  ‘‘You can’t stay here alone,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Those Indians I told you about won’t care that you are a woman.’’

  ‘‘I see no Indians. You sure?’’

  Fargo did not like being called a liar. ‘‘The Tlingits are out to slaughter your entire party. Stick with me and I will do my best to keep you alive.’’

  ‘‘But Vassily—’’ Kira began.

  ‘‘I will take you to him, if that’s what you want,’’ Fargo said. Then he would find a horse and light out for Sitka. Let the Russians and the Tlingits kill each other off. He wanted no part of it.

  ‘‘Maybe so I be more safe here,’’ Kira said.

  Fargo tried one last time. ‘‘Have you been listening? The Indians will kill you if they find you.’’

  ‘‘I hide,’’ Kira said. ‘‘They not find. Vassily come, and all be well.’’

  Fargo sighed. He never hit women unless they were trying to harm him, but he had a strong urge to try and smack some sense into her. ‘‘Everything dies,’’ he said.

  Kira blinked her lovely eyes. ‘‘I sorry?’’

  Nodding at the brown bear, Fargo repeated, ‘‘Everything dies. A bear as big as a log cabin. You. Me. Everything.’’

  ‘‘Ah. You concern for me?’’ Kira kissed him on the other cheek. ‘‘You be sweet. But you go. I be all right.’’

  A remark about idiots was on the tip of Fargo’s tongue but instead he said, ‘‘Suit yourself. It’s your blood that will be spilled.’’ He turned and hurried around the tent. Vassily Baranof was bound to have heard the shots and just as bound to hurry back out of worry for his sister. Come to think of it, the Tlingits were bound to have heard them, as well, and the entire war party might be on its way to investigate.

  Fargo was sorry he ever sat in on that poker game in Seattle. He was even sorrier he had won the pot. The thought made him grin. Winning pots was what poker was all about.

  Suddenly a shadow separated itself from a nearby tent.

  In reflex Fargo brought up the Henry. He would be damned if he would let the Russians or the Tlingits get their hands on him again. Now that he had his weapons, he was leaving, and anyone who tried to stop him would be welcome to digest lead.

  ‘‘Don’t shoot!’’ the shadow blurted. ‘‘It’s me!’’

  Fargo held his fire. ‘‘Me’’ turned out to be Earl. Impossibly enough, he was dirtier than ever. His clothes and face were smeared with dirt, as if he had dug a hole and climbed in. ‘‘Where have you been?’’

  Earl gestured at the mountain behind him. ‘‘Up there, hid among the rocks. When that bastard killed Lester I knew it wouldn’t be long before he got around to me, so I snuck off.’’

  ‘‘You’ve been up there this whole time?’’

  ‘‘Where else would I be? I’ve been waiting for the chance to come down. I saw you, but then that bear showed up.’’

  Fargo lowered the Henry. ‘‘I’m leaving. You are welcome to come with me if you want.’’

  ‘‘But the gold!’’

  ‘‘You can have it,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘If the Russians or the Tlingits or a bear or something else doesn’t get you first.’’

  ‘‘The Tlingits? What do they have to with this?’’

  Fargo refused to squander more time. ‘‘Come with me and I will explain.’’ He took it for granted Earl would follow but when he glanced back Earl had not moved. ‘‘What are you waiting for? The Russians will be back any time now.’’

  ‘‘I’m not leaving without some of the gold,’’ Earl said. ‘‘I’m not going back to Sitka empty-handed.’’

  ‘‘You won’t be going back at all if you don’t get the hell out of here,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘Go ahead. I’m not leaving.’’

  Earl had a wild gleam in his eyes, a gleam Fargo recognized, the gleam of pure, raw greed. ‘‘Didn’t you learn anything from Lester’s death?’’

  ‘‘How dare you?’’ Earl bristled. ‘‘He was my partner, not yours. Him and me had been together ten years.’’

  ‘‘Keep on as you are and you will be together again real soon,’’ Fargo predicted. He did not wait for a reply. Maybe Earl did not care about dying, but he did. He was not ready to cash in his chips. Given his druthers, he would not mind living a good long while yet. There were a lot of places he had not seen, a lot of women he had not bedded.

