Idaho Gold Fever

“Hell,” Skye Fargo said.

9

There were twenty-four, not eighteen.

The hoof prints told Fargo that much. They also told him the Nez Perce hadn’t camped overnight at the clearing where Victor Gore told Fargo he had spotted them. The tracks led through the clearing and out the other side without stopping.

It raised a couple of questions in Fargo’s mind. Why did Gore tell him the Nez Perce were camped there when they weren’t? And what were the Nez Perce doing there to begin with? If they were painted for war, as Gore claimed, they were either planning to raid an enemy or coming back from a raid.

Either way, the tracks plainly pointed to the east. The wagon train was to the south. So the settlers were safe enough for the time being.

But now Fargo had a decision to make. He could ride back and tell Gore and Winston all was well or he could make certain all was well by following the war party a short way to be sure they didn’t stay in the area.

Fargo swore and gigged the Ovaro to the east.

By then the sun was only a few degrees above the horizon. Sparrows chirped in the brush. Several deer watched him go by without showing any fear. A squirrel leaped from limb to limb high in the trees. All signs that the woods were peaceful. But Fargo wasn’t fooled. The wilds were a fickle mistress—peaceful one moment, erupting into violence the next. He rode with his hand on his Colt. Every so often he rose in the stirrups to scan the terrain ahead.

The shadows lengthened. Soon the bright glare of day would give way to the spectral gray of twilight.

Fargo pondered as he rode. It bothered him that he couldn’t figure out what Rinson and the other so-called protectors were up to, or how, exactly, Victor Gore fit into the scheme of things. Gore had talked the farmers into hiring Rinson but he might have felt he was doing the farmers a favor.

It bothered Fargo, too, that the farmers wouldn’t listen to his advice and get the hell out of Nez Perce country while they still could. No valley, no matter how ideal, was worth the price the farmers would pay when the Nez Perce found out they were there.

Then there was Rachel. Fargo had taken a shine to the girl and didn’t want her harmed. He had half a mind to throw her over his saddle and take her away by force when he left.

Engrossed in his musing, Fargo forgot to rise in the stirrups. He was jolted back into the real world when the Ovaro suddenly stopped of its own accord and pricked its ears.

Fargo looked up, and wanted to kick himself. He had nearly blundered onto the Nez Perce. Quickly reining into cover, he bent low over the saddle horn.

Mounted Nez Perce were winding through the woods. With a start, Fargo realized it wasn’t the entire war party but only six warriors, and they were coming toward him, not moving away.

Fargo firmed his grip on the reins. He wondered if the six were looking for him, although he couldn’t see how that could be. He had been careful not to cross open areas. And his Henry, with its shiny brass receiver that could flash in the sun and give him away, was snug in his saddle scabbard.

Gore had been right about one thing. The warriors, and their mounts, were painted for war. One horse bore the stick figure of a man to show its owner had ridden an enemy down in combat. Another had a crescent high on its front leg and the symbol for a bow on a rear leg to show that the warrior had fought in a battle at night.

The Nez Perce were casting about for sign, and four had arrows nocked to the sinew strings of their bows.

They were hunting, Fargo guessed. War parties had to eat. And if they kept coming they might spot the Ovaro’s tracks and know by the pinto’s shod hooves that a white man was nearby.

The tracks would lead them straight to him.

Fargo reined to the north and moved off at a walk. He stayed bent low and prayed none of the warriors would glance up and catch sight of him. But fate had other ideas. He covered less than a dozen yards when a sharp cry rang out.

A warrior with a bow was pointing at him.

“Damn it.” Fargo jabbed his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a gallop. He had confidence in the stallion but Appaloosas were fine animals, too, with a lot more stamina than the grass-fed ponies of the plains tribes. He was in for a long chase.

The Nez Perce came on fast. An arrow whizzed past but that was the only shaft they wasted. He didn’t resort to his Colt. Shots might bring more.

Fargo concentrated on increasing his lead but the warriors were determined to keep him in sight, and their Appaloosas were equal to the challenge. Half a mile of hard riding convinced him he must do something drastic.

A thicket sparked an idea.

Fargo raced around it. The moment he was on the other side he brought the Ovaro to a sliding stop next to it. Soon the Nez Perce came flying by on either side. They were intent on the woods ahead and went past without seeing him.

Halting on the reins, Fargo used his spurs again. Only he was now chasing them. They had lost sight of him and slowed, and were looking around in bewilderment.

As the Ovaro swiftly overtook the last warrior, Fargo unlimbered his Colt.

The warrior glanced over his shoulder, his face mirroring disbelief. It slowed his reaction.

Fargo slammed the Colt against the warrior’s temple and sent him tumbling to the earth. Without slowing Fargo bore down on the next, a stocky warrior armed with a Sharps rifle. The warrior never got the chance to use it. Once again the Colt flashed. Once again the barrel struck flesh and bone. And once again a warrior pitched headlong from his warhorse.

Two down and four to go.

Fargo caught up to the third warrior and reined in close. The man shot a surprised glance at him and started to turn. Fargo hit him full in the face and cartilage crunched.

Three down now.

Of those remaining, one was to Fargo’s left, the other two to his right. He reined to the left.

It had to happen. This warrior was more alert than the others. He glanced back and immediately yelled to warn his companions. Then he tried to bring his bow into play.

An extra burst of speed brought Fargo up close. He swung and hit the bow, and it went flying. The warrior clawed for a knife and was whipping it from its beaded sheath when the Colt caught him across the jaw. One blow wasn’t enough. The warrior swayed but stayed on. A second blow remedied that.

The last pair had heard the yell and were streaking toward Fargo. Both held bows with shafts ready to fly.

Fargo had no choice. He snapped off a shot. The slug cored a warrior’s shoulder and half twisted him around but he stayed on his horse. Then an arrow loosed by the last warrior buzzed within a whisker’s width of Fargo’s ear. Hugging the Ovaro, he sought to outdistance them, but they and their Appaloosas were as tenacious as always.

So far Fargo had not had to kill any of them. Nor did he want to. He had no quarrel with the Nez Perce. In the past, he’d made friends with a few, and if the truth be known, he didn’t blame them for wanting to drive the whites out of their territory. He would do the same if he were a Nez Perce. The whites had no right to claim land the tribe had roamed for God knew how many generations.

When next Fargo looked back only one warrior was still after him. The man he shot in the shoulder had stopped.

By now the sun was dipping below the horizon. More shadow than light cloaked the woodland and it took all of Fargo’s considerable skill as a horseman to thread the Ovaro through the trees safely. Unfortunately, the doggedly persistent warrior was also a good rider, and while he didn’t gain, he didn’t lose ground, either.

The stamina of their mounts would decide the outcome. Appaloosas were renowned for their endurance but