“I’m so happy I could bust,” Vincent Gore declared.
Fargo mostly hunted. There were a lot of mouths to feed, a lot of supper pots to fill with fresh meat. From morning until twilight he roved the surrounding mountains. He shot two deer the first day, three the second. The third day, toward the middle of the afternoon, he came on tracks made by a big buck. Fresh tracks, with the scent of the buck’s urine strong in the air.
Shucking the Henry from the saddle scabbard, Fargo stalked it, riding slowly and quietly.
He was over a mile from the valley. Now and then he caught sight of it far below.
The sun was warm on his face. Other than a few vagrant gusts, the wind was still. He had not come across any sign of the Nez Perce.
All was peaceful.
Fargo started up another slope. He saw where the buck had abruptly veered off and wondered why. A possible explanation came the next moment when a leaden hornet buzzed his ear at the same split instant that a rifle cracked below him.
The only reason the would-be killer missed was because Fargo had started to turn his head in the direction the buck had gone.
Instinctively, Fargo bent low and used his spurs. Within seconds he was in among white pines. Drawing rein, he dismounted and crept to where he could see the part of the slope where the shot came from. He patiently probed every shadowed patch and thicket but saw no one.
Suspecting the bushwhacker was gone, Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and circled lower until he came to his own back trail. As he expected, he found the tracks of another horse. A shod horse.
The bushwhacker was a white man. Indians didn’t ride shod horses. And since there were no other whites within five hundred miles, it had to be someone from the valley. Since he couldn’t see any of the farmers trying to kill him, that cut the likely suspects to eight: one of Rinson’s protectors. But which one? And why, for God’s sake?
The attempt was doubly puzzling because Rinson and company had left him alone for so long. They seemed to have accepted the fact he was going to stick around.
Fargo backtracked the killer. The man had shadowed him a long way, staying well back so Fargo wouldn’t spot him.
Fargo checked behind him often. Now and again he hid and waited to see if he was being followed.
Along about sundown Fargo came to the valley floor. As was his habit, he stripped the Ovaro and spread out his blankets near the Winstons’ wagon. For the time being, for their mutual protection, the farmers were keeping their wagons circled in the middle of the valley. Until they got their cabins built, they were easy targets.
Fargo helped himself to coffee and sat with his back to his saddle, peering out from under his hat brim. One of Rinson’s men was standing guard over the horse herd, another was walking the circle. The rest were huddled around a fire, talking and joking. None of them so much as glanced in his direction.
Discovering which one had tried to kill him would take some doing.
The sun was practically gone when Victor Gore showed up. He was whistling as he rode in, and he greeted the farmers jovially.
Then it happened.
The only reason Fargo noticed was because he was watching the protectors. He saw Rinson and Slag and Perkins glance up. He saw Rinson give Vincent Gore a pointed look. He saw Gore nod, a barely perceptible bob of the chin that no one else caught. And he saw Rinson turn to Slag and Perkins and say something that brought huge grins to their faces.
What the hell was that all about? Fargo wondered. He went on sipping coffee, and when Gore came over, greeted him with, “You’re in a good mood.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gore rejoined. “I love this part of the country. It is everything I remember it being.”
“Do you remember the part where Indians kill white men who invade their land?”
“Honestly, Mr. Fargo. Give it a rest. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Nez Perce, and frankly, I’m beginning to think we never will. In all the thousands of square miles of territory they roam, we are a needle in a haystack.”
Fargo swallowed more coffee, then casually asked, “How long before you head back to civilization?”
Gore blinked. “I haven’t given it much thought. It could be a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.” He paused. “How about you? When do you plan to get on with your own life?”
“When I’m sure these people are safe.”
“But according to you, they never will be. They are a massacre waiting to happen.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
Victor grinned. “You should have been born a chicken. You make a great mother hen.”
No sooner did the old trapper wander off than Rachel sank down and brazenly put her hand on Fargo’s knee. “How was your day?”
“You’re beginning to sound like a wife.”
Rachel removed her hand and said uncertainly, “What’s the matter? You sound mad.”
“Not at you,” Fargo assured her. After making sure no one could overhear, he told her about the attempt to ambush him.
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Rachel was shocked. “I’ll go tell my pa and he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“No,” Fargo said, snagging her wrist as she went to stand. “The only one who is to know is you, and then only so you can keep your eyes peeled when I’m off hunting.”
Rachel leaned closer, her breath warm on his neck. “Peeled for what?”
“Them.” Fargo nodded at Rinson and his men. “Their comings and goings. Keep track of who goes where and when, and let me know when I get back.”
“That’s easy enough.”
“Don’t let them catch on,” Fargo warned.
“What will they do? Try to kill me? I very much doubt it. Besides, what purpose would it serve? If you ask me, whoever it was who took a shot at you was acting on their own behalf.” Rachel gnawed her lower lip. “I bet it was Slag or Perkins. Neither of them likes you.”
“Just be careful,” Fargo stressed.
Grinning impishly, Rachel squeezed his leg. “Why, kind sir, does this mean you care?”
Before Fargo could answer, Martha Winston was in front of them, and she wasn’t happy. “How many times must I tell you, daughter? Look at yourself. Sitting there with your hand on Mr. Fargo’s leg, cozying up to him for everyone to see.”
“Oh, Ma,” Rachel began.
“Don’t Ma me. Take your hand off his leg right this second. It’s bad enough you’re the talk of the camp. I won’t have you acting the hussy where everyone can see.”
“She hasn’t done anything to be ashamed of,” Fargo came to Rachel’s defense.
“Spare me your lies, Mr. Fargo,” Martha said sharply. “You seem to forget we are God-fearing folk. We live by the Bible. To some that might seem silly. But we try to do what’s right, and it’s not right for an unmarried woman to carry on with a man the way my daughter has been carrying on with you. I haven’t said anything until now because I’ve hoped and prayed that you would propose. But that’s not going to happen, is it?”
Fargo didn’t answer.
“I didn’t think so. But at least you’re not a hypocrite. You haven’t promised her the moon to get under her skirts. Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?”
“Ma!” Rachel exclaimed.
“Oh, please. I’m a married woman with two children. When I was your age I felt what you’re feeling. But I never gave in, not until I said ‘I do.’ That’s the difference between right and wrong. I won’t cast stones, but I wish to heaven Mr. Fargo would leave so we can get on with our lives and find you a man to call your very own.”
This was the first inkling Fargo had that Rachel’s mother felt this way. “I can’t leave just yet.”