  Fargo came to the last tent. So far no shouts had broken the stillness of the night, which struck him as peculiar. Or maybe the Russians were farther off than he figured. He was about to plunge into the forest when a sound drew him up short. It came from the other end of the camp. An indistinct outcry, so faint he could not say whether it had been a woman or a man.

  Fargo took another step toward the pines, then stopped. An awful premonition had wormed into his head. He assured himself he must be mistaken but he could not shake the certainty.

  With an oath, Fargo spun and retraced his steps, running instead of walking. If he was wrong he was making a fool of himself. If he was right—well, he did not want to think of what might be happening if he was right. Surely not, he told himself. Surely Earl had more sense.

  Another cry spurred Fargo to run faster. There was no doubt now. He should have suspected, but then, Earl had always been after the gold and nothing but the gold.

  A lantern had been lit in Vassily Baranof’s tent. It backlit their silhouettes. She was still alive, kicking and struggling, and she saw Fargo when he exploded into the tent and raised the Henry.

  Earl had his back to the flap. But Kira’s expression warned him. Releasing her throat, he spun. Lust contorted his features. He was unarmed, which was the only thing that saved him.

  ‘‘The gold, huh?’’ Fargo said.

  Kira rolled out of Earl’s reach. Gasping and rubbing her throat, she rose to her knees. ‘‘Shoot him!’’ she mewed. ‘‘He try take my sex!’’

  Beads of sweat peppered Earl’s brow. Licking his thick lips, he stared into the Henry’s muzzle and said, ‘‘I wasn’t really going to hurt her. I only want, you know.’’ He grinned as if it were a big joke a fellow male would appreciate.

  ‘‘If I had not come back, you would have killed her.’’ Fargo made it a statement of fact, not a question.

  ‘‘No, no, no. I just said. A few pokes wouldn’t hurt the bitch. Besides, she’s Russian, so where is the harm?’’

  Fargo’s trigger finger itched. Moving to one side, he said grimly, ‘‘I would shut up and run if I were you. I would run very fast and get as far from here as you can before I change my mind.’’

  Kira waved a hand at Earl. ‘‘No! Shoot him! He like animal! Worse animal than bear!’’

  His lust replaced by fear, Earl sidled toward the flap. ‘‘I’ll go, I’ll go,’’ he said. ‘‘Just don’t pull that trigger.’’

  ‘‘Kill him!’’ Kira urged. She was red in the face and had finger marks on her throat. ‘‘Kill bastard!’’

  ‘‘Go,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Go now.’’

  Bobbing his multiple chins, Earl turned and pushed on the flap and bounded from the tent. But he had taken only a step and still had hold of the flap when there was a fleshy thwack-thwack-thwack and he stopped as if he had slammed into a brick wall.

  ‘‘What?’’ Kira wondered.

  Earl backed into the tent. His arms had fallen limp and he was gaping at three feathered shafts that jutted from his chest. The arrows were newly made and unmarked so no one could trace them to their makers. He reached for one but could not lift his arm high enough. He looked at Fargo and tried to speak but all that came out of his mouth was blood. From his mouth and from his nose, copious dark rivulets flowed down over his chins.<
br />
  ‘‘Indians!’’ Kira shrieked.

  ‘‘I warned you,’’ Fargo said. He dashed to the lantern and blew it out. When he turned, Earl lay on the ground, feebly twitching.

  ‘‘What we do?’’ Kira asked. ‘‘I not want to die.’’

  ‘‘Now you think of that?’’ Fargo shook his head and moved nearer to the flap. He did not open it. Not when he was bound to be greeted with a swarm of shafts.

  From outside came a familiar voice. ‘‘Do you hear me, clever one? I know you are in there.’’

  ‘‘I hear you, Gray Fox,’’ Fargo answered. It was pointless not to.

  ‘‘Is the fat one dead?’’

  ‘‘Very,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘We have surrounded the tent. There is no escape. Throw the rifle and the revolver out and step out with your hands where we can see them. You and the female, together.’’

  ‘‘If I don’t?’’ Fargo asked. He was stalling. The answer was as plain as the dead man bristling with arrows.

  ‘‘We will kill you whether you do or whether you do not. But we will kill you much more slowly if you do not. Slowly, and with great pain.’’

