Perkins cackled uproariously.
Lifting their reins, the pair rode on. Soon the vegetation swallowed them and the clomp of hooves faded.
Fargo stayed where he was. He had heard enough to quicken his suspicions. The question now was what to do about it? He wasn’t a lawman. He could go for one but it could take weeks to find a federal marshal and bring him back, and by then whatever Slag and Perkins and their friends were up to would be done with.
Twirling his Colt into its holster, Fargo forked leather. He had a decision to make. The people with the wagon train were nothing to him. He didn’t know any of them personally. And given his low opinion of settlers, he should rein around and leave. But there were women and children. And there might be a link between this bunch and the missing family.
With a sigh, Fargo reined toward the wagon train. Once he was in the open, he rode parallel with the wagons but stayed a good hundred yards out. Soon shouts told him he had been spotted. Before long several riders came galloping toward him. One yelled for him to stop.
Fargo drew rein and waited.
Two of the three were settlers. Their homespun clothes and floppy hats marked them as members of the wagon train.
The third man was different. He was like Slag and Perkins: dirty and ill-kempt and bristling with weapons. Of middling height, he favored a Remington revolver worn butt forward on his left hip. He had high cheek-bones and beady eyes and a hooked nose that made him look like a hawk.
“We want to talk to you, mister,” the hawk-faced man declared.
“You see me sitting here,” Fargo said as they came to a stop. “What do you want?”
The settlers smiled in friendly greeting but the hawk-faced man placed his hand on the butt of his Remington.
“I don’t much like your tone.”
“I don’t much care,” Fargo informed him. “Unless you have something to say, I’ll be on my way.”
“We want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
Fargo shook his head.
“You won’t say?” one of the settlers asked.
“My personal affairs are my own.”
“What if I insist?” the hawk-faced man said, and just like that his gun hand moved.
So did Fargo’s. In the blink of an eye he had his Colt up and out. All three of them heard the click of the hammer. “Draw that six-shooter and I’ll blow you to hell.”
Amazement turned the hawk-faced man to stone. He stared into the barrel of the Colt and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “That was mighty slick.”
“Get your hand off that hogleg.”
Reluctantly, the hawk-faced man splayed his fingers and held his arm out from his side. “I meant what I said. That was about the slickest I’ve ever come across.”
The biggest settler, who looked to be in his forties and packed a lot of beef on his bones, kneed his sorrel closer. “Enough of this, Mr. Rinson. I won’t have you threatening everyone we come across.” He grinned at Fargo. “Forgive him, mister. He means well. He just wants to protect us and our families.”
“Is that what he’s doing?”
The big settler nodded. “He works for Victor Gore. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He used to be a trapper in these parts. Or so he tells us.”
“Never heard of him,” Fargo admitted. But that wasn’t unusual. The height of the trapping trade had been before his time.
“Well, be that as it may, Mr. Rinson works for Mr. Gore. We’ve hired them to guide us to the Payette River Valley. We’re farmers, you see, and Mr. Gore says the valley is perfect for homesteading.” The man offered his big hand. “I’m Lester Winston, by the way. My family is in the first wagon yonder. In the other wagons are friends of ours. We’re all from Ohio.”
Fargo slid the Colt into its holster, then shook. Predictably, the farmer had a grip of iron.
“I take it you have heard that the Nez Perce have been acting up of late?” Lester Winston went on. “That’s why I let Mr. Gore talk me into hiring him and his men when we ran into them at Fort Bridger. They are worth their fee if they get us safely through to the Payette River Valley.” He stopped. “Have you ever been there?”
“No,” Fargo said. The Payette River, yes, but not of a valley named after the river. Which in itself was peculiar, given how many times he had been through this region.
“Mr. Gore says the soil is so rich, our crops will practically grow themselves. And game is so plentiful we won’t ever lack for meat.” Lester gazed to the northwest, his eye lit with the gleam of land hunger. “We were on our way to Oregon Country, but after hearing Mr. Gore talk about how grand the Payette River Valley is, we changed our minds.”
“This Gore must be some talker,” Fargo said, and noticed that it caused Rinson to frown.
