Perkins said, “Better ask her to be yours before one of the sons of one of these dirt-pushers gets the notion.”
Slag bobbed his chin. “Stay as long as you want, mister. It’s fine by us. We don’t hold grudges.”
The three grinned and walked off.
Fargo was inclined to pinch himself to be sure he was awake. What in hell was that all about? he wondered. He didn’t buy for a minute that those three had sheathed their claws. They were up to something. But what?
Then Victor Gore came around a wagon. “Fargo! There you are. Lester just told me that Rinson and his men have decided to stay around awhile.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Marvelous. Just marvelous. I’m free to roam about, then, and not have to worry about them.” Victor gleefully rubbed his palms together. “Yes, sir. Things have worked out better than I dared hope.”
12
The first attempt on Fargo’s life took place several days later, late in the afternoon.
During that time the farmers held a lot of meetings. Lester told Fargo they were deciding how to divide up the valley. “We figure we’ll give each lot a number and then draw the number out of a hat.”
For some reason Winston laughed after he said that.
As for Rinson and the “protectors,” they kept busy patrolling the valley’s perimeter for sign of hostiles during the day, and at night they took turns standing guard.
Little was seen of Victor Gore. Each morning he rode out at first light and didn’t return until near sundown. When Billy asked what he was doing, Gore explained that he was visiting places he had trapped years ago. Billy mentioned that he was amazed Gore could find them again after so many years, and Gore said there was one spot in particular he was anxious to revisit, but so far he hadn’t been able to locate it.
“But I will. Mark my words. It’s the most important of all.”
Fargo didn’t bother to ask what was so special about a spot where Gore had pulled dead beaver out of the water.
Those first days Gore came back tired and glum. He didn’t talk much at supper, except to say that a lot had changed, and many of the landmarks he remembered were hard to locate.
The second evening Gore was in even worse spirits. He told the Winstons he had traveled through some dreadfully thick country and was worn out. “The only good note is that the beaver are thriving again. I thought we had trapped them out, but by God, there are as many now as there were back then.”
At one time, it had been widely feared that beaver had been trapped to the edge of extinction. But once the fur trade dwindled and prime skins were no longer in demand, the beaver population quickly recovered.
“I’m so happy I could bust,” Vincent Gore declared.
Fargo mostly hunted. There were a lot of mouths to feed, a lot of supper pots to fill with fresh meat. From morning until twilight he roved the surrounding mountains. He shot two deer the first day, three the second. The third day, toward the middle of the afternoon, he came on tracks made by a big buck. Fresh tracks, with the scent of the buck’s urine strong in the air.
Shucking the Henry from the saddle scabbard, Fargo stalked it, riding slowly and quietly.
He was over a mile from the valley. Now and then he caught sight of it far below.
The sun was warm on his face. Other than a few vagrant gusts, the wind was still. He had not come across any sign of the Nez Perce.
All was peaceful.
Fargo started up another slope. He saw where the buck had abruptly veered off and wondered why. A possible explanation came the next moment when a leaden hornet buzzed his ear at the same split instant that a rifle cracked below him.
The only reason the would-be killer missed was because Fargo had started to turn his head in the direction the buck had gone.
Instinctively, Fargo bent low and used his spurs. Within seconds he was in among white pines. Drawing rein, he dismounted and crept to where he could see the part of the slope where the shot came from. He patiently probed every shadowed patch and thicket but saw no one.
Suspecting the bushwhacker was gone, Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and circled lower until he came to his own back trail. As he expected, he found the tracks of another horse. A shod horse.
The bushwhacker was a white man. Indians didn’t ride shod horses. And since there were no other whites within five hundred miles, it had to be someone from the valley. Since he couldn’t see any of the farmers trying to kill him, that cut the likely suspects to eight: one of Rinson’s protectors. But which one? And why, for God’s sake?
The attempt was doubly puzzling because Rinson and company had left him alone for so long. They seemed to have accepted the fact he was going to stick around.
Fargo backtracked the killer. The man had shadowed him a long way, staying well back so Fargo wouldn’t spot him.
Fargo checked behind him often. Now and again he hid and waited to see if he was being followed.
Along about sundown Fargo came to the valley floor. As was his habit, he stripped the Ovaro and spread out his blankets near the Winstons’ wagon. For the time being, for their mutual protection, the farmers were keeping their wagons circled in the middle of the valley. Until they got their cabins built, they were easy targets.
Fargo helped himself to coffee and sat with his back to his saddle, peering out from under his hat brim. One of Rinson’s men was standing guard over the horse herd, another was walking the circle. The rest were huddled around a fire, talking and joking. None of them so much as glanced in his direction.
Discovering which one had tried to kill him would take some doing.
The sun was practically gone when Victor Gore showed up. He was whistling as he rode in, and he greeted the farmers jovially.
Then it happened.
The only reason Fargo noticed was because he was watching the protectors. He saw Rinson and Slag and Perkins glance up. He saw Rinson give Vincent Gore a pointed look. He saw Gore nod, a barely perceptible bob of the chin that no one else caught. And he saw Rinson turn to Slag and Perkins and say something that brought huge grins to their faces.
What the hell was that all about? Fargo wondered. He went on sipping coffee, and when Gore came over, greeted him with, “You’re in a good mood.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gore rejoined. “I love this part of the country. It is everything I remember it being.”
“Do you remember the part where Indians kill white men who invade their land?”
“Honestly, Mr. Fargo. Give it a rest. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Nez Perce, and frankly, I’m beginning to think we never will. In all the thousands of square miles of territory they roam, we are a needle in a haystack.”
Fargo swallowed more coffee, then casually asked, “How long before you head back to civilization?”
Gore blinked. “I haven’t given it much thought. It could be a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.” He paused. “How about you? When do you plan to get on with your own life?”
“When I’m sure these people are safe.”
“But according to you, they never will be. They are a massacre waiting to happen.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
Victor grinned. “You should have been born a chicken. You make a great mother hen.”
No sooner did the old trapper wander off than Rachel sank down and brazenly put her hand on Fargo’s knee. “How was your day?”
“You’re beginning to sound like a wife.”
Rachel removed her hand and said uncertainly, “What’s the matter? You sound mad.”
“Not at you,” Fargo assured her. After making sure no one could overhear, he told her about the attempt to ambush him.