  ‘‘So my not being Russian no longer matters?’’

  ‘‘It never did,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘I like you, but we cannot leave witnesses to our vengeance.’’

  ‘‘The woman dies, too, then?’’

  ‘‘I am sorry.’’

  ‘‘So am I,’’ Fargo said, ‘‘because the only way you are getting your hands on my hardware is if you pry them from my fingers.’’

  ‘‘There are more than thirty of us and only one of you,’’ Gray Fox pointed out. ‘‘How long do you think you can last?’’

  Fargo thumbed back the Henry’s hammer. ‘‘Let’s find out.’’

  17

  A commotion broke out. The Tlingits yelled to one another in their own tongue. Then Gray Fox said something and it grew quiet.

  Fargo backed away from the flap. Taking Kira’s hand, he moved to the middle of the tent and crouched. She followed his example, the whites of her eyes showing.

  ‘‘What do they do?’’

  ‘‘Your guess is as good as mine,’’ Fargo said so only she would hear. Whatever it was, more blood was bound to be spilled.

  Yet another irony. Fargo had no personal quarrel with the Tlingits. He did not want to harm any of them, any more than he wanted to be harmed by them. They were letting their hatred for the Russians taint their view toward all whites. The result: here he was, forced to defend his life over something someone else had done decades ago. The thought prompted him to shout, ‘‘Gray Fox!’’

  ‘‘I hear you, American.’’

  ‘‘Your fight is not with me. It is with the Russians. Let me leave and take the lady with me and no one need be hurt.’’

  ‘‘You will tell the government what we have done. Captain Petrov will come with soldiers to punish us.’’

  ‘‘I will tell no one. You have my word.’’

  There was silence before the old Tlingit said, ‘‘I believe you, American. I sense you speak with a true tongue. Very well. I will let you go. But the woman stays. She is Russian.’’

  Fargo heard Kira gasp.

  ‘‘You not leave me,’’ she pleaded. ‘‘They kill me. Maybe do like other man tried.’’

  ‘‘What is your answer, American?’’ Gray Fox called.

  Fargo sighed. ‘‘As you say, she is a woman. I can’t go off and leave her to be butchered.’’

  ‘‘That is too bad,’’ Gray Fox said.

  ‘‘Warriors do not make war on women,’’ Fargo tried a different tack. ‘‘Can’t you find it in you to let her live?’’

  ‘‘No, American, I cannot. I have already explained. The Russians have done terrible things to our women. I will not spare one of theirs.’’

  ‘‘But she didn’t do anything to you or yours,’’ Fargo noted. ‘‘Why punish an innocent?’’

  ‘‘Our women, our children, were just as innocent, but that did not stop the Russians. They must now taste their own cruelty.’’

  ‘‘Don’t do this, Gray Fox. I’m asking you man to man.’’

  ‘‘I am sorry, American. Some things must be whether we want them to be or not. Another time, I would be glad to call you a friend. But here and now, you defend my enemy, and in doing so, you become an enemy.’’

  Silence fell again, all the more unnerving because Fargo did not know what form the attack would take. He found out when a bow twanged and an arrow sliced through the canvas on the right side of the tent, buzzed within a foot of his face, and embedded itself in the ground near the left side.

  Kira blurted words in Russian and made as if to rise and run out of the tent but Fargo yanked her back down beside him.

  ‘‘That was the first of many, American,’’ Gray Fox said. ‘‘It will not be pleasant. Give up and I promise your death will be quick and with little pain.’’

  ‘‘Go to hell,’’ Fargo replied.

  Another bow string twanged. This time the arrow came through the left wall of the tent and missed Fargo and the woman by no more than four inches. It stuck in the ground, quivering.

  ‘‘One last time, American. I have no wish for you to suffer.’’

  ‘‘Do you know what a hypocrite is?’’ Fargo rejoined.

  Gray Fox let out a sigh. ‘‘Very well. I have tried. It is on your head, not mine. Good-bye, American.’’

  Motioning to Kira, Fargo flattened and crawled to the rear. She was so scared she practically glued herself to him, and twice he had to push her off his arm so he could crawl unhindered.

