“So far they haven’t protected you from much.” Fargo had done most of the work but they took the credit.
“The hostiles have left us be, haven’t they? If you ask me, those curly wolves, as you call them, have proven themselves our friends. We should be thankful, not hold petty grudges.”
Fargo saw nothing petty about having his throat slit but he held his tongue, and stood.
“Where are you off to?”
“They can’t have much of a head start. I plan to catch up to them and talk sense into Gore.”
“What on earth for? Need I remind you he has always been polite and courteous to you? That should count for something.”
“That’s the reason I’m going after him.” Otherwise, Fargo would leave the stubborn cuss to whatever fate had in store. He set to work saddling the Ovaro and was about done when the unexpected reared again. He turned to pick up his saddlebags and discovered Lester and Martha Winston and two farmers armed with shotguns. “What’s this?”
Martha said stiffly, “My daughter told us that you’re going after Mr. Gore and the others.”
“So?”
“We’re sorry, but we can’t let you do that,” Lester said. “Victor has our best interests at heart.”
“You don’t understand.”
Martha smiled a smile as cold as a mountain glacier. “Oh, but I flatter myself I do. You’ve made no secret of the fact you have lived with Indians from time to time. And you said yourself that the other night when you tangled with the Nez Perce, you went out of your way not to kill any of them.”
“So?” Fargo didn’t see where her questions were leading.
“So you’re partial to those red devils. You care about them more than a white person should.”
“You should hear yourself.”
“And you should remember what color your skin is,” Martha said with more than mild irritation. “We want Victor and Mr. Rinson to find that war party. We want Mr. Rinson to shoot as many as he must to convince the rest to stay away from our valley.”
“You want a war, in other words.” Fargo’s disgust knew no bounds. “You pathetic wretches.”
“There’s no need for name-calling,” Lester said.
Martha pointed a finger at him. “Don’t make more of this than there is. The death of some Indians is a small price to pay for our future.”
The woman really believed that. Fargo shook his head and said, “I’m going, and that’s final.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t agree.” Martha motioned at Lester and Lester motioned at the two men and they raised their shotguns. “Would you be so kind as to hand over your six-shooter? And don’t try to jump on your horse or you might be shot in the leg for your troubles.”
“Don’t do this,” Fargo said.
“What choice do you leave us?” Martha asked. “Our welfare is at stake. We can’t let you stand in our way.”
Fargo fought down an urge to draw on them. They were farmers, not outlaws or gun sharks. He could probably drop both shotgun wielders. But all it would take was one blast from one of those twelve-gauge hand cannons and he would be blown to kingdom come. “After all I’ve done for you.”
“Let’s not be petty, shall we?”
Fargo tried one last appeal. “Does she do your talking for you now, Lester?”
The big farmer sheepishly looked away. “She’s my wife, Mr. Fargo.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Spoken like a man who has never been married. She’s my woman and I do what I can to make her happy. If she doesn’t want you to interfere with Mr. Gore and our protectors, then by the eternal, you won’t.”
“Hell, Lester. I gave you credit for more sense.”
Martha said, “Your problem is that you keep forgetting white and red don’t mix and never will.”
Fargo’s temper flared. She was a bigot on top of everything else. “Wish I’d known this sooner.”
“You mustn’t think ill of us,” Martha tried to placate him. “Not until you’ve stood in our shoes. How can you expect us to stand idly by when your antics threaten to dash our hopes and prayers?”
That was when Fargo noticed the man Rinson had left behind standing only a dozen feet away, a smirk on his face. “Are you going to just stand there and do nothing?”
“It’s between you and them, mister,” the man replied. “I’m to keep an eye out for redskins. My boss didn’t say anything about you.”
Fargo had to submit to the indignity of having his Colt and Henry taken. He also had to stand there helpless as the Ovaro, still saddled, was led off to be put with the other horses.
“In case you have any notions about sneaking off,” Martha said smugly.
The only notion Fargo had right that moment was to chuck her off a cliff, but there wasn’t one handy. With those shotguns trained on him, he settled for stepping to the rear wheel and sinking down with his back to the spokes.
“That’s not so bad, is it?” Martha said in a tone that suggested he was the same age as her Billy.
“Lady, you don’t know what bad is,” Fargo said, and let it go at that. Lester and Martha left, leaving one of the men with a shotgun to guard him. Fuming, he plucked at the grass. He didn’t look up when familiar feet appeared.
“I’m sorry. I tried to get them not to do this to you. I practically begged. But they refused.”
“Do you know what a thunderstorm is?” Fargo asked.
“Of course, silly. Why?”
“Because one is about to break, and when it does, all hell will break with it.”
15
Fargo didn’t eat much supper. He wasn’t in the mood. He chewed a few pieces of venison and poked at the carrots, but that was it. He did drink coffee. A lot of coffee.
After they ate, the farmers gathered as they ordinarily did, and the man who played the fiddle soon had some dancing while the rest looked on and talked and laughed.
The farmer assigned as Fargo’s guard looked on, too. His back to Fargo, he was particularly interested in one woman. His wife, as Fargo recalled, who danced a couple of times with another man. Each time, his guard looked fit to burst a vein.
By then it was dark enough.
Fargo palmed a fist-sized rock he had noticed earlier. He made sure no one was looking toward the Winston wagon, then slowly rose and struck his guard over the back of the head. Fargo didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him, but he wasn’t gentle about it, either.
Catching the man before he could fall, Fargo eased him to the ground and placed him against the rear wheel, making it appear the man was sleeping with his hands in his lap. Then, staying well out of the firelight, Fargo headed for the wagon where the farmers had put his Colt and Henry. Both were lying in plain sight.
Now that he was rearmed, Fargo half hoped someone would try to stop him. But no one did. The Ovaro, still saddled, was with the other horses. He shoved the Henry into the scabbard and swung up. At a walk he headed for the valley mouth, but he soon broke into a trot.
He looked back only once. The fiddle still twanged and gay figures swirled. He thought he saw Billy staring in his direction. Not that it mattered. They couldn’t catch him.
Fargo rode to the Payette River. He let the Ovaro drink, then paralleled the river. When he had gone far enough, he entered the forest. He went only a short way and climbed down.
A cold camp had to suffice. He couldn’t track at night. He would wait until first light and head out again.
Gore and Rinson hadn’t returned to the valley. But the farmers weren’t alarmed. Lester Winston told Fargo that Gore had mentioned they would be gone however long it took them to find the war party and drive the Nez Perce off. Lester, of course, believed him.