Fargo walked along the rim, scouring the vegetation below. He saw Keever moving through dense growth. He didn’t spot Owen. He was bending for a better look when something buzzed his ear. This time it wasn’t a wasp. It was an arrow, and it came from behind him.
Diving flat, Fargo twisted and brought the Henry up. A shadow dappled one of the slabs, moving away from him.
Heaving upright, Fargo gave cautious chase. The warrior who loosed the shaft might have friends.
Rock slabs were all around. In the dust was the clear imprint of a foot clad in a moccasin.
Fargo wondered how the warrior got up there. He hadn’t seen tracks on the slope. His back to a slab, he sidled to the other side. Then it was on to the next. It was slow going. Eventually, near the opposite rim, the boulders ended. Crouching, he peered over.
This side wasn’t as steep. A well-defined game trail wound to the bottom. Almost to the end of it was a lone warrior on horseback. The style of his hair and his buckskins warned Fargo the man was a member of the one tribe he wanted to avoid: the Sioux. The warrior glanced up and smiled in grim defiance. Then he used a quirt on his mount.
“Damn.”
Fargo jerked the Henry to his shoulder. He had time for one clear shot. He fixed a bead on the center of the warrior’s back—and couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Fargo never liked to back shoot. Yes, the warrior tried to kill him, but he was white, and an invader.
Lowering the Henry, Fargo stood there until the warrior and his mount were specks on the horizon. Then he retraced his steps.
Keever had disappeared again.
Owen might as well be invisible.
Fargo thought he had spotted one or the other in the middle of the woods. But it was something else, a black mass that detached itself from a patch of shadow Its shape left no doubt. The black bear had been lying up in a thicket but now it was on the move. Its head was low to the ground as if it were sniffing—or stalking.
Fargo leaned farther out.
Senator Keever was twenty yards from the bruin, blissfully unaware of his danger. The bear, though, now had its eyes locked on him.
Cupping a hand to his mouth to shout a warning, Fargo took one more step. The next moment the ground gave out under him and he plummeted over the edge.
4
An outcropping swept toward him. Instinctively, Fargo grabbed at it and was brought up short. The jolt nearly tore his arm from the socket. He couldn’t use his other hand, though; he was holding the Henry and refused to let it go, no matter what.
His body dangling, Fargo looked down. He had to be a hundred and eighty feet above the ground, if not more. It was a straight drop to boulders at the bottom. He wouldn’t survive the fall.
Fargo tried to brace his feet against the cliff. He jabbed with his toes, seeking a crack or a hole that would bear his weight, but try as he might he couldn’t gain purchase. His boots kept slipping. Each time they did, he nearly lost his grip.
As it was, Fargo’s shoulder was screaming for relief and his arm was in agony. He couldn’t hold on much longer.
The seconds crawled into a minute. His fingers began to weaken. Gritting his teeth, he clamped on harder. He refused to give up. Death might claim him but not without a struggle.
It was then that a strange thing happened. A pair of buckskin pants came sailing over the edge and smacked the cliff next to him. He blinked in surprise, and saw that the pants were tied to a buckskin shirt. From above came a voice, the last voice in the world he expected to hear.
“Hook your rifle to the belt!”
A belt was secured to the end of the pant leg, and a loop had been rigged for the Henry. But could Fargo do it one-handed? He tried three times before he succeeded in sliding the barrel through the loop as far as the breech. It wasn’t snug but it would have to do.
“Let go and I’ll pull it up!”
Fargo glanced up. The face peering down at him showed concern, which in itself was remarkable. He nodded and released the Henry, then gripped the outcropping with both hands.
The pants rose, taking the rifle with them. For a few anxious moments he feared it would slip out and drop and be shattered, but no, his rescuer got it up and over.
“Your turn! Watch the knot!”
Down came the pants/shirt/belt “rope.” The knot, where the pants were tied to the shirt, bulged like a fist. Would it hold? Fargo took the gamble. He grabbed the pants with one hand and then the other. The knot started to slip. He could see it shrinking. He tensed, thinking it would come undone, but just when it seemed his luck had run out, the knot caught.
“Hang on! Try not to move too much!”
Fargo rose, but oh-so-slowly. It had to be hard on the man pulling him. And the man had to be strong. Stronger than he thought.
Inch by snail-paced inch, Fargo was hiked higher until he was close enough to the rim to touch it. A brawny hand was lowered and iron fingers gripped his wrist.
“Get ready.”
Fargo was yanked upward. He flung his arms nd over, wedged his elbows on the rim, and swung onto his knees.
“Finally.” Lem Owen was in the dirtiest pair of long underwear any human ever wore. He lay on his back, puffing from his exertion, his bare feet bleeding where he had pressed them against the rocks.
“I’m obliged.”
Owen waved a hand as if to say it was nothing.
“I mean it,” Fargo said. Here he thought the man hated him, and Owen went and saved his life.
Owen grinned between gasps. “I never got undressed so fast in my life. But I couldn’t think of what else to do. I didn’t have a rope.”
“I’m in your debt.”
“Us white men have to stick together,” Owen joked, then said, “Besides, the senator wouldn’t like it if you were to get yourself killed.”
Fargo pushed to his feet and turned to peer over the cliff. This time he was careful not to step too close to the edge.
“What is it?” Owen asked, sitting up.
“The last I saw, the black bear was stalking him.” Fargo saw no sign of the politician or the beast. He unhooked his Henry from Owen’s belt, tossed Owen his clothes, and bolted for the slope. He barely reached it when a tremendous roar rose from below, followed by the crack of a shot.
Fargo descended as fast as was safe. It was so steep, a single misstep would send him tumbling. He was breathing hard when he came to the bottom and flew in among the trees. “Keever! Where are you?”
There was no answer.
Fargo began moving in ever wider circles, seeking some sign. He kept calling out the senator’s name. Then he rounded a pine and came on a small clearing and two still forms. “Damn.”
The black bear was sprawled on its belly. Its head was bent to one side, ringed by a scarlet pool, and its long tongue lay limp over its lower teeth. From under the bear poked a pair of legs—human legs.
Fargo warily circled around. Keever’s head and part of a shoulder jutted from under the other side of the bear. The senator’s eyes were closed and he didn’t appear to be breathing.
“Son of a bitch.” Fargo poked the black bear with the Henry. It appeared to be dead. Kneeling, he clasped Keever’s wrist to feel for a pulse.
Senator Keever’s eyes snapped open. “About time someone got here. Where have you been?”
“I had problems of my own.” Fargo bent to try to see the senator’s chest. He envisioned clawed and torn flesh, the ribs exposed, and worse.
“I can hardly breathe but otherwise I feel fine.” Keever struggled to move. “Get this brute off me, will you?”
The bear had to weigh upward of five hundred pounds. Fargo drew his Colt and placed it in the senator’s hand.
“What’s this for?”
“Until I get back. I don’t see your rifle anywhere.” Fargo rose and dashed across the clearing.