  Behind them, arrows pierced the tent, first from the right side and then from the left. Five, six, seven arrows, several striking the center in the spots where Fargo and Kira had just been.

  ‘‘Are you ready to give up now?’’ Gray Fox shouted.

  Fargo did not answer. He had reached the back of the tent. Rising partway, he drew the toothpick.

  ‘‘American?’’

  Inserting the razor tip into the canvas, Fargo cut downward. He cut slowly, quietly, so the Tlingits who were bound to be watching the rear of the tent would not hear.

  ‘‘American, are you alive?’’ Gray Fox asked.

  Fargo made a six-inch slit. Removing the knife, he carefully pried the slit open using two fingers, and peeked out. Two dusky warriors were ten feet away. It was dark here at the back of the tent, and the pair had not seen the knife or heard the faint rasp of steel on canvas.

  ‘‘American?’’

  Fargo resumed cutting. Faster now, since he could watch the pair as he cut, and when one or the other looked at the tent, he would freeze until they looked away.

  ‘‘Woman, are you alive in there?’’

  Any moment now, Gray Fox would send a warrior in, or come in himself. Fargo had cut almost to the bottom. Now he cut at right angles, parallel to the ground. He was ready. But he did not make his break. Not just yet.

  Gray Fox was saying something in the Tlingit tongue.

  The front flap rustled, and a warrior stuck his head in.

  Twisting, Fargo fired. He did not aim high or low. They were out to kill him. They would get what they deserved. He aimed at where the man’s chest should be, and scored, for at the boom of his rifle the warrior jerked and a sharp cry filled the tent. Instantly, Fargo turned to the rear canvas and shoved his head and shoulders through.

  The two Tlingits were not looking down. They had moved to the left and were staring along the side of the tent, trying to see what was going on up front.

  Fargo shot them. He sent a slug into the head of one and as the second turned he put a slug into the man’s ear. Then he was out and on his feet and reaching down to help Kira.

  Harsh shouts rose, and feet drummed the ground. A warrior appeared at the corner, a spear at his shoulder.

  Fargo fired, coring the wide chest. He pushed Kira toward the forest and backpedaled, covering them as a jumble of yell
s testified to the confusion rampant among the Tlingits.

  An arrow whizzed past Fargo’s ear. He fired at the right corner of the tent to discourage the bowman from trying again. Then pines were around them, and turning, he grasped Kira and ran. For once she did not argue. There was nothing like having someone try to kill you to make a person come to their senses.

  Gray Fox was shouting. Any moment now, and the Tlingits would give chase, a pack of painted wolves who would not be satisfied with anything less than the blood of their quarry.

  Alone, Fargo stood a better chance of eluding them. His woodlore was second to none. Kira, on the other hand, made more noise than a panicked doe. But he would not desert her. Not to the fate the Tlingits had in store. It was not in him.

  So they ran. Fargo held on to her hand. He caught her when she stumbled, which she did frequently. She was terrified, and breathed in great gasps, even when he whispered to her to try to be more quiet. Every so often she would say, to herself and not to him, ‘‘I not want to die.’’ She did not notice that she said it in English and not Russian.

  The Tlingits were after them. Each was as quiet as Fargo in moving through the woods, but there were thirty of them, or thereabouts, and they could not help the random rustle of a leaf or a blade of grass or the crunch of a dry leaf or the snap of a twig. The sounds warned Fargo the warriors were spreading out to form a human net from which there would be no escape and no retreat.

  Let them come, was Fargo’s reaction. He had done all he could to avoid bloodshed. He had assured them he was not their enemy but they paid no heed. The lives of those he had shot, and the lives of those he would take if they tried to take his, were on their shoulders, not his.

  Kira stumbled yet again, and Fargo caught her and swept her upright. She tried to rub her shin but he pulled her after him, whispering, ‘‘We can’t slow down.’’

  ‘‘But I hurt,’’ she whined.

  ‘‘You will hurt a lot worse with an arrow stuck in you.’’

  That goaded her to greater speed, and for close to ten minutes they made swift progress. Fargo was adept at avoiding obstacles others might not have missed. A downed branch here, a log there, then a small boulder. He had the starlight to thank. Enough filtered through. Otherwise, they would blunder about in pitch black and collide with everything in their path.