Slag and Perkins brought their lathered mounts to a halt and were promptly surrounded, with everyone asking questions at once. Rinson silenced them with another bellow.
“Let these two talk, damn it. We can’t find out what happened with all of you lunkheads jabbering at once.”
“I won’t tell you again about your language,” Lester said. “You keep forgetting there are women and children present.”
“Oh, hell.” Rinson motioned at Slag and Perkins. “Out with it. What brought you back on the run?”
“Injuns,” Slag said grimly.
“A war party,” Perkins said. “Must be thirty or more.”
Another commotion broke out, with the farmers voicing their opinions of Indians in general, and concern for their families. Once again Rinson had to quiet them before he could quiz Slag and Perkins.
“Did they attack you? Did they try to lift your hair?”
Perkins shook his head. “My momma didn’t raise no jackass. As soon as we spotted them, we lit a shuck.”
“That’s all that happened?”
“Go to hell,” Perkins said. “We weren’t about to stick around and be skinned alive, or worse. There ain’t a white cuss in this world I’m afraid of, but those red devils are a whole different critter.”
Fargo almost laughed out loud. This was the man Slag claimed would make a good Comanche or Apache? Perkins was right in one respect. There was a big difference between him and most Indians. Few Indians were cowards.
Slag was saying, “When he lit out, I did the same. I don’t think the redskins saw us, but they might have.”
“And followed you back to us?” Rinson said in some disgust.
All eyes swung toward the woods. Rifles and shotguns were raised and a few hammers clicked.
“I wish Victor Gore was here,” Rinson said. “But since he’s not, it’s up to us to deal with this.” He shifted toward Fargo. “How about it, mister? Didn’t I hear you were a scout? You must know more about Injuns than any of us.”
“A little.” Fargo wasn’t about to tell them he had lived with several tribes at various times.
A farmer named Harvey nervously cleared his throat. “Are we in any danger? Should we circle the wagons to protect our families?”
“It depends on the tribe,” Fargo answered. “The Shoshones and the Flatheads are friendly. The Blackfeet and the Nez Perce aren’t.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro on past them and made for the greenery. No one called out for him to stop. None of the farmers jumped on a horse and came along. He looked back when he reached the tree line. They were still there, watching. Lester Winston waved.
Fargo set to work backtracking Slag and Perkins. It wasn’t hard. They had crashed through the brush like buffalo gone amok. He rode with his hand on his Colt, every sense alert.
The trees were mostly white pine, with here and there some fir and spruce. Higher up Fargo came on ranks of lodgepole pines and ponderosa. The brush consisted mostly of dogwood. Elderberry and occasional thimble-berry helped break the monotony.
Half a mile of cautious riding brought Fargo to the base of a steep slope. Only partially wooded, it didn’t offer enough cover to suit him so he reined to the left and circled until he came to a strip of vegetation that ran clear to the top.
With a light jab of his spurs, Fargo started up. He had gone only a short way when he realized how quiet it was. The birds had stopped warbling and the trees were deathly still. It was unnatural. Drawing rein, he scoured the heights. He must be careful not to ride into an ambush.
Fargo hoped it wasn’t the Nez Perce. Years back the tribe had been friendly, but then whites heard rumors of gold on Nez Perce land, and now hardly a month went by without word of yet another clash between Nez Perce warriors and the gold-hungry invaders. The Nez Perce had made it known they wouldn’t tolerate more intrusions. Open war threatened to break out.
Off to the left a twig snapped.
Instantly, Fargo whipped around, palming his Colt as he turned. The woods were undisturbed save for a bee that buzzed within an arm’s length of the Ovaro and caused the pinto to prick its ears and nicker.
Fargo had a decision to make. Should he go on or should he go back? He reminded himself that he was under no obligation to the settlers. The man who hired him was interested only in his missing kin.
To the right a bush rustled ever so slightly.
From the rear came a whisper of movement.
Fargo kept on riding. They had him surrounded, and if he made a break for it, they would be on him before he went ten yards. He willed himself to relax so he wouldn’t give away that he knew, but it was hard; at any moment he expected an arrow between his shoulder blades or a lance in his chest. He looked for a spot to make a stand but there weren’t any that suited him.
A low limb brushed the crown of his hat. Instinctively, Fargo ducked, and as he did the limb bounced up and down. Since he hadn’t bumped it that hard, something else made it bounce. Belatedly, he went to look up. Just as a heavy form slammed into his back, muscular arms banded his chest, and he was bodily torn from the saddle.
The ground swept toward his head.
3
Fargo twisted to absorb the fall on his shoulder. He still hit hard, what with the weight of the warrior on his back. The world swam and fireflies flickered before his eyes. He felt hands on his wrists. Other hands shifted him to get at his holster. His head abruptly cleared and he looked up into a ring of unfriendly faces. They were Nez Perce. “Damn.”
Four young warriors and an older one ringed him. Fargo tried to rise and discovered his wrists were tied. “Do any of you speak the white man’s tongue?” he asked.
None of them answered.
Fargo was lucky in one respect. They weren’t wearing war paint, which told him they were a hunting party, not a war party. Evidently they were tracking Slag and Perkins when he came along. “I’m not your enemy.”
The warriors went on staring.
Like most tribes, the Nez Perce favored buckskins. Although they lived in the mountains, they often traveled to the plains after buffalo, and lived much as the plains tribes did. They were famed for their horse breeding. The Appaloosas they raised were highly sought after. Bigger and heavier than most Indian mounts, Appaloosas were noted for their stamina, and were as sure-footed as mountain goats. Fargo got to see five of the famous horses for himself when one of the young warriors went off into the trees and came back leading them.
“You’re taking me somewhere,” Fargo said, relieved they weren’t going to kill him outright. Then he switched to their tongue. He wasn’t as fluent in it as he was in some other tongues, but he knew enough to say, “I am friend.”
That got their attention. They studied him anew. The old one leaned down, looked him right in the eyes, and said in English, “No white man friend to Nimi’ipuu.”
“So you speak the white tongue,” Fargo said.
“Missionaries,” the old warrior replied. His craggy face was seamed by age and experience, and his hair, which hung in braids, was streaked with gray.
Fargo grunted. Priests and ministers had been trying to convert the Indians for years. Not just the Nez Perce, but every tribe on the frontier. Men of the cloth had even gone to the Blackfeet, those implacable haters of white ways, and managed to convert some. When Fargo heard that, he couldn’t believe it. “The missionaries were friends to the Nez Perce. I am a friend, too,” he tried again.
“You not missionary.”
“The Crows call me He Who Walks Many Trails,” Fargo said. “I am their friend.” He mentioned the Crows for a reason; they were on good terms with the Nez Perce, and the two often visited one another.