Idaho Gold Fever

“I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

“Good. Because I was hoping we can go for another stroll tonight after supper. Just the two of us.” Rachel smiled shyly. “I can’t help it if I can’t get enough of you.”

Amused, Fargo said, “A walk will be fine.” He had met women like her before. Once their passion was kindled, it became a roaring fire.

“One other thing,” Rachel said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful today, will you?”

“Always.” Fargo caught Martha glaring at him. Smiling at her, her stepped into the stirrups.

A few farmers waved as he rode out. They appreciated the hunting he did since they didn’t have time to do it themselves. Suddenly Fargo came on Perkins, who was riding the perimeter. To his mild surprise, Perkins smiled.

“Morning.”

Fargo grunted.

“Good luck on your hunt. Maybe you can get an elk. One of these plow-pushers was saying as how he saw some at the far end of the valley yesterday.”

“I can’t make any promises.” Fargo had heard the same thing from Lester, and did, in fact, intend to go see if he could find them. “If you see Gore, tell him I might not be back until late.”

“He rode out a while ago.”

“Awful early,” Fargo remarked.

“You know how he is. I guess there’s a lot of country he’s hankering to see again.”

“Must be.” Fargo clucked to the Ovaro and didn’t look back. He scanned the valley for sign of Gore but the old man was long gone.

The elk had left plenty of tracks. They couldn’t help it, as huge and heavy as they were. Fargo followed them up a long slope to a low ridge half a mile up. He was intent on reading the sign as he neared a large boulder. By sheer chance he happened to glance right at the boulder as a man came vaulting up and over with a blade glinting in his hand.

It was one of Rinson’s men—short, stocky, with a pockmarked face and missing front teeth.

Fargo went for his Colt but he was a shade too late. The man slammed into him, smashing him from the saddle, while simultaneously stabbing at his throat. Fargo jerked aside and the knife missed. They tumbled and the man tried again to bury his blade. They hit hard and Fargo pushed away and up into a crouch, palming his Arkansas toothpick.

“Damn you,” the man snarled, and came at him again.

Fargo didn’t know his name. He’d barely spoken two words to him the whole time he had been with the wagon train. Yet here the man was, fiercely determined to kill him.

The blade flashed at Fargo’s throat. He dived, rolled toward the man instead of away from him, and streaked the toothpick up and out.

A bleat of surprise greeted the thrust. That, and a sudden line of red on the man’s shirt.

Fargo had missed his vitals. The man swore and slashed in a berserk fury, seeking to break through Fargo’s guard and end their fight quickly. But Fargo was no slouch with a knife, himself. They stabbed, parried, cut, feinted. Steel rang on steel. Fargo’s shoulder spiked with pain and he opened a wound on the other’s thigh.

Breathing heavily, they circled. The man was wary now.

Fargo did something he normally wouldn’t do. He spoke. “What is this about?”

“Go to hell.”

“Is this Rinson’s idea? Why does he want me dead?”

“If you only knew the truth,” the man said.

“Suppose you enlighten me.”

“Eat steel.”

Again the man’s blade flashed. This time he went for the heart. Fargo sidestepped, countered, felt the toothpick bite into flesh and was rewarded with more swearing.

“I won’t kill you if you tell me why you’re doing this.”

Instead of answering, the man growled like a wild beast, and like a wild beast he threw himself forward with his knife weaving a tapestry of cold death.

Fargo was hard-pressed to avoid harm. He ducked a stab intended for his eye and speared the toothpick into the man’s armpit. A yelp preceded a spurt of blood, and the man quickly skipped back out of reach.

Balanced on the balls of his feet, Fargo waited, the toothpick low down, dripping scarlet drops. “You’ll bleed out fast if something isn’t done.”

“God damn you.” The man glanced at the spreading stain on his shirt. “He said it would be easy.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

“Drop the knife and tell me and I’ll do what I can to save you,” Fargo offered.

The man hesitated.

“Was it you who shot at me yesterday?” Fargo asked to keep him talking.

“No. That was—”

A shot shattered the morning air.

The slug struck the man’s brow with a loud thwack, snapping his head back and spinning him half around. Eyes wide, he tried to speak but all that came out of his throat was a whine and a gurgle. Then his knees buckled.

Fargo threw himself flat. He twisted but didn’t see the shooter or even a puff of gun smoke. Scrambling under cover, he let the minutes drag by. Eventually, convinced the shooter was gone, he cautiously stood and moved to the dead man. He went through his pockets but all he found were a few coins and a folding knife.

Fargo had half a mind to storm back to the camp and pistol-whip Rinson. But the rest of the protectors wouldn’t stand idly by. And there were too many of them for him to take on alone, not without an edge of some kind.

Fargo came up with a better idea.

Ordinarily, he would bury a body deep enough that the scavengers couldn’t get at it. But since this son of a bitch had tried to kill him, he scooped out a shallow grave using a broken tree limb. Unbuckling the man’s gun belt, he rolled the body into the hole and covered it with a thin layer of dirt. Coyotes and whatnot were bound to get at it, but they had to eat, too.

Five minutes was all it took to find the would-be killer’s horse, a roan that didn’t seem to care that a strange man had hold of the reins.

Fargo shoved the gun belt into the man’s saddlebags. He led the roan to the Ovaro, climbed on, and continued tracking the elk. The extra horse would come in handy later.

By now it was obvious Rinson and company wanted him dead. The question remained: Why? What were they up to, Fargo wondered, that they wanted him out of the way? He never believed for a minute that they were sticking around out of the goodness of their hearts. That business about staying to protect the farmers was so much hogwash.

Another question: What part did Vincent Gore play in all of this? Was the old trapper up to something? Or was he just as he seemed?

In disgust, Fargo gave a toss of his head. He needed answers. But getting them might take some doing.

Elk, like deer, were most active at dawn and dusk and liked to lie up during the day. Fargo figured the herd he was after had sought out cover higher up, and he was right. An hour’s climb brought him to a grassy meadow where there was twice as much elk sign as lower down. A meadow bordered by the heavy growth they favored.

Tying both horses to a tree, Fargo slid the Henry from the scabbard and stalked his quarry on foot. He made less noise that way, and he needed to catch the elk unaware. For all their size and bulk, they were remarkably quick-hoofed, and could melt into the vegetation in the bat of an eye.

As it was, Fargo almost stalked right by them. They knew he was there, and they were as still as statues until he was practically on top of them. Then the twitch of an ear gave a cow away, and when Fargo whirled and brought up the Henry, the entire herd was up and in motion.

The males were five feet high at the shoulder and close to ten feet long, and could weigh over a thousand