Fargo scoured his back trail for the others. None were in view but they soon might be. He must make himself scarce, and quickly. Hurrying to meet the Ovaro, he forked leather, and paused.
Fargo had a problem. He wanted to head straight for the wagon train but if he did, the Ovaro’s tracks would lead the Nez Perce right to them. He must lose the war party before he could head back and that might take some doing.
The wagons were coming from the south. The war party was to the east. Fargo could go north but that was the direction the wagons were traveling. He could go west, too, but if the warriors lost his trail and headed to the east as they had been doing, they might cross the wagon train’s trail.
Add to that the possibility that one or more of the six Fargo clashed with might go fetch the rest of the war party.
Fargo reined to the southeast. It would take him away from the wagon train and the settlers, but dangerously near the war party. Since it would be dark soon, he was confident the Nez Perce wouldn’t be after him until daylight. He had all night to find a way to shake them.
In due course the sun sank and a few dim stars speckled the firmament. They brightened as the sky darkened and multiplied like ethereal rabbits.
Fargo found the Big Dipper. In the northern hemisphere, the two stars that made up the cup of the Dipper farthest from the handle always pointed at the North Star. Knowing where the North Star was enabled him to tell direction at night. Every frontiersman knew the trick.
Fargo’s belly growled but he ignored it. Food would have to wait. Besides, hunger helped to keep a man awake and sharp, and he might need to ride all night.
The mountains came alive with savage cries and ululating howls. The meat eaters were abroad, a legion of fang and claw that feasted from dusk until dawn and then returned to their dens and burrows to sleep their lethargy away and greet the next night as ravenous as on the last. A cycle of hunger and blood, as old as time itself.
Fargo wasn’t worried about the predators. A grizzly might take an interest in him but most everything else would give him a wide berth. The mere scent of a human was enough to cause most meat eaters to slink silently away.
Weariness nipped at Fargo’s sinews. He had been on the go since before sunup. Between the hours in the saddle and his fight with the Nez Perce, he wouldn’t mind a few hours rest. Stifling a yawn, he shrugged the tiredness off. Sleep, like food, had to wait.
A belt of woodland brought him to the base of a mountain. He rode along the bottom until he came to a stream. Reining into the center, he headed upstream. It was shallow but flowed swiftly enough that by morning all traces of the Ovaro’s tracks might be obliterated.
“We can only hope,” Fargo said out loud.
Another hour of riding brought him to a narrow gap. He passed through, the rock walls virtually rubbing the Ovaro’s sides, and emerged to discover a range he had never visited before. He would love to explore it but it would have to wait. Swinging to the south, he rode in a wide circle that would eventually bring him back to the wagon train.
Fargo had a fair notion of where the train should be. He estimated it would take him two hours to reach it. He would try, yet again, to warn the settlers off. With the countryside swarming with Nez Perce, the farmers would be lucky to live long enough to plant seeds.
Then from out of the night came a sound other than the howls of wolves and the yips of coyotes.
It was a scream, torn from a human throat.
10
It came from the east, from out of the dark heart of the unknown range. Faint but unmistakable, it rose to a piercing shriek then gradually faded.
Fargo’s skin prickled. That was a death cry if ever he heard one. He drew rein and briefly debated. Should he head west to the covered wagons or east into the unknown? He reined east.
It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was no light to guide him, not so much as a finger of campfire flame. He relied on his instincts to pinpoint the approximate area the scream came from.
The somber mountains gave way to a narrow valley so thickly chocked with timber that Fargo couldn’t see ten feet. Wary as a cat in a room full of sleeping dogs, he went a quarter of a mile. Far enough, he thought, to show he must be mistaken. He was about to rein around when an acrid odor tingled his nose.
Smoke.
Fargo sniffed. He turned his head from right to left and back again. There could be no mistake. The smoke was drifting his way from deeper in the inky valley.
The clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves were the only sounds. Although they were muffled by the carpet of pine needles, to Fargo they were thunderclaps that could be heard by hostile ears. He kept his hand on his Colt.
The acrid smoke scent grew stronger.
Up ahead a tiny red sprite flared, a flickering dervish that writhed and danced to the whispers of the wind.
A clearing spread before him.
Fargo came to a stop. At its center was the sprite, all that remained of a campfire. It didn’t cast enough light to illuminate the vague shapes and figures that littered the ground around it.
A new odor struck Fargo. Another unmistakable smell. This time it was the scent of blood. Freshly spilled blood, and a lot of it. He waited, refusing to expose himself until he was sure it was safe. After several minutes of complete silence, he kneed the Ovaro. Ever so warily, he picked his way around the sprawled figures.
Dismounting, Fargo hunkered. He puffed on the flame and it grew, revealing a nearby pile of broken sticks. He added a few and blew on the smoldering embers and soon had a fire. A small fire, a fire that wouldn’t be seen from any great distance.
It revealed a slaughter.
Five white men lay in the throes of violent death. One had his throat slit. Another had his head bashed in by a war club. A third had taken an arrow to the chest and another shaft low down in the ribs. Their end had been swift, the attack so sudden that they had not gotten off a shot. They had not been dead long. It was impossible to say which one had uttered the death scream Fargo had heard.
None had been scalped.
Their guns and knives had been taken. Packs had been torn open and the contents scattered about. Whatever did not interest their slayers had been left where it lay.
Picks and shovels and pans told Fargo what he had already guessed. The five were gold hounds. They had heard the rumors about gold in Nez Perce territory and snuck in to find it, and paid for their arrogance with the coin of their lives.
Ironically, Fargo found no proof the Nez Perce were responsible. No arrows had been left. No lances. There was nothing that would identify the killers. But this was their land and it was unlikely another tribe was to blame.
Fargo figured the attack took place about sunset, when the whites were settling in for the night and their guard was down. Believing them dead, the Nez Perce took what they wanted and rode off. But one man had lingered at death’s door for hours, voicing that scream when he finally succumbed to the reaper.
Fargo wished Lester Winston and the other farmers could see this. Maybe it would convince them to turn back before it was too late. Before the Nez Perce discovered them and drenched the soil with more blood.
Since he had the fire going, Fargo made use of it. A coffeepot had been knocked over. He righted it and put fresh coffee on to brew. He needed some to stay awake and alert. The Nez Perce were gone, so there was little danger. He wondered if it was the same war party he had been trailing.
Surrounded by bodies, the pungent smell of blood in the air, Fargo cupped the hot tin cup in his hands and savored each swallow. Warmth spread from his stomach to his limbs.
Fargo was glad to relax for a bit. He leaned back and looked at the Ovaro and saw that the pinto was staring off up the valley. Swiveling, he did the same but dark baffled his efforts to penetrate it. He raised the cup to drink more coffee.