Martha misconstrued. “Of course not. You have a good thing going here. But I ask you to reconsider. For our sakes. The sooner we are shed of you, the better. The longer you drag this out, the more harm it will do to Rachel’s reputation.”
Rachel said, “I don’t care about that.”
“But I do. Someone has to watch out for you. Or hasn’t it occurred to you that you are harming your prospects of getting a husband?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Most men don’t want loose women for wives. You best hope your reputation doesn’t spread or you’re liable to end your days alone and miserable, the price of your folly.”
Tears welled in Rachel’s eyes. “How can you talk to me like this?”
“If I don’t, who will? Certainly not your father. He pretends to turn a blind eye to your shenanigans but deep down he’s hurt.”
Rachel bowed her head.
“As for you,” Martha said to Fargo. “Haven’t you done enough harm? Can’t you control your urges and leave us be?”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“I will only say this once,” Martha said. “And keep in mind I know how to use a gun. I’ve hunted game, and shot ducks on the wing.”
Fargo had a disturbing thought.
Martha turned. “I’ve said my piece.” Wheeling, she walked off, her back as rigid as a ramrod.
“She’s right,” Rachel said softly. “I didn’t give it any thought. But God help me, she’s right.” She slowly stood. “Excuse me. I need to be alone for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead,” Fargo said.
Rachel walked away, her head bowed.
A few glances were thrown Fargo’s way by those who overheard Martha’s tirade. Rather than sit there and be stared at, Fargo got up and walked about to stretch his legs, and to think. It was preposterous, his suspicion, but stranger things had happened. He was so deep in thought that he nearly collided with someone who suddenly stepped in front of him.
“We need to talk,” Rinson said.
“You, too?”
“What?” Rinson lowered his voice. “Did you see any Injun sign when you were out hunting today?”
“No.”
“One of my men did. He claims he saw a red devil spying on the farmers from the woods at the end of the valley.”
“Your man didn’t shoot him?”
“We don’t want trouble with the Nez Perce if we can avoid it. Not for our sakes. For the settlers. They’re the ones who have to live here after we’re gone. Unless we’re attacked, we’ll leave the Nez Perce be.”
“That’s damned decent of you,” Fargo said.
“I don’t much like your tone. But I wanted you to know, just in case my man wasn’t seeing things.”
“I’m obliged.”
Rinson hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “See? We can get along if we try.”
Fargo watched the hawk-faced hardcase saunter back to his friends. First Gore, then Martha, now this. Add the Nez Perce into the mix, and he better have eyes in the back of his head or there was a good likelihood he would end up with a bullet in the brain or an arrow between his shoulder blades.
13
The second attempt to kill him came the next morning.
Fargo was up at daybreak, as usual, and ate breakfast with the Winstons, as usual. Martha was cold to him. Rachel was withdrawn. Lester talked about downing timber for their cabins, and how he couldn’t wait to break soil and plant crops. Billy chattered about an eagle he had seen and possible wolf tracks the boys found.
Fargo was tightening the Ovaro’s cinch when the scent of lilacs wreathed him.
Rachel had a shawl over her shoulders and a bonnet on her head. “I’ve been thinking over what my mother said to us.”
“And?” Fargo prompted when she didn’t go on.
“I’m sorry she’s so upset. But I’m past the age where she can tell me what to do. I can do as I please and it pleases me to be with you.”
Fargo gave the cinch a final tug.
“As for people talking behind my back, that can’t be helped. If they want to think I’m a hussy, so be it. I know I’m not.”
“You’ll have to live with them after I’m gone.”
“So? Either they accept me as I am or they can go to Hades and I’ll go live in a city somewhere. I hear a woman can make it on her own if she’s willing to work hard.”
Fargo reached for the saddle horn but Rachel put a hand on his arm.
“I just don’t want you thinking it’s over between us because of Ma. It’s not, is it?”
“I’m not ready to leave just yet.”
“Good. Because I was hoping we can go for another stroll tonight after supper. Just the two of us.” Rachel smiled shyly. “I can’t help it if I can’t get enough of you.”
Amused, Fargo said, “A walk will be fine.” He had met women like her before. Once their passion was kindled, it became a roaring fire.
“One other thing,” Rachel said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful today, will you?”
“Always.” Fargo caught Martha glaring at him. Smiling at her, her stepped into the stirrups.
A few farmers waved as he rode out. They appreciated the hunting he did since they didn’t have time to do it themselves. Suddenly Fargo came on Perkins, who was riding the perimeter. To his mild surprise, Perkins smiled.
“Morning.”
Fargo grunted.
“Good luck on your hunt. Maybe you can get an elk. One of these plow-pushers was saying as how he saw some at the far end of the valley yesterday.”
“I can’t make any promises.” Fargo had heard the same thing from Lester, and did, in fact, intend to go see if he could find them. “If you see Gore, tell him I might not be back until late.”
“He rode out a while ago.”
“Awful early,” Fargo remarked.
“You know how he is. I guess there’s a lot of country he’s hankering to see again.”
“Must be.” Fargo clucked to the Ovaro and didn’t look back. He scanned the valley for sign of Gore but the old man was long gone.
The elk had left plenty of tracks. They couldn’t help it, as huge and heavy as they were. Fargo followed them up a long slope to a low ridge half a mile up. He was intent on reading the sign as he neared a large boulder. By sheer chance he happened to glance right at the boulder as a man came vaulting up and over with a blade glinting in his hand.
It was one of Rinson’s men—short, stocky, with a pockmarked face and missing front teeth.
Fargo went for his Colt but he was a shade too late. The man slammed into him, smashing him from the saddle, while simultaneously stabbing at his throat. Fargo jerked aside and the knife missed. They tumbled and the man tried again to bury his blade. They hit hard and Fargo pushed away and up into a crouch, palming his Arkansas toothpick.
“Damn you,” the man snarled, and came at him again.
Fargo didn’t know his name. He’d barely spoken two words to him the whole time he had been with the wagon train. Yet here the man was, fiercely determined to kill him.
The blade flashed at Fargo’s throat. He dived, rolled toward the man instead of away from him, and streaked the toothpick up and out.
A bleat of surprise greeted the thrust. That, and a sudden line of red on the man’s shirt.
Fargo had missed his vitals. The man swore and slashed in a berserk fury, seeking to break through Fargo’s guard and end their fight quickly. But Fargo was no slouch with a knife, himself. They stabbed, parried, cut, feinted. Steel rang on steel. Fargo’s shoulder spiked with pain and he opened a wound on the other’s thigh.
Breathing heavily, they circled. The man was wary now.
Fargo did something he normally wouldn’t do. He spoke. “What is this about?”