Black Hills Badman

him; rumor had it that Owen wasn’t above shooting people he disliked in the back. Second, he had yet to take the senator’s measure as a hunter. Keever might have nerves of iron—or he might be prone to panic if the bear charged.

“Whatever for?” was the senator’s reply. “We’re all of us armed, and good shots. We can cover more ground by separating.” As he spoke he bore to the right. “Good luck.”

Owen bore to the left.

Leaving Fargo to stop and stare after them in mild frustration. Since arguing was pointless, he shrugged and made for the bluff.

That was the thing with guide work. Sometimes those he guided had enough sense to listen. Others were jackasses and did as they pleased, and often as not paid a high price for their folly.

The woods were alive with wildlife. A robin warbled high in an oak. Sparrows flitted gaily. A ribbon snake crawled off at his approach, and shortly thereafter a wasp buzzed his ear. Tracks showed there were deer to be had. Larger prints were courtesy of elk.

Above the forest canopy reared the bluff. Long ago part of the near side had broken away, creating a slope littered with boulders. It went almost to the top. From up there a man would have a good view of the entire woods.

Fargo had lost sight of the senator and Owen. The skin between his shoulder blades prickling, he moved silently, alert for sign of them, especially Lem Owen. A twig crunched off to his left.

Instantly, Fargo crouched and tucked the Henry to his shoulder. It could be anything but he wasn’t taking chances. He waited with the patience of an Apache for what or who to show it—or him—self, but nothing appeared. Warily, he stalked on.

Fargo wasn’t too worried about the bear. Black bears usually avoided people. Likely as not, it would run when it saw them. But there was that one time in ten when black bears proved they could be as ferocious as grizzlies.

Close up, the bluff was gigantic. Fargo stepped from the trees and craned his neck. It was a two-hundred- foot climb, at least. He started up, glancing over his shoulder every few yards, just in case. At one point he thought he glimpsed someone off among the trees to the right; that would be the senator.

Gusts of wind stirred the whangs on Fargo’s buckskins. He came to a flat boulder about waist high and climbed up for a look-see. He was higher than the tops of the trees and could see Lichen and the horses. But of Keever and Owen, there was no sign.

Hopping down, Fargo resumed climbing. The higher he went, the steeper it became. Loose dirt dribbled from under his boots. Dislodged stones rattled. He skirted several boulders and was within a pebble’s toss of the top when a crow took wing from the woods below, cawing loudly. He looked, but whatever startled it into flight was well hidden.

The slope ended five feet below the rim. Raising both arms, Fargo slid the Henry over, then jumped, hooked his elbows, and with a lithe swing, gained the summit. He picked up the Henry as he rose. The top of the bluff was as flat as a flapjack and dotted with slabs of rock the size of covered wagons.

The view was spectacular. Prairie surrounded the hub of woodland for as far as the eye could see to the east, west, and south. To the north were the Black Hills.

Fargo walked along the rim, scouring the vegetation below. He saw Keever moving through dense growth. He didn’t spot Owen. He was bending for a better look when something buzzed his ear. This time it wasn’t a wasp. It was an arrow, and it came from behind him.

Diving flat, Fargo twisted and brought the Henry up. A shadow dappled one of the slabs, moving away from him.

Heaving upright, Fargo gave cautious chase. The warrior who loosed the shaft might have friends.

Rock slabs were all around. In the dust was the clear imprint of a foot clad in a moccasin.

Fargo wondered how the warrior got up there. He hadn’t seen tracks on the slope. His back to a slab, he sidled to the other side. Then it was on to the next. It was slow going. Eventually, near the opposite rim, the boulders ended. Crouching, he peered over.

This side wasn’t as steep. A well-defined game trail wound to the bottom. Almost to the end of it was a lone warrior on horseback. The style of his hair and his buckskins warned Fargo the man was a member of the one tribe he wanted to avoid: the Sioux. The warrior glanced up and smiled in grim defiance. Then he used a quirt on his mount.

“Damn.”

Fargo jerked the Henry to his shoulder. He had time for one clear shot. He fixed a bead on the center of the warrior’s back—and couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Fargo never liked to back shoot. Yes, the warrior tried to kill him, but he was white, and an invader.

Lowering the Henry, Fargo stood there until the warrior and his mount were specks on the horizon. Then he retraced his steps.

Keever had disappeared again.

Owen might as well be invisible.

Fargo thought he had spotted one or the other in the middle of the woods. But it was something else, a black mass that detached itself from a patch of shadow Its shape left no doubt. The black bear had been lying up in a thicket but now it was on the move. Its head was low to the ground as if it were sniffing—or stalking.

Fargo leaned farther out.

Senator Keever was twenty yards from the bruin, blissfully unaware of his danger. The bear, though, now had its eyes locked on him.

Cupping a hand to his mouth to shout a warning, Fargo took one more step. The next moment the ground gave out under him and he plummeted over the edge.

4

An outcropping swept toward him. Instinctively, Fargo grabbed at it and was brought up short. The jolt nearly tore his arm from the socket. He couldn’t use his other hand, though; he was holding the Henry and refused to let it go, no matter what.

His body dangling, Fargo looked down. He had to be a hundred and eighty feet above the ground, if not more. It was a straight drop to boulders at the bottom. He wouldn’t survive the fall.

Fargo tried to brace his feet against the cliff. He jabbed with his toes, seeking a crack or a hole that would bear his weight, but try as he might he couldn’t gain purchase. His boots kept slipping. Each time they did, he nearly lost his grip.

As it was, Fargo’s shoulder was screaming for relief and his arm was in agony. He couldn’t hold on much longer.

The seconds crawled into a minute. His fingers began to weaken. Gritting his teeth, he clamped on harder. He refused to give up. Death might claim him but not without a struggle.

It was then that a strange thing happened. A pair of buckskin pants came sailing over the edge and smacked the cliff next to him. He blinked in surprise, and saw that the pants were tied to a buckskin shirt. From above came a voice, the last voice in the world he expected to hear.

“Hook your rifle to the belt!”

A belt was secured to the end of the pant leg, and a loop had been rigged for the Henry. But could Fargo do it one-handed? He tried three times before he succeeded in sliding the barrel through the loop as far as the breech. It wasn’t snug but it would have to do.

“Let go and I’ll pull it up!”

Fargo glanced up. The face peering down at him showed concern, which in itself was remarkable. He nodded and released the Henry, then gripped the outcropping with both hands.

The pants rose, taking the rifle with them. For a few anxious moments he feared it would slip out and drop and be shattered, but no, his rescuer got it up and over.

“Your turn! Watch the knot!”