Not Fargo. He had been skeptical about Gore from the beginning. Yes, a lot of trappers were fond of the mountains, and yes, some of them dearly missed the old days. But no one would do as Gore had done and come from back East into country overrun by hostiles. Not unless there was more to it.
Some folks might say Fargo was too cynical. That he didn’t trust people enough. But he’d learned the hard way that trusting too freely could get a man killed. It was akin to going up to a grizzly with open arms and a smile and expect the bear to be as friendly as a puppy.
Fargo suspected that Gore was up to something. Gore had another motive for coming back to the mountains. Exactly how the farmers fit in, Fargo wasn’t sure yet. But it didn’t bode well that Gore and Rinson left just one man to protect them and had gone off.
His saddle for a pillow, a canopy of glittering stars above, Fargo listened to the howls of wolves and once, close by, the cry of a fox. He soon dozed off and wasn’t intruded on by man or beast. Up at the break of day, he went to the river and found what he was looking for—the tracks of Gore and the rest, heading deeper into the wilds.
But no tracks of any Nez Perce.
Gore wasn’t chasing a war party. He was up to something else, and it was high time Fargo found out what.
In the distance reared a mountain, one among many, its peak a jagged outcropping that thrust at the sky like a spear about to draw blood. It was there the tracks led.
It was pushing noon when Fargo drew rein at the edge of some trees. Beyond was a narrow canyon that split the mountain like a wound. And from out of the canyon came the ping of metal on rock.
Fargo was about to venture into the open when movement warned him to stay put.
A man was keeping watch. He was behind a large boulder, but he came out and squinted up at the sun, acting bored.
Fargo slid down and tied the Ovaro. With the Henry in his left hand he sank onto his belly and snaked from cover to cover until he was near enough to the boulder to hear the man mutter.
Fargo crawled past the boulder to the slope to the top of the canyon. Suddenly hooves clattered. He quickly pressed flat.
“About time you got here,” the man standing guard said.
“Don’t start,” the new arrival replied.
“You were supposed to relieve me an hour ago, Larson. Where the hell have you been?”
“He had me working the vein. I have blisters from using that damn pickax. But he won’t let us stop. He says we have to get it all as quick as we can.”
“He’s Injun shy.”
“I can’t blame him there. Not if you’ve ever seen what these red devils do. I’m not hankering to have my eyes gouged out and my tongue cut off.”
“They have no idea we’re here. Everything is going just as we planned.”
“As he planned, you mean,” Larson said. “I’ve got to hand it to him. Everything has worked out just as he said it would, except for that Fargo character sticking his nose in.”
“Hell, we didn’t need those plow-pushers. We went to a lot of trouble for nothing.”
“Would you rather carry it all out on your back, Barnes? They have their use.”
A saddle creaked as Larson dismounted, then creaked again as Barnes climbed on.
“Any sign of anything?”
“Not unless you count bugs and a hawk. I tell you, we’re worried over nothing.”
“Sure, Barnes. Sure.”
Hooves clattered, and Larson was alone.
Fargo crawled higher. Brush and boulders allowed enough cover for him to soon be well above the canyon floor. Removing his hat, he risked a look.
Larson was leaning against the boulder and staring off down the mountain. In the other direction, the canyon bent at a sharp angle. From beyond that bend came the ping of pickaxes.
Fargo jammed his hat back on and resumed crawling. When he was high enough to see past the bend, he inched to the edge. And there they were. Gore, Rinson, Slag, Perkins and the other so-called protectors, working hard in the hot sun, chipping away at the real reason Gore came back to the Rockies after all these years.
From what Fargo could see of the vein, it was scores of yards long and inches wide. Gold, mixed with quartz, the yellow bright where the sun struck it. Enough ore to make a prospector’s mouth water. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth for whoever got it out.
It confirmed Fargo’s hunch. Victor Gore must have stumbled on the vein during his trapping days. But why it took Gore so long to come back was a puzzle. Fargo started to back away when a gun hammer clicked.
“Not so much as a twitch or you’re a dead man.”
Fargo recognized the voice. It was another “protector.” He cursed himself for not counting those below.
“My handle is Stern. Do as I say and you’ll live a while longer.”
A gun muzzle gouged Fargo low in the back, hard.
“This here rifle of mine is a Sharps,” Stern informed him. “Ever shot one, mister?”
“Plenty of times,” Fargo said. He had owned a Sharps before he switched to the Henry.
“Then you know how big a hole it’ll blow in you. I want you to do exactly as I say. Start by putting your arms out from your sides. All the way out, with your fingers flat on the ground where I can see them.”
Fargo did as he was told. A slight tug at his hip told him Stern had relieved him of the Colt.
“I reckon you feel pretty stupid right about now.”
“More than stupid,” Fargo admitted.
“Our boss has been expecting you. That’s why he sent me up here to keep a lookout.”
The pressure on Fargo’s spine eased. Stern had stepped back.
“Now, nice and slow, I want you to stand up. Leave your rifle where it is and keep your hands out from your sides.”
Once again Fargo complied. It was just his luck that Stern was the kind who didn’t take chances. “Suppose I need to scratch my nose?”
“Go right ahead. The last sound you hear will sound like thunder. And then you and your nose will be breathing dirt.” He paused. “Now shut the hell up and take five steps. Keep your back to me. Try to turn and my trigger finger twitches.”
Fargo heard a boot scrape. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stern at the edge, looking down. Lean as a rail, with bushy eyebrows and a pointed chin, Stern cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed Victor Gore’s name.
The pickaxes stopped picking and all heads rose.
“Well, well, well,” Gore shouted up, smiling broadly. “Bring him down! But be careful. I hear he’s tricky.”
“Tricky but dumb!” Stern hollered down.
Laughter floated up, causing Fargo’s jaw muscles to twitch. He hated making a jackass of himself. It never once occurred to him that they’d expect him to do exactly as he had done. And it should have. He was getting too careless of late.
“Start walking,” Stern instructed. “Keep those arms where they are or have a hole blown in you.”
It was one of the longest walks of Fargo’s life. Larson met them at the bottom. Together, he and Stern marched Fargo up the canyon and around the bend. The others were hard at work again, except for Victor Gore and Rinson. Both waited with smiles on their faces.
“Mr. Fargo!” Gore said good-naturedly. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’m serious. I was worried you would prove to be a thorn in my side. But now that I have you in my power, as it were—” Gore chortled. “This has worked out better than I dared hope.”
“Drop dead.” Fargo was looking at Gore and didn’t realize Rinson had whipped the Remington from its holster until the long barrel flashed at his temple. His head exploded in pain and pinpoints of light seemed to swirl in the air. Dimly, he was aware of his legs giving out and of falling to his hands and knees. Somehow he stayed conscious and looked up as Rinson raised the Remington to club him again.