The sun was poised on the rim of the world. Soon only a golden crown remained. Then that, too, was gone. The sky gradually darkened, giving birth to stars, which multiplied like rabbits.
Thaddeus Thompson had been plodding along mumbling to himself, but he abruptly jerked his head up and wagged a finger at Fargo. “I thought I told you to mosey on. I do not need your company.”
“It isn’t smart to be out alone at night,” Fargo observed. “The Blackfeet have been acting up of late. And there are grizzlies hereabouts.”
“Hell, the Blackfeet have held a grudge since Lewis and Clark. As for the silvertips, most stay up in the mountains these days. To come down here is an invite to be stuffed and mounted.”
“So the answer is no?”
“If your head were any harder, you would have rock between your ears.”
Fargo had taken all of the old man’s barbs he was going to. “And you called me ornery, you old goat. Have it your way,” he said, and applied his spurs. But no sooner did he do so than the undergrowth parted and onto the trail strode the lord of the Rockies, the very creature Fargo had been concerned about. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, drawing rein.
Apparently Thaddeus had not noticed the newcomer because he asked, “What has you in a dither, sonny?”
Fargo did not have to answer. The grizzly did it for him by rearing onto its hind legs, tilting its head, and growling.
2
Grizzlies were living mountains of muscle with razor teeth and claws. Immensely strong, they could rip a man apart with one swipe of an enormous paw. They were unpredictable; nine times out of ten they ran at the sight or smell of a human being, but the tenth time was to be dreaded, for stopping a griz was next to impossible. Their skulls were so thick, the bone was virtual armor. To hit the heart or a lung was almost as difficult owing to their huge bodies.
But that did not stop Fargo from yanking the Henry from his saddle scabbard. Levering a round into the chamber, he pressed the stock to his shoulder, saying quietly to Thaddeus Thompson, “Don’t move.”
The old man did not heed. Flapping his arms, he walked toward the bear, bawling, “Go away! Shoo! Bother someone else, you consarned nuisance!”
Fargo braced for a charge. He would do what he could but he doubted he could bring the grizzly down before it reached Thompson and reduced him to a pile of shattered bones and ruptured flesh. “Stop, damn it,” Fargo hollered.
Thaddeus glanced back, and laughed. “Don’t shoot! It’s only old One Ear. He has been around nearly as long as I have.”
Fargo looked, and sure enough, the bear did appear to be past its prime. Splashes of gray marked the muzzle, and it was more gaunt than a grizzly should be. The left ear was missing, apparently torn off, leaving a ridge of scar tissue. But Fargo did not lower the Henry. An old bear was still dangerous. “It might attack,” he warned.
Thaddeus Thompson dismissed the notion with a wave. “Shows how much you know! One Ear never hurt anybody. He comes and goes as he pleases, and hardly anyone ever sees him except me. I think he likes me.”
“You are an idiot,” Fargo said.
“Think so, do you? Just you watch!” Thaddeus squared his thin shoulders and boldly marched toward the bear, saying as if greeting a long-lost friend, “How do you do, One Ear? How have you been? If you drank coffin varnish I would share mine if I had any left.”
Then and there Fargo decided the old-timer was more than a few bales short of a wagon load. He took a bead on the grizzly’s chest.
One Ear was regarding the old man as if it could not quite make up its mind what to do. Suddenly the bear dropped onto all fours, ponderously wheeled, and crashed off into the underbrush. Within moments the racket faded and the woods were still.
“See?” Thaddeus gloated. “I told you he wouldn’t hurt me.”
Fargo waited to be good and sure the bear was gone, then let down the Henry’s hammer, slid the rifle into the scabbard, and gigged the Ovaro up next to Thompson. “You will get yourself killed one day pulling that stunt.”
“We all end up in a grave.”
“So?” Fargo said.
“So when my time comes, I would rather it was quick than slow. One Ear is better than lying abed for a month of Sundays, wasting away.”
Fargo had to admit the old man had a point but he still said, “A bear can be messy. A bullet to the brain would not hurt as much.”
“Shoot myself? Hell, boy, if I could, I would. But I don’t have the sand. If I did, Martha and Simon would still be breathing.” Thaddeus resumed walking, his head hung low.
“You keep bringing them up,” Fargo mentioned. “What happened, if you don’t mind telling?”
“It was Martha,” Thaddeus said. “She wouldn’t keep quiet. She wasn’t one of those who look down their nose at Indians just because they are different from us.”
“You have lost me.”
“Don’t your ears work? Martha was heartbroke at how the Indians were being treated. Some of our best friends are red, and it tore her apart to see them abused, and to hear all the talk of wiping them out.”
“Who would want to wipe out the Indians?”
“Who else?” Thaddeus retorted. “Big Mike Durn, as they call him. He hates Indians. He thinks the only good one is a dead one.” He stopped and stabbed a finger at Fargo. “How about you, mister? Are you a red-hater?”
“I have lived with the Sioux and other tribes,” Fargo revealed. “They are not the evil many whites make them out to be. They are people, like us.”
Thaddeus showed his yellow teeth again. “A man after my own heart. Maybe I will ride with you, after all.”
Fargo almost regretted his offer. The old man had not taken a bath in a coon’s age, and to say he stunk was being charitable. Fargo breathed shallow and held his breath when he turned his head to say something. And now that they were friends, Thaddeus was in a talkative mood.
“A word to the wise: When we get to Polson, keep your feelings about Indians to yourself.”
“Why?”
“Durn and his men do not take kindly to anyone who speaks well of the red man. Remember my wife? Why, just last week they beat someone for saying as how the Indians had been here first and had as much right to the land as anybody.” Thaddeus swore luridly. “That Mike Durn is the meanest cuss who ever drew breath.”
“Why doesn’t someone do something?”
“It would take a heap of doing. Durn has pretty near twenty tough characters working for him, and they are not shy about getting their way.”
“Outlaws?”
“Not strictly, no. But they are as bad a bunch as I ever saw. They will beat a man as soon as look at him.”
The situation sounded worse than Fargo had been told. “What about Polson’s law-abiding citizens? Why don’t they drive him out if it is as bad as you say?”
“Hell, mister. Most are married, and some have kids. Sally Brook stood up to Durn a month ago at the general store. Let him have a piece of her mind, she did, and for that, she was pushed around a bit by Tork and Grunge.”
“I have met Tork,” Fargo said, and briefly related his run-in.
