Fargo saw Kutler’s hand drift toward his revolver, but for whatever reason, Kutler let his hand drop and muttered something under his breath. “Good friends, are you?” Fargo remarked.
Kutler snorted. “Tork doesn’t like me and I don’t like him. But so long as we both work for Big Mike, nothing much will come of it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because if one of us kills the other, Big Mike will kill whoever lives.” Kutler lifted his reins. “If you are ever in Polson, look me up. I am usually at the Whiskey Mill.”
Fargo had to ask before they rode off. “You say these women are to work off a debt? How do they do that, exactly?”
“How do you think?” Kutler rejoined, with a wink and a leer. “They would run off if they could but we do not give them the chance.” He clucked to his horse. “If any of these squaws strike your fancy, they will be at the Whiskey Mill, too.”
The women filed past with their heads bowed. Judging by the way they wore their hair and the styles of their dress, two were Flatheads and one was a Coeur d’Alene. The youngest Flathead was quite pretty, with nice lips and full cheeks and beautiful eyes that fixed on Fargo’s as she went by in what he took to be mute appeal.
“Get along there!” snapped one of her guards.
Fargo sat and watched them until they were stick figures. “Hell,” he said to the Ovaro. His gaze drifted to the range of mountains to the northwest. Several of the peaks were so high, they were mantled with snow all year long. If he wanted to be by his lonesome, that was the place to go.
Fargo reined toward the lake. He held to a walk. There was no hurry, and the Ovaro was tired. The image of the pretty Flathead seemed to float in the air before him. “Now I have even more reason,” he said aloud.
Fargo was looking forward to a hot meal, a bottle of whiskey, and a card game. He must remember to keep his ears pricked. As his friend, Colonel Travis, had made plain the night before Fargo left the fort: “Your orders are to find out if the rumors are true. If they are, get word to me, and I will take whatever measures I deem necessary. Unfortunately, since this is largely a civilian matter, I must be careful how I proceed or the newspapers will be clamoring for my hide.”
Fargo had said that he understood.
“I wouldn’t ask this of you but there is no one else I trust half as much as I trust you,” Colonel Travis remarked. “But be careful. Don’t get involved if you can help it.”
“I will try my best not to,” Fargo had responded.
Now, with the sun well past its apex, Fargo reckoned he would reach Polson about twilight. He came on an isolated cabin, and shortly after, a second homestead. They were not there the last time he was here, and each brought a frown of disapproval.
The West was growing too damn fast for his liking.
Fargo rounded a bend and suddenly had to rein up to avoid riding into an old man in shabby homespun who was staggering down the middle of the trail, a nearly empty whiskey bottle clutched in his bony hand. “Watch where you are going, old-timer.”
The man stopped and swayed, peering up at Fargo through bloodshot eyes. Taking a swig, he testily demanded, “What are you trying to do? Ride me down?” He was so drunk he slurred every syllable.
“If you don’t want to be trod on, you shouldn’t hog the trail.”
Sniffing in resentment, the old man put his spindly arms on his bony hips. He wore a Colt Navy in a scuffed holster but he made no attempt to draw it. “For your information, I am almost out of bug juice and I am on my way into Polson for more.”
“I reckon you have had enough,” Fargo mentioned.
“What makes you say that, you busybody?”
“You are going the wrong way.”
The old man gave a start. “How’s that?”
“Polson is to the north. You are walking south.”
“The hell you say!” The oldster glanced about him in bewilderment, then cackled and exclaimed, “I’ll be damned! Somehow or other I got turned around.”
“I wonder how,” Fargo said drily.
The old man smiled and held out a hand. His teeth, the few that were left, were yellow. “Thaddeus Thompson, sir. Thank you for pointing out my mistake.”
Fargo bent down. It was like shaking hands with dry bones. “It will be dark soon. Maybe you should go home.”
“And not get my refill?” Thaddeus took a step back in indignation. “How do you expect me to make it through the night? When I am sober the nightmares are worse.”
“Why would a gent your age have nightmares?”
Thaddeus grew even more indignant. “What does my age have to do with anything, you ornery pup? I have nightmares for the same reason anyone does. Because things happened that seared my soul. Because in the dark of night, the dead haunt us.”
“For a drunk you have a way with words,” Fargo complimented him.
Sorrowfully hanging his head, Thaddeus said, “They blame me, so they come back to remind me.”
“Who does?”
“My wife, Martha, and my brother, Simon. They were murdered and there was nothing I could do.” Thaddeus upended the last of his whiskey into his mouth, then uttered a low sob.
“Someone killed them?”
“I swear, you do not have enough brains to grease a pan. Isn’t that what I just said? But I don’t have proof so there is not much I can do.”
“I would like to hear about it,” Fargo said.
“Go to hell. It hurts too much. It is bad enough Martha and Simon crawl out of their graves at night to point fingers at me.” Wheeling, Thaddeus staggered in the direction of Polson, swinging the now empty bottle by its neck.
Fargo kneed the Ovaro and came up next to him. “How about if we ride double? You will reach the settlement a lot sooner.”
“When I get there, I get there,” Thaddeus declared. “I would not go at all if I did not need more gut-warmer.”
“It is a long walk,” Fargo tried again.
“I am no infant. Kindly take you and your horse elsewhere so I can suffer in silence.”
“I am in no hurry.”
The sun was poised on the rim of the world. Soon only a golden crown remained. Then that, too, was gone. The sky gradually darkened, giving birth to stars, which multiplied like rabbits.
Thaddeus Thompson had been plodding along mumbling to himself, but he abruptly jerked his head up and wagged a finger at Fargo. “I thought I told you to mosey on. I do not need your company.”
“It isn’t smart to be out alone at night,” Fargo observed. “The Blackfeet have been acting up of late. And there are grizzlies hereabouts.”
“Hell, the Blackfeet have held a grudge since Lewis and Clark. As for the silvertips, most stay up in the mountains these days. To come down here is an invite to be stuffed and mounted.”
“So the answer is no?”
“If your head were any harder, you would have rock between your ears.”
Fargo had taken all of the old man’s barbs he was going to. “And you called me ornery, you old goat. Have it your way,” he said, and applied his spurs. But no sooner did he do so than the undergrowth parted and onto the trail strode the lord of the Rockies, the very creature Fargo had been concerned about. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, drawing rein.
Apparently Thaddeus had not noticed the newcomer because he asked, “What has you in a dither, sonny?”
Fargo did not have to answer. The grizzly did it for him by rearing onto its hind legs, tilting its head, and growling.
2
Grizzlies were living mountains of muscle with razor teeth and claws. Immensely strong, they could rip a man apart with one swipe of an enormous paw. They were unpredictable; nine times out of ten they ran at the sight or smell of a human being, but the tenth time was to be dreaded, for stopping a griz was next to impossible. Their skulls were so thick, the bone was virtual armor. To hit the heart or a lung was almost as difficult owing to their huge bodies.