Engrossed in his musing, Fargo forgot to rise in the stirrups. He was jolted back into the real world when the Ovaro suddenly stopped of its own accord and pricked its ears.
Fargo looked up, and wanted to kick himself. He had nearly blundered onto the Nez Perce. Quickly reining into cover, he bent low over the saddle horn.
Mounted Nez Perce were winding through the woods. With a start, Fargo realized it wasn’t the entire war party but only six warriors, and they were coming toward him, not moving away.
Fargo firmed his grip on the reins. He wondered if the six were looking for him, although he couldn’t see how that could be. He had been careful not to cross open areas. And his Henry, with its shiny brass receiver that could flash in the sun and give him away, was snug in his saddle scabbard.
Gore had been right about one thing. The warriors, and their mounts, were painted for war. One horse bore the stick figure of a man to show its owner had ridden an enemy down in combat. Another had a crescent high on its front leg and the symbol for a bow on a rear leg to show that the warrior had fought in a battle at night.
The Nez Perce were casting about for sign, and four had arrows nocked to the sinew strings of their bows.
They were hunting, Fargo guessed. War parties had to eat. And if they kept coming they might spot the Ovaro’s tracks and know by the pinto’s shod hooves that a white man was nearby.
The tracks would lead them straight to him.
Fargo reined to the north and moved off at a walk. He stayed bent low and prayed none of the warriors would glance up and catch sight of him. But fate had other ideas. He covered less than a dozen yards when a sharp cry rang out.
A warrior with a bow was pointing at him.
“Damn it.” Fargo jabbed his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a gallop. He had confidence in the stallion but Appaloosas were fine animals, too, with a lot more stamina than the grass-fed ponies of the plains tribes. He was in for a long chase.
The Nez Perce came on fast. An arrow whizzed past but that was the only shaft they wasted. He didn’t resort to his Colt. Shots might bring more.
Fargo concentrated on increasing his lead but the warriors were determined to keep him in sight, and their Appaloosas were equal to the challenge. Half a mile of hard riding convinced him he must do something drastic.
A thicket sparked an idea.
Fargo raced around it. The moment he was on the other side he brought the Ovaro to a sliding stop next to it. Soon the Nez Perce came flying by on either side. They were intent on the woods ahead and went past without seeing him.
Halting on the reins, Fargo used his spurs again. Only he was now chasing them. They had lost sight of him and slowed, and were looking around in bewilderment.
As the Ovaro swiftly overtook the last warrior, Fargo unlimbered his Colt.
The warrior glanced over his shoulder, his face mirroring disbelief. It slowed his reaction.
Fargo slammed the Colt against the warrior’s temple and sent him tumbling to the earth. Without slowing Fargo bore down on the next, a stocky warrior armed with a Sharps rifle. The warrior never got the chance to use it. Once again the Colt flashed. Once again the barrel struck flesh and bone. And once again a warrior pitched headlong from his warhorse.
Two down and four to go.
Fargo caught up to the third warrior and reined in close. The man shot a surprised glance at him and started to turn. Fargo hit him full in the face and cartilage crunched.
Three down now.
Of those remaining, one was to Fargo’s left, the other two to his right. He reined to the left.
It had to happen. This warrior was more alert than the others. He glanced back and immediately yelled to warn his companions. Then he tried to bring his bow into play.
An extra burst of speed brought Fargo up close. He swung and hit the bow, and it went flying. The warrior clawed for a knife and was whipping it from its beaded sheath when the Colt caught him across the jaw. One blow wasn’t enough. The warrior swayed but stayed on. A second blow remedied that.
The last pair had heard the yell and were streaking toward Fargo. Both held bows with shafts ready to fly.
Fargo had no choice. He snapped off a shot. The slug cored a warrior’s shoulder and half twisted him around but he stayed on his horse. Then an arrow loosed by the last warrior buzzed within a whisker’s width of Fargo’s ear. Hugging the Ovaro, he sought to outdistance them, but they and their Appaloosas were as tenacious as always.
So far Fargo had not had to kill any of them. Nor did he want to. He had no quarrel with the Nez Perce. In the past, he’d made friends with a few, and if the truth be known, he didn’t blame them for wanting to drive the whites out of their territory. He would do the same if he were a Nez Perce. The whites had no right to claim land the tribe had roamed for God knew how many generations.
When next Fargo looked back only one warrior was still after him. The man he shot in the shoulder had stopped.
By now the sun was dipping below the horizon. More shadow than light cloaked the woodland and it took all of Fargo’s considerable skill as a horseman to thread the Ovaro through the trees safely. Unfortunately, the doggedly persistent warrior was also a good rider, and while he didn’t gain, he didn’t lose ground, either.
The stamina of their mounts would decide the outcome. Appaloosas were renowned for their endurance but the Ovaro was no swayback. The stallion could go strong for miles but it had already been through a lot and Fargo had a hunch it would tire before its pursuer. He decided on another reckless gamble. But he needed the right spot.
Presently his wish was granted. The forest thinned, giving way to broken country split by gullies and sprinkled with boulders. The Ovaro flew down the slope of a dry wash and up the other side, dust and stones spewing from under its flying hooves.
The Nez Perce gave voice to a war whoop. He had an arrow notched but was wisely saving it for when he was so close he couldn’t miss.
A clutch of cabin-sized boulders reared in Fargo’s path. He reined wide to go around, as he had done back at the thicket. And again as he had done at the thicket, when he came to the far side he reined in behind them. But only for the brief second it took to launch himself from the saddle, yank the Henry from the scabbard and swat the Ovaro on the rump.
The pinto kept going.
Fargo dashed to the edge of the boulders. Reversing his grip on the Henry, he set himself, ready to wield it as a club. There was a chance he might damage it, though, so when his foot bumped a rock as big as his fist, he suddenly changed his mind. Bending, he scooped up the rock. He hefted it a few times, then cocked his arm.
Hooves pounded, and around the boulder swept the Appaloosa. The warrior spied the riderless Ovaro up ahead, and stiffened.
That was when Fargo threw the rock with all his might.
The warrior reeled, blood pouring from a jagged gash on his forehead. He brought his mount to a halt, reined around, and raised his bow. But he couldn’t let the arrow fly for all the blood in his eyes. Blinking and wiping his forearm across his face, he tried to sight down the shaft.
By then Fargo was on him. Seizing an ankle, he unhorsed the Nez Perce. The man landed on his shoulders and rolled to scramble to his feet but he was only halfway up when the stock of Fargo’s rifle slammed against his head and he crumpled in a heap.
Fargo stepped back, ready to swing again if he had to, but the Nez Perce was unconscious.
Sticking two fingers into his mouth, Fargo gave out a piercing whistle that would bring the Ovaro back. The lathered Appaloosa had already stopped and was standing with its head down.