“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 most 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.”