Unlike back East, where much of the wildlife had been killed off to fill supper pots, animal life was everywhere. Ponderous grizzlies were on perpetual prowl, tawny mountain lions glided through shadowed woodlands, hungry wolves roved in packs. Elk, deer, mountain sheep, and a host of smaller creatures were the prey the predators fed on.
On a sunny autumn morning, Fargo drew rein on a switch-back on a mountain no white man had ever set foot on and breathed deep of the crisp air.
A big man, he wore buckskins and a white hat brown with dust. A red bandanna around his neck had seen a lot of use. So had the Colt on his hip and the Arkansas toothpick snug in an ankle sheath. His eyes were as blue as a small lake below. His beard was neatly trimmed.
Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He was on his way to San Francisco and had decided to spend a week or so alone in the high country. He liked to do that every now and then. It reminded him of why he enjoyed the wild places so much.
Fargo loved to roam where no one had gone before. Where most men kept their gaze on the ground and the next step they were about to take, his gaze was always on the far horizon. He had to see what lay over it.
A game trail made the descent easy. A lot of creatures came to the lake daily to slake their thirst.
Fargo was almost to the bottom when he spied two does. They jerked their heads up but they weren’t looking at him. They stared intently at a thicket that bordered the shore. Suddenly wheeling, they bounded off, their tails erect.
Fargo wondered what had spooked them. It could be just about anything. Deer were easily frightened. Still, to be safe, he reined up and watched the thicket. A minute went by and nothing appeared so he clucked to the Ovaro and rode to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he let the reins dangle, and he stretched. He had been in the saddle since sunup.
Sinking to one knee, Fargo dipped a hand in the lake. The water was cold and clear. He sipped and smacked his lips. “How about you, big fella?”
As if the stallion understood, it lowered its muzzle.
“Not too much now.” Fargo had a habit of talking to the stallion as if it were a person. Often, it was his only companion for days at a time.
The stallion went on drinking.
High in the sky a bald eagle soared. In the forest a squirrel scampered from limb to limb. Out on the lake a fish broke the surface. The day was peaceful and perfect, exactly as Fargo liked them.
Then the Ovaro raised its head and pricked its ears and nickered.
Fargo looked, and froze.
A dog had come out of the thicket. A huge dog, almost four feet high at the front shoulders and bulky enough to weigh upwards of two hundred pounds. It had a blunt face with a broad jaw and a thick barrel of a body. Its color was somewhere between brown and gray. At the moment it was standing still, its dark eyes fixed intently on him.
“Hell,” Fargo said. Where there was a dog there were bound to be people and he had hoped to fight shy of them for a spell.
The dog took a step and growled.
Fargo smiled and gestured. “I’m friendly, boy. You’d be wise to be the same.” Out of habit he placed his hand on his Colt. He wasn’t worried. If the dog came at him he could drop it before it covered half the distance.
From behind him came the crack of a twig.
Fargo glanced over his shoulder.
Another dog, the same breed and about the same size, had emerged from the woods. Its hackles were raised and its lips were drawn back. Its teeth looked to be wickedly sharp.
“Damn.” Fargo didn’t like this. He stepped to the Ovaro and snagged the reins and was about to slip his boot into the stirrups when a sound caused him to whirl.
A third dog wasn’t more than ten feet away. Its huge head held low, it crouched.
“Down boy.” Fargo scanned the shore for sign of the owner but saw no one.He quickly mounted. He figured to get out of there before the dogs decided to attack.
The nearest dog moved to a point between the stallion and the woods, blocking his way.
“Son of a bitch.” Fargo was trying to recollect where he had seen dogs like these before. Then it came to him—Saint Louis, some time back. Mastiffs, they were called. He seemed to recall they were bred in England or some such place, but he could be mistaken.
The dog to the right and the dog to the left moved slowly toward him.
“Go away, damn you.” It occurred to Fargo that if they rushed him he might drop one or two but not all three, and all it would take was one to bring the Ovaro down. He didn’t dare risk that. Suddenly reining toward the lake, he used his spurs.
The stallion reacted superbly, as it nearly always did. It took a long bound and plunged into the water.
Fargo bent forward and hiked his boots out of the stirrups. The Ovaro would swim to the other side and he would be on his way, no worse for the bother. He chuckled, pleased at how he had outwitted the dogs, confident they wouldn’t come after him. He shifted in the saddle to be sure.
All three mastiffs jumped in. The nearest surged swiftly after the Ovaro, swimming with powerful strokes, its head high, its teeth glistening in the sunlight.
“Damn dumb dogs.” Fargo was growing mad. He’d tried to spare them, and now look. He drew his Colt and took aim but changed his mind and holstered it. So far the Ovaro was holding its own. If he could stay ahead of them until he reached the other side, he could get away. The dogs might be fast but over a long distance the Ovaro’s stamina would win out.
The bottom of Fargo’s pants were soaked. He would have to dry them and his boots and socks later. But at least his saddlebags and bedroll were mostly dry. The Henry in the saddle scabbard was getting wet and he would have to dry and clean it later, a chore he could do without.
Fargo checked behind him. The nearest dog hadn’t gained any and the others had no chance in hell of catching him before he struck solid ground.
Several ducks took noisy wing, frightened by the commotion.
The dogs didn’t give up.
Fargo wished he knew who their owner was. He’d pistol-whip the bastard for letting them run free. It made him wonder what anyone was doing there, so far from anywhere.
The Ovaro swam smoothly, tirelessly.
Fargo’s gaze drifted to the shore they were making for and a tingle of alarm rippled down his spine. “It can’t be.”
A fourth dog had emerged from the forest and was pacing back and forth, waiting for them.
“What is this, the whole litter?” Fargo grumbled. He reined the stallion to the right. The mastiff on the shore moved in the same direction. Fargo reined to the left. The dog moved to cut him off. Once again Fargo drew the Colt. He had nothing against dogs but he would be damned if he’d let them attack him. As soon as he was close enough, the beast on shore was dead.
They were awfully well trained, Fargo reflected, and was struck by a hunch. He scoured the vegetation and was about convinced his hunch must be wrong when a shadow detached itself from a tree. He couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if the figure was white or red but since Indians seldom had mastiffs he took it for granted it was a white man and hollered, “Call your damn dogs off!”
The shadow didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” Fargo raised the Colt. “Call them off or you’ll bury them.”
The figure stepped into the open.
Fargo half wanted to pinch himself. “Lord almighty,” he blurted in amazement.
It was a woman. She couldn’t be much over twenty. Luxurious red hair cascaded over her slender shoulders, framing an oval face as lovely as any female’s ever born. Her clothes consisted of a homespun shirt and britches that might have been painted on. She had an hourglass shape and a full bosom, and was barefoot. One hand was on her shapely hip and in the other she held a six-gun, which she now trained on Fargo. “You shoot any of my dogs, mister, and I’ll sure as blazes shoot you.”
Fargo’s mouth moved of its own accord. “Then call them off, you idiot.”
