Fargo waited to be sure the man was asleep. Then he quickly replaced the toothpick in his ankle sheath and slid the Henry into the saddle scabbard. He gripped the saddle horn and went to slide his toe into the stirrup. A few more seconds and he would be gone.
A yip rent the night. Not the cry of a coyote or wolf, but of the warrior named Winter Wolf. He had sat up and was groping for the rifle Fargo had taken. In his own tongue he shouted, “The white-eye! Stop him!”
Fargo swung onto the Ovaro. Moccasins pattered, and strong hands grabbed his leg. He kicked out, was rewarded with a cry of pain, and used his spurs to bring the Ovaro to a trot. An arrow whizzed over his shoulder, missing him by a whisker.
“After him!” Winter Wolf shouted.
Fargo wished he had spooked their mounts. But they couldn’t see any better in the dark than he could, so he stood a good chance of getting away. Provided he didn’t ride into a tree or a boulder. Reining sharply, he bent low in case more arrows arced his way.
The warriors were yelling. Apparently one of their horses was giving them trouble.
Fargo rode hard until the sounds faded, then slowed to a walk. There was no point in riding the Ovaro into the ground. When he finally drew rein an hour later, he was convinced he had lost Winter Wolf and his friends. Dismounting, he moved under a pine, wrapped the reins around a low limb, and sat with his back to the bole. He could use some rest.
Pulling his hat down over his eyes, Fargo willed his taut body to relax. It took a while but eventually he felt himself slipping away. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a rustling sound brought a whinny from the Ovaro and brought him to his feet with his Colt in hand.
It took a few seconds for Fargo to make sense of what he was seeing.
A dozen yards away something had stepped out of the trees. A huge, hulking shape, an animal breathing so heavily each breath was as loud as a blacksmith’s bellows.
Fargo reached up to unwrap the reins from the limb, hoping the thing wouldn’t attack if he tried to leave.
It growled. A growl so deep and so loud, only one animal could be responsible: a bear.
Fargo froze. He was furious at himself for letting it get so close without hearing it.
Bears were formidable brutes. They could easily tear a man limb from limb. Or rip a horse apart.
Fargo glanced at the saddle scabbard, at the Henry he should have shucked before he sat down to sleep. He was getting careless, and in the wild, careless was the same as a death wish. Steeling himself, he started to unwind the reins so he could get the hell out of there.
The bear rose onto its hind legs.
At first Fargo had thought it was a grizzly, but now he wasn’t so sure. If it was a black bear, he might be all right. Black bears rarely attacked people. Then a second, smaller form came scampering around the big one, and his blood chilled. “Oh, hell.”
It was a cub.
4
Mother bears were protective of their young. They attacked anything that came near their offspring. Anyone who stumbled on a cub was well advised to hasten elsewhere before the mother noticed or risk being torn to pieces.
The last thing Fargo wanted was a clash with a bear. It would take but an instant for him to jump up, grab a low limb, and climb into the pine. Once he was high enough, the she-bear wouldn’t be able to reach him. But that meant deserting the Ovaro. He would as soon slit his wrists.
So Fargo went on unwrapping the reins while keeping his eyes on the mother bruin and the smaller version of herself. Both stood there and returned his stare. The reins came loose. Girding himself, Fargo slid the Colt into its holster, then launched himself at the saddle. He grabbed the saddle horn and swung his leg up and over.
The cub squalled.
The mother roared.
And Fargo got the hell out of there.
The Ovaro did not need goading. The smell of the bears was enough to make the stallion want to bolt. It wheeled around the pine and raced into the dark.
The mother bear gave chase.
Hunched low, Fargo slapped his legs and urged the Ovaro to greater effort. A raking paw nearly caught its flank. But just as he wouldn’t desert the Ovaro, the mother bear wouldn’t desert her cub. She pursued them only a short way and stopped. Venting her temper with another roar, she turned back to her ursine pride and joy.
Fargo let out a long breath. There was seldom a dull day in the wild, and this one had more than its share of excitement. First the wagon train, then the Nez Perce, and now this. “Things are supposed to come in threes but this is plumb ridiculous,” he said out loud.
Half a mile of hard riding was enough. Fargo slowed, pushed his hat back on his head, and patted the Ovaro. “If I ever get old enough for a rocking chair, I’ll put you out to pasture with two or three mares.”
Some folks would say it was silly to talk to a horse. But they never spent day after day, month after month, year in and year out, with a horse as their only companion. After a while a man got to think of the horse as more than just an animal.
The night wind had grown brisk. It brought with it the cries of the creatures that preferred the night over the day: the howls of wolves, the yips of coyotes, the occasional bark of a fox, the hoots of owls. Once a mountain lion screamed. And from afar came the roar of the mother bear. To most those sounds spelled terror and made for a sleepless night. To Fargo they were as ordinary as grass.
About two hours of night were left when Fargo reined up. He needed sleep, and the Ovaro could certainly use more rest. This time he rode in among a cluster of large boulders, where they were less apt to be seen or scented, and curled up on his side in the dirt, his arm for a pillow. Hardly the most comfortable of beds but within seconds he was asleep and this time he stayed asleep until the squawk of a jay brought him around to greet the new day.
A hint of gold splashed the eastern horizon. Dawn was about to break. Fargo sat up, yawned, and stretched. He was stiff and sore and hungry. Rising, he opened his saddlebags and took out a bundle wrapped in rabbit skin. Inside was pemmican. A Cheyenne woman of his acquaintance had kindly given the pemmican to him. He chewed with relish. After he ate his fill, he replaced the rest and forked leather.
Unerringly, Fargo headed for the wagon train. He had a good idea of how far the wagons had traveled after he left them, and when he reached the spot where he thought they should be, there they were, strung out as before, canvas-backed tortoises on wheels. Caution bid him stop while he was still in the trees, and it was well he did.
Rinson, Slag and Perkins flanked the wagons. So did others Fargo hadn’t seen before. He counted nine outriders, all told. In the lead was a man with hair as white as snow, dressed in clothes more fitting for the streets of St. Louis or New Orleans.
Fargo shadowed them a while. All appeared peaceful. The farmers and their families chatted and laughed and now and then one of the young girls would break into song. Toward midmorning the white-haired man raised an arm and called a halt so they could rest their teams.
Fargo chose that moment to make himself known. As soon as he broke from cover, the white-haired man trotted to intercept him, bringing Rinson, Slag and Perkins along.
Drawing rein, Fargo leaned on his saddle horn. “You must be Victor Gore.”
“That I am, sir. That I am.”
Since all the others were unwashed and unkempt, Fargo figured their leader would be the same. But Gore was the opposite. The man’s suit was clean save for the dust of the trail, and his white hair, mustache and short beard were neatly trimmed. Fact was, Victor Gore looked more like a parson than a wagon train pilot. Even more surprising, he wasn’t wearing a revolver that Fargo could see.