It wasn’t hard to figure out. Rinson, Perkins and Slag had dismounted and given their animals slaps on the rump. Then they set out on foot for the canyon. The Nez Perce, eager to overtake them, saw where the horse tracks led on east and didn’t bother to stop. The warriors were chasing riderless mounts.
Fargo pushed on. When he was within sight of the canyon, he drew back into the trees and hurried to where he had left the Ovaro. Shock stopped him dead in midstride.
The pinto was gone.
Once again Fargo searched for sign. He worried that the Nez Perce were to blame, in which case recovering the pinto might prove impossible. But no, boot prints showed where a white man had led the stallion off.
But now a new mystery presented itself.
Fargo figured one of Gore’s men found it and took it into the canyon. But no. The tracks led away. Fargo followed them and came to a spot where another man and two horses had been waiting. The pair climbed on and rode off, taking the Ovaro with them.
“What the hell?” Fargo said out loud. If Gore and his men weren’t to blame, then who was?
Fargo could push on after the pinto, or he could pay Gore and company a visit and help himself to one of their animals. He liked that idea, and bent his steps toward the canyon.
A mount wasn’t his only reason. They had taken his Colt and Henry, and he wanted the rifle and six-shooter back. Some might argue that one gun was as good as any other, but that wasn’t true. When a man was used to a gun, it became part of him. He was better with it than with any other. Fargo had used his Colt for so long, he would feel awkward using any other.
Giving the mouth of the canyon a wide berth, Fargo started up the slope. No one was keeping watch, which surprised him.
Learning from his mistake, Fargo was alert for a sentry at the top. But this time no one was there.
Worming from boulder to boulder, Fargo smiled when the peal of metal on rock confirmed they were still hard at work. Removing his hat, he risked a peek. They were all there, including Rinson, Perkins and Slag.
Fargo remembered Gore saying they’d work all night. That gave him hours to spare. He would wait until dark, then sneak down. He made special note of who had his Henry—it was Stern—and who had his Colt—none other than Victor Gore.
Grateful for the chance to rest, Fargo used his arm for a pillow and closed his eyes. He was battered and sore and his ribs wouldn’t stop hurting. He intended to lie there a bit and then keep watch until sunset. But the next thing he knew, he opened his eyes and the stars were out.
Fargo bit off a few choice words. He had fallen asleep. Mad at himself, he wedged his hat on and inched to the edge for another look. A fire blazed at the bottom of the canyon. Clustered around it were the old trapper and his gold hounds. They had stopped work to eat supper. Judging by their smiles and mirth, they were having a fine time. In a couple of months they would be back in civilization, as rich as could be.
But not if Fargo could help it.
Turning, he crawled until he was near the bottom, then rose and stealthily descended to the valley floor. The smart thing was to wait until most of them were asleep but since they planned to stay up all night, what good would it do?
Fargo couldn’t stop thinking of the settlers and the danger they were in. He must warn them. He snuck to the bend and peeked past it.
Gore and his hirelings were about done eating. Wood was added to the fire, and soon they were at the vein, their picks and shovels flailing, their shadows flicking on the rock wall.
The horses were picketed between Fargo and the vein. Easing down, he crabbed toward them, careful to stay close to the wall. Whenever one of the cutthroats so much as raised his head, Fargo froze. Only Slag glanced in his direction; but Slag was mopping his sweaty brow with a sleeve.
Several of the horses realized Fargo was there. But the trapper and the gun sharks were so intent on the gold, they didn’t catch on.
His confidence climbing, Fargo crawled faster. He was almost to the first horse when it stamped and whinnied. Amazingly, once again no one paid attention.
Gold had that effect. It dazzled the mind. It made men forget themselves and think only of the riches the gold would bring. Perkins, in fact, was holding a lump of gold-laced quartz in the palm of his hand and running his fingers over it as if caressing a lover.
The horses had been picketed to prevent them from running off. But it was the work of an instant for Fargo to slash the first rope with his Arkansas toothpick. He moved to the next animal, and then the third. He had cut four of them loose when Victor Gore unexpectedly straightened.
“We’re making good time, boys. By morning we’ll have the gold ready to load on the wagons.”
“You did say we’re not to leave a single settler breathing, right?” Perkins asked.
“Do you disagree?”
“Hell, no.” Perkins laughed. “I’ve never had a problem killing folks. Or anything else.”
Gore turned. “Mr. Larson, would you be so kind as to fetch more burlap bags.”
“Right away.” Larson nodded and hustled toward the horse string.
Fargo tensed. The bags must be bundled on one of the horses, but which one? He couldn’t tell from where he was lying. He hoped it was a horse at the other end.
Larson came almost straight toward him. Fortunately, he was staring at the ground. Then, when only a few feet away, he glanced up—and stopped in his tracks.
“Mr. Gore! Rinson! It’s Fargo! He’s here!”
18
Larson should have gone for his six-shooter. His shout bought Fargo the split second he needed to surge to his feet, the toothpick low at his side. Larson’s hand swooped to his revolver but by then Fargo was next to him. The razor-sharp double-edged blade lanced up and in. Larson gasped and stiffened and was dead on his feet.
There were bellows of outrage and fiery oaths from the others. Then, almost as one, they clawed for their own hardware.
Fargo snatched Larson’s revolver. It was a Smith & Wesson. The barrel was longer than his Colt’s and the grips were different but the caliber was the same. It bucked when he squeezed off a shot and the nearest man clutched at his chest and crumpled.
Whirling, Fargo ran to one of the horses he had cut loose. The shot and the shouts had spooked it and it was turning down the canyon. A bound brought him alongside.
As six-guns boomed and lead buzzed, Fargo leaped, caught hold of the saddle horn, and swung astride the saddle. A hard jab of his spurs brought the animal to a gallop. Swinging onto the side, Comanche fashion, he raced toward the bend. His skin crawled with the expectation of taking a slug but he wasn’t hit.
“After him!” Victor Gore roared. “Don’t let him get away!”
In a thunder of hooves Fargo was around the bend and momentarily safe. Swinging back up, he rode for his life. He wished he had the Ovaro under him. The horse under him was fast but not as fast as his stallion.
In no time Fargo was out of the canyon and flew into the trees. Bringing the horse to a stop, he looked back.
Riders swept out of the canyon in pursuit. When they didn’t spot him, they drew rein.
“Which way did he go?” one shouted. It sounded like Stern.
“Shut up and we can hear him!” Rinson snapped.
Fargo patted his horse to keep it still.
“I don’t hear anything,” Slag hollered.
Perkins’ voice rose. “I bet he’s making for the dirt-pushers. He’ll warn them we’ll be coming for their wagons.”
“Let him!” Rinson said, and uttered a hard laugh. “Do you honestly think they’ll believe him? They trust us, remember.”
“What do we do, then?” Slag asked.
“We go back and get the rest of the gold out,” Rinson said. “Come morning, we’ll be ready for the wagons, just like Gore wants.”