“He does have a silver tongue,” Lester said. “But he’s a fine gentleman. The salt of the earth, if you ask me.”
“I haven’t met many of those,” Fargo said drily.
Rinson let out a small hiss of annoyance. “Are we going to sit here jawing all day, Winston? Gore left me to watch over you while he’s gone, and I can’t say as I like you telling this stranger all there is to know about us. For all we know, he’s an outlaw.”
“He doesn’t look like one.”
“Listen to yourself. You can’t tell if a person is good or bad by how they look. I say we send him on his way. And if he won’t go, we prod him to move him along.”
“I don’t prod easy,” Fargo said.
“Did you hear him?” Rinson asked Lester. “He’s not all that friendly. It’s best if we’re shed of him.”
The wagons had stopped. Men, women and children were all staring with keen interest. They were so far north of the Snake River, in country so rugged and remote, that to run across another white was rare.
One woman, in particular, caught Fargo’s eye. She was young and shapely and wore a bright blue bonnet that complemented her darker blue dress. From under the bonnet, fine yellow hair cascaded, shimmering like gold in the sunlight. Fargo couldn’t tell much else about her from that distance, but what he could tell prompted him to say to Lester Winston, “I’d like to ride with you awhile. Maybe share your supper.”
Rinson growled, “Like hell.”
Now it was Lester Winston who frowned. “Need I remind you that I am the leader of this wagon train? I’ll make the decision, not you.”
“Gore won’t like it.”
“He’s not here. And while I’ll admit that our safety should be uppermost on our minds, I refuse to think the worst of everyone we meet. We must all be Good Samaritans, Mr. Rinson.”
“Good what?”
“Haven’t you read the Bible?” Lester asked. “The milk of human kindness separates us from the beasts, and we must never let the flow run dry.”
“I’m not all that fond of milk,” Rinson said. “And I never learned to read nor write.”
Winston turned to Fargo. “Yes, by all means, come join us. My Martha won’t mind feeding you. And it will be nice to have someone new to talk to.”
“Damn it,” Rinson fumed. To Fargo he said, “Mister, you have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. Victor Gore is liable to have you stomped into the dirt, and that’s no lie.”
“I don’t stomp easy, either,” Fargo said, and gigged the Ovaro. He had the feeling he was about to poke his head into a bear trap, and if he wasn’t careful, the steel jaws would snap his head right off.
2
The farmers weren’t sheep. They were puppies. Puppies were friendly and innocent and eager to make new friends, exactly like the farmers and their families. They gathered to see Fargo ride up, all of them smiling and kindly and sincere. And bound to get their throats slit if they didn’t realize the frontier wasn’t Ohio and puppies didn’t last long.
Fargo shook hand after hand as Lester Winston introduced him. The lovely young hourglass in the blue bonnet hovered, watching him but too shy to come forward. Fargo had met most of the men and a few of their wives when he suddenly turned and held his hand out to the blonde. “Pleased to meet you.”
She stared at his hand as if it might bite her, then timidly offered her own. “How do you do. I’m Rachel Winston.”
“Lester’s daughter.” Fargo stated the obvious as he lightly clasped her warm fingers.
“Yes,” Rachel said, averting her eyes.
“You don’t have anything to be shy about, as good-looking as you are,” Fargo complimented her.
Rachel glanced at him and blushed a deep red. “My goodness. Do you always come right out and say what’s on your mind?”
“Sometimes I let this do my talking,” Fargo said, and patted his Colt. He said it not so much for her benefit as for the three men who stood to one side, listening and scowling. One was Rinson. The other two were cast from the same mold: hard, cold, armed for bear, their eyes daggers.
“We should be on our way, Mr. Winston,” Rinson addressed Lester. “We don’t want to fall too far behind Mr. Gore.”
“Yes, yes, indeed.” Lester raised his voice for the benefit of the other farmers and informed them that they should climb back on their wagons and get under way. “We have five hours of daylight left and we shouldn’t waste it.”
Ignoring the looks of the three curly wolves, Fargo stepped into the stirrups. When the Winstons’ wagon lumbered into motion, he swung in behind it. Winston and his wife were on the front seat; Rachel and a young boy were riding at the back, and she blushed again as he gigged the Ovaro up close and said, “Hope you don’t mind my company.”
