Fargo ran to the girl. She was screaming for help. All her confidence in handling her horse was gone. All that was left was fear. Every time the animal bucked she screamed louder. Fargo’s first instinct had been to shout his instructions to the girl. But he could see she was too panicked to hear him.
He reached up and grabbed the reins himself. He pulled on them firmly and said, “Calm down, boy; calm down.” The girl kept on screaming, which didn’t help a whole hell of a lot.
But after keeping his hand on the reins and repeating, “Calm down, boy,” several times, the paint began to respond enough that Fargo could grab the girl and lower her to the ground while keeping control of the animal.
Fargo patted the horse’s neck and continued speaking to him in a soothing voice. Head lowered, breathing starting to sound normal again, the paint became the trustworthy family horse it usually was.
The onlookers were impressed. He felt many pats on his back and shoulders. The young girl was crying but thanking him over and over. Two or three men offered to buy him a drink.
Fargo’s attention was fixed on the general store across from him. The gunman would be long gone. But he might have left some clues about his identity.
Fargo walked into the general store. The various smells were intoxicating. New denim, leather, licorice, tobacco, flour—no wonder the old ones liked to sit in general stores and play checkers all day.
The small Swede in the rimless glasses behind the counter said, “I seen it all, mister. Them shots somebody took at you, I mean. And I want you to know I didn’t have nothing to do with it. We was workin’ on the roof the last couple days and left a ladder in back. That’s what the sonofabitch used and I want you to know I’m sorry.”
“Good enough.” The Swede had answered Fargo’s first question. No complicity. The gunman had used the roof because of its location directly across from the hotel. And he’d even had a little help, a ladder left innocently against the back of the store. “I guess I’ll check out the roof myself.”
“I sure hope you catch him, friend. This town’s got enough troubles without people shootin’ at people right here on Main Street.”
The roof wasn’t any help in figuring out who the shooter had been. He’d been smart enough to take his shells and whether on purpose or not his boot prints were lost in the boot prints of many other men. Fargo stood in the position the gunman had taken. He had to change his mind about the prowess of the man. Even given all the street traffic, killing Fargo should have been an easy task. Fargo had paused on the top of four steps. Easy to see day or night. One shot should have killed him. Two should have made sure the job was done properly. But the man had missed both times.
Fargo walked to the back edge of the roof. Escape had been easy. A prairielike stretch of grass behind the store led to a stretch of deep timber. No problem losing yourself in there.
Fargo wondered who’d hired the man. He had a pretty good guess. Fargo grinned. He’d probably paid a fair amount of money for the shooter. But he sure hadn’t gotten his money’s worth.
3
For the next few days, Fargo alternated between Cain’s mine, the poker tables in the Wallace saloon, and Anne’s soft feather bed and loving touch. He saw his own room only once a day to shave and clean up, but since Cain was paying for it, he didn’t much care.
One morning Fargo crawled out of Anne’s warm bed and into the cool, early-morning air.
“Where are you heading, mister?” she asked, rolling over and exposing one naked breast. Her nipple hardened like a greeting to him.
Somehow he managed to keep dressing. “Got some scouting to do around Sharon’s Dream.”
She pulled the sheet up and covered herself just a little as she sat up more. “You expecting a fight?”
“Never know,” Fargo said. “I hope not.”
She nodded. “As long as you’re safe. Now I’m going back to sleep for a while.” She slid down and covered herself completely. “Take care.”
He finished dressing and leaned over and kissed her, but she was already asleep.
On a map out at the mine, Cain showed him the claim line between Sharon’s Dream and the Brant mine. It ran right up the ridgeline farther than Fargo had wanted to hike.
The sunlight was slowly working its way down the high peaks when he started up the ridgeline above the Sharon’s Dream mine entrance. He had a hunch how the robbers were pinpointing Cain’s shipments. He just had to confirm that hunch.
It was still an hour before Cain would normally start packing an ore wagon, so if anyone was watching, they would be up there now.
Fargo moved silently, working his way around the hill slightly and onto Brant’s property so that he wouldn’t be seen by anyone watching the Sharon’s Dream side.
He heard the two men before he found their camp. They were muttering to each other about the cold and one of them was wishing he could start a fire.
“And bring a dozen of Cain’s men up here?” the other man said.
“I know, I know,” the one who had been complaining said.
“Bring a blanket tomorrow,” the other man said. “I’m tired of you complaining every day.”
Fargo eased up on them, moving silently, his Colt in his hand.
They were sitting on the ground under a large stone outcropping high on the ridge. From where they sat, it was only a few steps to a ledge that looked over Cain’s mine and the area where the gold was loaded. More than likely every morning before sunrise these two men climbed up here and waited for any sign of the gold being loaded. They weren’t miners—Fargo was sure of that. They both looked trail experienced and had guns in leather on their hips.
As Fargo watched, one of them moved forward and then, on his hands and knees, eased up to the edge and looked over. “Nothing yet.”
“Still too early,” the other man said. “Give it another hour and if there’s nothing, we’ll head back down.”
Since shipments into Sacramento were always done during the day, and the gold loaded in the morning, the two on watch didn’t have to wait much past ten on any given day.
Fargo needed to know exactly who these men were and who they were working for, even though he would bet anything at this point on Brant being behind the operation.
Fargo waited until the man was back sitting beside his friend before he stepped into the clearing, his Colt pointed at the two.
Both of them jumped and started to reach for their guns, but Fargo said, “Too early and too cold to die.”
Both men froze, half up, half reaching for their guns.
“Sit back down now real slow and put your hands where I can see them.”
Both men did as they were told. Now the trick would be getting information out of them.
“You men look to have a pretty easy job. Just sit up here and watch things down below.”
“We earn our keep,” the first man said. He stroked a red beard and watched Fargo skeptically.
“That’s what I want to know about. Your ‘keep.’ Who’s paying you to sit up here?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” said the bald one.
“Since I’m holdin’ the gun, I’d say my business is anything I want it to be.”
Red Beard shrugged, looked at his partner, then back to Fargo. “Nothin’ worth getting shot over.”
“Sensible,” Fargo said.
“We just keep track of the comings and goings at the mine.”
“The shipments, you mean.”
“Who the hell are you exactly?” the bald one snapped.