the Ovaro was no swayback. The stallion could go strong for miles but it had already been through a lot and Fargo had a hunch it would tire before its pursuer. He decided on another reckless gamble. But he needed the right spot.
Presently his wish was granted. The forest thinned, giving way to broken country split by gullies and sprinkled with boulders. The Ovaro flew down the slope of a dry wash and up the other side, dust and stones spewing from under its flying hooves.
The Nez Perce gave voice to a war whoop. He had an arrow notched but was wisely saving it for when he was so close he couldn’t miss.
A clutch of cabin-sized boulders reared in Fargo’s path. He reined wide to go around, as he had done back at the thicket. And again as he had done at the thicket, when he came to the far side he reined in behind them. But only for the brief second it took to launch himself from the saddle, yank the Henry from the scabbard and swat the Ovaro on the rump.
The pinto kept going.
Fargo dashed to the edge of the boulders. Reversing his grip on the Henry, he set himself, ready to wield it as a club. There was a chance he might damage it, though, so when his foot bumped a rock as big as his fist, he suddenly changed his mind. Bending, he scooped up the rock. He hefted it a few times, then cocked his arm.
Hooves pounded, and around the boulder swept the Appaloosa. The warrior spied the riderless Ovaro up ahead, and stiffened.
That was when Fargo threw the rock with all his might.
The warrior reeled, blood pouring from a jagged gash on his forehead. He brought his mount to a halt, reined around, and raised his bow. But he couldn’t let the arrow fly for all the blood in his eyes. Blinking and wiping his forearm across his face, he tried to sight down the shaft.
By then Fargo was on him. Seizing an ankle, he unhorsed the Nez Perce. The man landed on his shoulders and rolled to scramble to his feet but he was only halfway up when the stock of Fargo’s rifle slammed against his head and he crumpled in a heap.
Fargo stepped back, ready to swing again if he had to, but the Nez Perce was unconscious.
Sticking two fingers into his mouth, Fargo gave out a piercing whistle that would bring the Ovaro back. The lathered Appaloosa had already stopped and was standing with its head down.
Fargo scoured his back trail for the others. None were in view but they soon might be. He must make himself scarce, and quickly. Hurrying to meet the Ovaro, he forked leather, and paused.
Fargo had a problem. He wanted to head straight for the wagon train but if he did, the Ovaro’s tracks would lead the Nez Perce right to them. He must lose the war party before he could head back and that might take some doing.
The wagons were coming from the south. The war party was to the east. Fargo could go north but that was the direction the wagons were traveling. He could go west, too, but if the warriors lost his trail and headed to the east as they had been doing, they might cross the wagon train’s trail.
Add to that the possibility that one or more of the six Fargo clashed with might go fetch the rest of the war party.
Fargo reined to the southeast. It would take him away from the wagon train and the settlers, but dangerously near the war party. Since it would be dark soon, he was confident the Nez Perce wouldn’t be after him until daylight. He had all night to find a way to shake them.
In due course the sun sank and a few dim stars speckled the firmament. They brightened as the sky darkened and multiplied like ethereal rabbits.
Fargo found the Big Dipper. In the northern hemisphere, the two stars that made up the cup of the Dipper farthest from the handle always pointed at the North Star. Knowing where the North Star was enabled him to tell direction at night. Every frontiersman knew the trick.
Fargo’s belly growled but he ignored it. Food would have to wait. Besides, hunger helped to keep a man awake and sharp, and he might need to ride all night.
The mountains came alive with savage cries and ululating howls. The meat eaters were abroad, a legion of fang and claw that feasted from dusk until dawn and then returned to their dens and burrows to sleep their lethargy away and greet the next night as ravenous as on the last. A cycle of hunger and blood, as old as time itself.
Fargo wasn’t worried about the predators. A grizzly might take an interest in him but most everything else would give him a wide berth. The mere scent of a human was enough to cause most meat eaters to slink silently away.
Weariness nipped at Fargo’s sinews. He had been on the go since before sunup. Between the hours in the saddle and his fight with the Nez Perce, he wouldn’t mind a few hours rest. Stifling a yawn, he shrugged the tiredness off. Sleep, like food, had to wait.
A belt of woodland brought him to the base of a mountain. He rode along the bottom until he came to a stream. Reining into the center, he headed upstream. It was shallow but flowed swiftly enough that by morning all traces of the Ovaro’s tracks might be obliterated.
“We can only hope,” Fargo said out loud.
Another hour of riding brought him to a narrow gap. He passed through, the rock walls virtually rubbing the Ovaro’s sides, and emerged to discover a range he had never visited before. He would love to explore it but it would have to wait. Swinging to the south, he rode in a wide circle that would eventually bring him back to the wagon train.
Fargo had a fair notion of where the train should be. He estimated it would take him two hours to reach it. He would try, yet again, to warn the settlers off. With the countryside swarming with Nez Perce, the farmers would be lucky to live long enough to plant seeds.
Then from out of the night came a sound other than the howls of wolves and the yips of coyotes.
It was a scream, torn from a human throat.
10
It came from the east, from out of the dark heart of the unknown range. Faint but unmistakable, it rose to a piercing shriek then gradually faded.
Fargo’s skin prickled. That was a death cry if ever he heard one. He drew rein and briefly debated. Should he head west to the covered wagons or east into the unknown? He reined east.
It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There was no light to guide him, not so much as a finger of campfire flame. He relied on his instincts to pinpoint the approximate area the scream came from.
The somber mountains gave way to a narrow valley so thickly chocked with timber that Fargo couldn’t see ten feet. Wary as a cat in a room full of sleeping dogs, he went a quarter of a mile. Far enough, he thought, to show he must be mistaken. He was about to rein around when an acrid odor tingled his nose.
Smoke.
Fargo sniffed. He turned his head from right to left and back again. There could be no mistake. The smoke was drifting his way from deeper in the inky valley.
The clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves were the only sounds. Although they were muffled by the carpet of pine needles, to Fargo they were thunderclaps that could be heard by hostile ears. He kept his hand on his Colt.
The acrid smoke scent grew stronger.
Up ahead a tiny red sprite flared, a flickering dervish that writhed and danced to the whispers of the wind.
A clearing spread before him.
Fargo came to a stop. At its center was the sprite, all that remained of a campfire. It didn’t cast enough light to illuminate the vague shapes and figures that littered the ground around it.
A new odor struck Fargo. Another unmistakable smell. This time it was the scent of blood. Freshly spilled blood, and a lot of it. He waited, refusing to expose himself until he was sure it was safe. After several minutes of complete silence, he kneed the Ovaro. Ever so warily, he picked his way around the sprawled figures.
Dismounting, Fargo hunkered. He puffed on the flame and it grew, revealing a nearby pile of broken sticks. He added a few and blew on the smoldering embers and soon had a fire. A small fire, a fire that wouldn’t be seen from