“Not at all.” Rachel indicated her sibling with a bob of her chin. “This is my brother, Billy.”
The boy, who wasn’t more than ten, studied Fargo with keen excitement. “Are you a trapper?”
“No.”
“Are you a mountain man?”
“No.”
“Are you a cowboy?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Fargo said. “And no, I’m not.” Although he had trapped some, and he had worked with cattle, and he did spend so much time in the mountains, he might as well be a mountain man.
“Are you an Indian fighter?”
“Only when they don’t leave me no choice.”
“What do you do, then?”
Fargo shrugged. “I scout. I track. I go where the wind blows me.”
“That must be fun.”
“It has its moments.”
Rachel patted her brother’s shoulder. “That’s enough. You shouldn’t badger the poor man so.”
“I’m just curious, is all,” Billy said, and showed Fargo his teeth. “When I grow up, I want to have a fine horse like yours. What do you call him?”
“A horse.”
“No, I mean his name.”
“I never gave him one.”
“Why not? A lot of folks do. When I grow up I aim to have a nice horse like you and I’ll call him Lightning because he’ll be the fastest horse there is.”
“Billy,” Rachel said.
“What? I’m only talking.”
Fargo waited for Rachel to say something to him, and when she didn’t, he came out with, “Has Perkins been bothering you?”
Amazement caused her jaw to drop. “How on earth?” Quickly composing herself, Rachel blushed anew and said, “I’d rather not talk about him, if you don’t mind.”
“Your choice.”
But curiosity got the better of her. “How can you possibly know a thing like that? Yes, he’s been a nuisance, always coming up to me and asking if I care to go for walks with him when I’ve made it plain I won’t and never will.” Rachel paused. “Why does he pester me so? Why can’t he be a gentleman?”
“You are honey and he’s a bear.”
Billy laughed, and Rachel did more blushing. “That’s hardly fitting talk, Mr. Fargo. Especially in front of a child.”
“I ain’t no child,” Billy said.
Fargo said to her, “You’ll run into a lot of men like Perkins out here. This isn’t back East, where men are mostly polite and tip their hats to ladies.”
“You’re polite,” Rachel said.
“I get more honey that way,” Fargo said with a grin, and damn if the girl didn’t blush the deepest red yet. She also grinned, which set his blood to racing. Her golden hair, her smooth skin, that body; she was a ripe cherry waiting to be plucked from the tree and tasted, and he always did like cherries.
“I’m starting to think you’re quite naughty.”
“That depends on the lady,” Fargo said bluntly.
Just then hooves drummed and Rinson came up next to him. “I don’t know as I like you talking to these folks.”
“I don’t give a damn what you like.”
“You keep prodding, don’t you? But when we meet up with Victor Gore, you’ll be leaving us whether you want to or not.”
“A regular he-bear, is he?”
“Victor?” Rinson laughed. “He’s more brains than brawn. But when he needs muscle, all he has to do is snap his fingers and he has plenty.”
“That would be you and your friends?”
“All eight of us.” Rinson grinned, lashed his reins and rode on ahead, his horse raising puffs of dust.
Fargo did the numbers in his head. Slag and Perkins were off hunting. Rinson and two others were with the wagons. That meant three more were with Victor Gore. Nine to one, altogether. Not great odds, but he had gone up against worse. He had to be careful, though. Play it wrong and the settlers would be caught in the cross fire.
“I don’t think he likes you very much,” Rachel commented.
“The feeling is mutual.”
“They aren’t very nice, Mr. Gore’s men. They treat us like we’re simpletons. I don’t want to have anything to do with them, but Pa says it’s only until we reach Payette River Valley.”
“What was wrong with Ohio?”
“Nothing,” Rachel said wistfully. “We had a small farm, with cows and chickens and a plow horse and some pigs. I loved it there. But Pa hankers after more land and he says Oregon has plenty just there for the taking.”
To Fargo it smacked of greed, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.
“Ma says we should have been grateful for what we had. But Pa got a lot of other farmers together, and sold our place.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”