Impulsively, Fargo hurtled from the scrub brush. He thought it would be easy to intercept the three before they overtook their quarry. But he gave them too little credit. Once on flat ground, they had doubled their speed.
Fargo was in excellent condition, his sinews hardened to iron by a life in the wild, his stamina second to none. He settled into a long stride, the jangle of his spurs a constant reminder that he might have been better off using the Ovaro.
It pushed Fargo to his limit but bit by bit he narrowed the gap. Soon he was only thirty yards behind. Then twenty. Then ten. He could see beads of sweat on the back of the black’s neck when, alerted by the sound of his spurs, the man suddenly glanced over a shoulder. Seconds later the Apache did the same. Last to hear, the gaudily garbed white man twisted around.
“Hold it right there!” Fargo bellowed. He was almost on top of them and about to palm his Colt when he realized, to his considerable amazement, all three were unarmed. But they were far from defenseless. The black man whirled and cocked a fist the size of a sledgehammer. Only Fargo’s razor-sharp reflexes spared him from having his jaw broken.
“Mr. Samuels, no!” the white man bawled, but the big black man paid no mind.
Fargo dodged a second blow, and a third. He landed a solid jab to the gut that would usually double a man over, but Samuels merely grunted. Whirling to dodge a flurry of jabs, he glimpsed the Apache, standing aloof. The white’s mouth was agape. At least they weren’t lending a hand.
Samuels was nothing if not determined. He waded in again, his fists flying.
It as all Fargo could do to keep from having his head knocked off. He blocked, ducked, then delivered an upper-cut that jarred the bigger man onto his heels. In the blink of an eye Fargo had his Colt out and leveled. “Enough!” he barked, thumbing back the hammer. “Simmer down or you’ll eat lead.”
Undaunted, Samuels raised his arms again but the jasper in the red longjohns grabbed his wrist.
“Be sensible, my good fellow! Let’s get to the bottom of this before you resume pummeling him.” He had a British accent as thick as jam. To Fargo he said, “I demand to know the meaning of this unjustified assault, sir.”
“Unjustified?” Fargo replied.
“What else would you call it?” Samuels angrily growled. “You had no call to come rushin’ up on us like you did.”
Fargo nodded at the maiden, who had stopped and turned about sixty feet ahead. “We’ll let the girl you were after be the judge of that.” He beckoned, and after a few seconds of hesitation she jogged toward them.
“Do you know Morning Star?” the Englishman inquired. “Is this some unfathomable lark on her part?”
The Apache had folded his muscular arms across his broad chest and showed no inclination to join in the talk.
Samuels, though, shook a calloused fist. “If this throws us off the pace, I’ll report you to the officials! And take it out of your hide, to boot.”
Fargo never like being threatened. “You’re welcome to try.”
“You talk mighty big when you’re holdin’ a six-shooter,” the black man snapped. “Why don’t you holster it and we’ll see just how tough you really are.”
“Now, now, Mr. Samuels,” the Englishman cautioned. “Violence is the last resort of the feebleminded.”
“Are you callin’ me stupid? Just because you’re some high-falutin’ lord muck-a-muck doesn’t give you the right to insult folks.”
“I am an earl, not a lord,” the Englishman curtly replied. “I wish you would bother to remember that.” Facing Fargo, he gave a slight bow. “Earl Desmond Sherwood, at your service. I trust you will overlook Mr. Samuels’s tantrum. He has them with distressing frequency.”
Samuels opened his mouth to say something but fell silent at the arrival of the gorgeous maiden with the lustrous black hair. She also had an effect on Sherwood and the Apache. The former drew himself up to his full height and smoothed his thin patch of russet hair. The latter ran his gaze up and down her shapely figure like a hungry man who craved a feast.
Fargo touched his hat brim. Up close he could tell she was a Crow, which was as strange as everything else. The Crows lived a week’s ride or better to the east. “Do you savvy English?”
“I speak your tongue quite well, thank you,” Morning Star said, her enunciation superb. “Why did you attack these men?”
“I saw they were after you and figured I’d lend a hand.” Fargo drank in the beauty of her smooth complexion, dazzling dark eyes, and teeth as white as the purest snow.
“You thought they meant to harm me?” Morning Star regarded him with heightened interest. “That was noble of you. But your help was not needed. They pose no threat. They would not risk being disqualified.”
“Hear that, did you, mister?” Samuels rasped. “You made a jackass of yourself for nothing. We’re practicing, is all.”
Thoroughly confused, Fargo lowered his Colt. “For what?”
Desmond Sherwood took it on himself to answer. “Why, the great race, of course. The First Annual Nugget Chamber of Commerce Test of Endurance in the Art of Footracing. With a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.”
A couple of years ago a rich vein of silver had been discovered down near the California border, and ever since prospectors and others hoping to get rich quick had been scouring the mountains and deserts for more. Whenever a new strike was made, a new settlement immediately sprang up. Nugget, as Fargo recollected hearing, was one of the latest in a long string.
“They’ve been vigorously promoting the event for four or five months now,” Sherwood related.
This was the first Fargo had heard of it. He twirled the Colt into his holster. “My mistake.”
“And that’s it?” Samuels prodded. “You pull a damned hogleg on us and expect there won’t be any hard feelings.”
“Forgive and forget, what?” Desmond Sherwood said. “It was a simple misunderstanding. I’m satisfied.” He smiled at Fargo. “Perhaps you should give some thought to attending the festivities. Head due east and you can’t miss the town.” Squinting up at the sun, he declared, “We’re wasting valuable training time, lady and gentlemen. Shall we press on?”
And just like that, the four of them resumed running, Morning Star once again in the lead. As they departed Fargo noticed the most remarkable fact of all. Even though the ground was littered with countless stones that could cut flesh to ribbons, she was barefoot.
Fargo turned and hiked back to the spring. The notion of paying Nugget a visit appealed to him. He had been on the go for over a week, traveling from San Francisco to Cheyenne. A day or two of cards, whiskey and women, not necessarily in that order, were just what he needed.
By the middle of the morning the temperature had climbed into the nineties. Fargo pulled his hat brim low against the harsh glare of the sun and held the pinto to a walk. The air landscape baked under the sun’s onslaught, fit for lizards, snakes and scorpions, and little else.
Fargo shifted in the saddle. Morning Star and the others had long since vanished into the haze. He shook his head and clucked to the Ovaro. Anyone who went running around in that heat had to be loco, ten thousand dollars or not. He wouldn’t do it for twice that much.
Their tracks were as plain as the buckle on Fargo’s belt. All he had to do was backtrack to their starting point. What he found was yet another surprise in a day chock full of them so far.
Nugget was no sleepy mining camp. It had buildings and hitch rails and water troughs, its streets crowded even in the heat of day. Banners had been strung, and somewhere a piano was playing.
A festive air held sway. Everyone Fargo passed on his way in either smiled or cheerfully bid him welcome. As he drew rein and started to slide down, a portly man in a suit and bowler barreled toward him with a pudgy hand thrust out.