Idaho Gold Fever

Fargo supposed he should be thankful he wasn’t going up against Apaches. Compared to them, the Nez Perce were kittens. Riled kittens, with bows and lances instead of teeth and claws.

It took half an hour. Once there, Fargo looked and listened but the woodland lay peaceful under a crescent moon and the multitude of stars. Where the hell were they? he wondered.

The mouth of the valley was too broad, too open. Fargo skirted it, hugging the tree line.

Still no sign of the war party.

Fargo reasoned that they had gone into the forest on the other side. For him to cross the river and go after them was foolhardy, yet that’s what he did. He hated being in the open. But he reached the woods without incident, and for long minutes prowled the benighted vegetation. The only living things he encountered were an owl that hooted at him from a high branch and a pair of spooked does that bounded off in fright.

No Nez Perce anywhere.

Drawing rein, Fargo stared off toward the distant ring of wagons. The farmers had kept the fires going and he could see several figures moving about. When it came to preserving their skin, they had all the sense of rocks. But there was no denying their gratefulness when he rode back and announced that he had searched long and hard and not found anything. “If the Nez Perce were there, they’re gone.”

“If?” Victor Gore said. “Surely you’re not suggesting I imagined them? I tell you, sir, it was a war party, and a big one, and I am lucky to be alive.”

“No one doubts you,” Lester said. “It’s our guns. They’re afraid to show themselves.”

Fargo came close to laughing in his face. One thing the Nez Perce weren’t, were cowards. Should they decide to wipe the settlers out, that’s exactly what they would do. Guns or no guns.

“Well, I guess we should all get some sleep,” Lester proposed. “We need our rest.”

“My men will stand guard as always,” Rinson said. “You have nothing to worry about with us watching over you.”

Fargo knew better. But he turned in when the rest did and spent a fitful night tossing and turning. Toward morning he drifted off and dreamed about being caught by the Nez Perce and skinned alive. A gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him, returned him to the world of the real.

“Good morning, handsome,” Rachel said. “This is a switch. Usually you’re up before any of us.”

The sun was rising. Fargo cast off his blankets and sat up. Martha had a fire going and was preparing breakfast. Other women were doing the same. The men moved about, talking.

“You must have been tired.”

“Not that tired,” Fargo said in disgust. “I’ll head out again as soon as I’ve had a bite to eat.”

“No need,” Rachel said. “Mr. Gore and Mr. Rinson have already gone off to find the war party. Mr. Rinson took most of his men with him.”

“What?”

A single guard was walking the circle, a rifle in the crook of an elbow. As Fargo looked on, the man yawned and scratched himself.

“Mr. Gore said as how it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to go out again.” Rachel smiled sweetly. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”

“What about Rinson and his curly wolves?”

“Why did you call them that? They’ve done so much on our behalf. We have no complaints.”

“Did Gore ask them to go or did they offer?”

Rachel cocked her head and regarded him quizzically. “What difference does it make? But now that I think about it, Mr. Rinson allowed as how, if there was to be a fight with the Indians, he’d rather the blood was spilled somewhere else.” She beamed. “I tell you, with protectors like them, we’re in good hands.”

“So far they haven’t protected you from much.” Fargo had done most of the work but they took the credit.

“The hostiles have left us be, haven’t they? If you ask me, those curly wolves, as you call them, have proven themselves our friends. We should be thankful, not hold petty grudges.”

Fargo saw nothing petty about having his throat slit but he held his tongue, and stood.

“Where are you off to?”

“They can’t have much of a head start. I plan to catch up to them and talk sense into Gore.”

“What on earth for? Need I remind you he has always been polite and courteous to you? That should count for something.”

“That’s the reason I’m going after him.” Otherwise, Fargo would leave the stubborn cuss to whatever fate had in store. He set to work saddling the Ovaro and was about done when the unexpected reared again. He turned to pick up his saddlebags and discovered Lester and Martha Winston and two farmers armed with shotguns. “What’s this?”

Martha said stiffly, “My daughter told us that you’re going after Mr. Gore and the others.”

“So?”

“We’re sorry, but we can’t let you do that,” Lester said. “Victor has our best interests at heart.”

“You don’t understand.”

Martha smiled a smile as cold as a mountain glacier. “Oh, but I flatter myself I do. You’ve made no secret of the fact you have lived with Indians from time to time. And you said yourself that the other night when you tangled with the Nez Perce, you went out of your way not to kill any of them.”

“So?” Fargo didn’t see where her questions were leading.

“So you’re partial to those red devils. You care about them more than a white person should.”

“You should hear yourself.”

“And you should remember what color your skin is,” Martha said with more than mild irritation. “We want Victor and Mr. Rinson to find that war party. We want Mr. Rinson to shoot as many as he must to convince the rest to stay away from our valley.”

“You want a war, in other words.” Fargo’s disgust knew no bounds. “You pathetic wretches.”

“There’s no need for name-calling,” Lester said.

Martha pointed a finger at him. “Don’t make more of this than there is. The death of some Indians is a small price to pay for our future.”

The woman really believed that. Fargo shook his head and said, “I’m going, and that’s final.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t agree.” Martha motioned at Lester and Lester motioned at the two men and they raised their shotguns. “Would you be so kind as to hand over your six-shooter? And don’t try to jump on your horse or you might be shot in the leg for your troubles.”

“Don’t do this,” Fargo said.

“What choice do you leave us?” Martha asked. “Our welfare is at stake. We can’t let you stand in our way.”

Fargo fought down an urge to draw on them. They were farmers, not outlaws or gun sharks. He could probably drop both shotgun wielders. But all it would take was one blast from one of those twelve-gauge hand cannons and he would be blown to kingdom come. “After all I’ve done for you.”

“Let’s not be petty, shall we?”

Fargo tried one last appeal. “Does she do your talking for you now, Lester?”

The big farmer sheepishly looked away. “She’s my wife, Mr. Fargo.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Spoken like a man who has never been married. She’s my woman and I do what I can to make her happy. If she doesn’t want you to interfere with Mr. Gore and our protectors, then by the eternal, you won’t.”

“Hell, Lester. I gave you credit for more sense.”

Martha said, “Your problem is that you keep forgetting white and red don’t mix and never will.”

Fargo’s temper flared. She was a bigot on top of everything else. “Wish I’d known this sooner.”

“You mustn’t think ill of us,” Martha tried to placate him. “Not until you’ve stood in our shoes. How can you expect us to stand idly by when your antics threaten to dash our hopes and prayers?”

That was when Fargo noticed the man Rinson had left behind standing only a dozen feet away, a smirk on his face. “Are you going to just stand there and do nothing?”

“It’s between you and them, mister,” the man replied. “I’m to keep an eye out for redskins. My boss didn’t