white man.”
Perkins lost some of his good mood. “You make me out to be worse than I am. And you like to carve, too. You’re just not as honest about it as I am.”
“The hell I’m not. I don’t brag about it, is all. Or wallow in the blood, like you do.”
“There are a few with this bunch who could stand to be cut. Take that Rachel.”
“Her? She’s as sweet as can be.”
“I like the sweet ones best.”
“I’m glad I’m not sweet,” Slag said.
Perkins cackled uproariously.
Lifting their reins, the pair rode on. Soon the vegetation swallowed them and the clomp of hooves faded.
Fargo stayed where he was. He had heard enough to quicken his suspicions. The question now was what to do about it? He wasn’t a lawman. He could go for one but it could take weeks to find a federal marshal and bring him back, and by then whatever Slag and Perkins and their friends were up to would be done with.
Twirling his Colt into its holster, Fargo forked leather. He had a decision to make. The people with the wagon train were nothing to him. He didn’t know any of them personally. And given his low opinion of settlers, he should rein around and leave. But there were women and children. And there might be a link between this bunch and the missing family.
With a sigh, Fargo reined toward the wagon train. Once he was in the open, he rode parallel with the wagons but stayed a good hundred yards out. Soon shouts told him he had been spotted. Before long several riders came galloping toward him. One yelled for him to stop.
Fargo drew rein and waited.
Two of the three were settlers. Their homespun clothes and floppy hats marked them as members of the wagon train.
The third man was different. He was like Slag and Perkins: dirty and ill-kempt and bristling with weapons. Of middling height, he favored a Remington revolver worn butt forward on his left hip. He had high cheek-bones and beady eyes and a hooked nose that made him look like a hawk.
“We want to talk to you, mister,” the hawk-faced man declared.
“You see me sitting here,” Fargo said as they came to a stop. “What do you want?”
The settlers smiled in friendly greeting but the hawk-faced man placed his hand on the butt of his Remington.
“I don’t much like your tone.”
“I don’t much care,” Fargo informed him. “Unless you have something to say, I’ll be on my way.”
“We want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
Fargo shook his head.
“You won’t say?” one of the settlers asked.
“My personal affairs are my own.”
“What if I insist?” the hawk-faced man said, and just like that his gun hand moved.
So did Fargo’s. In the blink of an eye he had his Colt up and out. All three of them heard the click of the hammer. “Draw that six-shooter and I’ll blow you to hell.”
Amazement turned the hawk-faced man to stone. He stared into the barrel of the Colt and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “That was mighty slick.”
“Get your hand off that hogleg.”
Reluctantly, the hawk-faced man splayed his fingers and held his arm out from his side. “I meant what I said. That was about the slickest I’ve ever come across.”
The biggest settler, who looked to be in his forties and packed a lot of beef on his bones, kneed his sorrel closer. “Enough of this, Mr. Rinson. I won’t have you threatening everyone we come across.” He grinned at Fargo. “Forgive him, mister. He means well. He just wants to protect us and our families.”
“Is that what he’s doing?”
The big settler nodded. “He works for Victor Gore. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He used to be a trapper in these parts. Or so he tells us.”
“Never heard of him,” Fargo admitted. But that wasn’t unusual. The height of the trapping trade had been before his time.
“Well, be that as it may, Mr. Rinson works for Mr. Gore. We’ve hired them to guide us to the Payette River Valley. We’re farmers, you see, and Mr. Gore says the valley is perfect for homesteading.” The man offered his big hand. “I’m Lester Winston, by the way. My family is in the first wagon yonder. In the other wagons are friends of ours. We’re all from Ohio.”
Fargo slid the Colt into its holster, then shook. Predictably, the farmer had a grip of iron.
“I take it you have heard that the Nez Perce have been acting up of late?” Lester Winston went on. “That’s why I let Mr. Gore talk me into hiring him and his men when we ran into them at Fort Bridger. They are worth their fee if they get us safely through to the Payette River Valley.” He stopped. “Have you ever been there?”
“No,” Fargo said. The Payette River, yes, but not of a valley named after the river. Which in itself was peculiar, given how many times he had been through this region.
“Mr. Gore says the soil is so rich, our crops will practically grow themselves. And game is so plentiful we won’t ever lack for meat.” Lester gazed to the northwest, his eye lit with the gleam of land hunger. “We were on our way to Oregon Country, but after hearing Mr. Gore talk about how grand the Payette River Valley is, we changed our minds.”
“This Gore must be some talker,” Fargo said, and noticed that it caused Rinson to frown.
“He does have a silver tongue,” Lester said. “But he’s a fine gentleman. The salt of the earth, if you ask me.”
“I haven’t met many of those,” Fargo said drily.
Rinson let out a small hiss of annoyance. “Are we going to sit here jawing all day, Winston? Gore left me to watch over you while he’s gone, and I can’t say as I like you telling this stranger all there is to know about us. For all we know, he’s an outlaw.”
“He doesn’t look like one.”
“Listen to yourself. You can’t tell if a person is good or bad by how they look. I say we send him on his way. And if he won’t go, we prod him to move him along.”
“I don’t prod easy,” Fargo said.
“Did you hear him?” Rinson asked Lester. “He’s not all that friendly. It’s best if we’re shed of him.”
The wagons had stopped. Men, women and children were all staring with keen interest. They were so far north of the Snake River, in country so rugged and remote, that to run across another white was rare.
One woman, in particular, caught Fargo’s eye. She was young and shapely and wore a bright blue bonnet that complemented her darker blue dress. From under the bonnet, fine yellow hair cascaded, shimmering like gold in the sunlight. Fargo couldn’t tell much else about her from that distance, but what he could tell prompted him to say to Lester Winston, “I’d like to ride with you awhile. Maybe share your supper.”
Rinson growled, “Like hell.”
Now it was Lester Winston who frowned. “Need I remind you that I am the leader of this wagon train? I’ll make the decision, not you.”
“Gore won’t like it.”
“He’s not here. And while I’ll admit that our safety should be uppermost on our minds, I refuse to think the worst of everyone we meet. We must all be Good Samaritans, Mr. Rinson.”
“Good what?”
“Haven’t you read the Bible?” Lester asked. “The milk of human kindness separates us from the beasts, and we must never let the flow run dry.”
“I’m not all that fond of milk,” Rinson said. “And I never learned to read nor write.”
Winston turned to Fargo. “Yes, by all means, come join us. My Martha won’t mind feeding you. And it will be nice to have someone new to talk to.”
“Damn it,” Rinson fumed. To Fargo he said, “Mister, you have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. Victor Gore is liable to have you stomped into the dirt, and that’s no lie.”
“I don’t stomp easy, either,” Fargo said, and gigged the Ovaro. He had the feeling he was about to poke his
