It confirmed Fargo’s hunch. Victor Gore must have stumbled on the vein during his trapping days. But why it took Gore so long to come back was a puzzle. Fargo started to back away when a gun hammer clicked.
“Not so much as a twitch or you’re a dead man.”
Fargo recognized the voice. It was another “protector.” He cursed himself for not counting those below.
“My handle is Stern. Do as I say and you’ll live a while longer.”
A gun muzzle gouged Fargo low in the back, hard.
“This here rifle of mine is a Sharps,” Stern informed him. “Ever shot one, mister?”
“Plenty of times,” Fargo said. He had owned a Sharps before he switched to the Henry.
“Then you know how big a hole it’ll blow in you. I want you to do exactly as I say. Start by putting your arms out from your sides. All the way out, with your fingers flat on the ground where I can see them.”
Fargo did as he was told. A slight tug at his hip told him Stern had relieved him of the Colt.
“I reckon you feel pretty stupid right about now.”
“More than stupid,” Fargo admitted.
“Our boss has been expecting you. That’s why he sent me up here to keep a lookout.”
The pressure on Fargo’s spine eased. Stern had stepped back.
“Now, nice and slow, I want you to stand up. Leave your rifle where it is and keep your hands out from your sides.”
Once again Fargo complied. It was just his luck that Stern was the kind who didn’t take chances. “Suppose I need to scratch my nose?”
“Go right ahead. The last sound you hear will sound like thunder. And then you and your nose will be breathing dirt.” He paused. “Now shut the hell up and take five steps. Keep your back to me. Try to turn and my trigger finger twitches.”
Fargo heard a boot scrape. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stern at the edge, looking down. Lean as a rail, with bushy eyebrows and a pointed chin, Stern cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed Victor Gore’s name.
The pickaxes stopped picking and all heads rose.
“Well, well, well,” Gore shouted up, smiling broadly. “Bring him down! But be careful. I hear he’s tricky.”
“Tricky but dumb!” Stern hollered down.
Laughter floated up, causing Fargo’s jaw muscles to twitch. He hated making a jackass of himself. It never once occurred to him that they’d expect him to do exactly as he had done. And it should have. He was getting too careless of late.
“Start walking,” Stern instructed. “Keep those arms where they are or have a hole blown in you.”
It was one of the longest walks of Fargo’s life. Larson met them at the bottom. Together, he and Stern marched Fargo up the canyon and around the bend. The others were hard at work again, except for Victor Gore and Rinson. Both waited with smiles on their faces.
“Mr. Fargo!” Gore said good-naturedly. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’m serious. I was worried you would prove to be a thorn in my side. But now that I have you in my power, as it were—” Gore chortled. “This has worked out better than I dared hope.”
“Drop dead.” Fargo was looking at Gore and didn’t realize Rinson had whipped the Remington from its holster until the long barrel flashed at his temple. His head exploded in pain and pinpoints of light seemed to swirl in the air. Dimly, he was aware of his legs giving out and of falling to his hands and knees. Somehow he stayed conscious and looked up as Rinson raised the Remington to club him again.
“No!” Victor Gore barked, stepping between them.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Rinson snapped. “You said yourself we won’t be safe until this bastard is maggot bait.”
“All in good time, my friend. I want a few words with him first. Go work the vein.”
Rinson grit his teeth and hissed like a struck snake. “I should do to you like I just did to him.”
“But you won’t,” Victor Gore confidently declared.
“We’ll have the gold,” Rinson said with a sweep of his other arm at the rock outcropping.
“Thanks to me,” Gore said. “And if you go on doing as I say, you might just make it out of this alive.”
Fargo’s head was beginning to clear. It hurt like hell but the pinpoints of light had faded. He slowly sat and gingerly touched his temple. When he drew his fingers away, his fingertips were scarlet with wet blood.
Rinson walked off in a huff.
“Sorry about that.” Victor Gore squatted, that friendly smile of his in place. But it was belied by the hard glitter in his eyes. “I didn’t hear a thank-you, but you’re welcome.”
Fargo had to swallow twice to get his throat to work. “For what?”
“For the few extra minutes of life. You see, I really need to know if you were telling the truth about the O’Flynns. Or was it a lie and you were after me all along?”
Fargo wished his head would stop pounding. “You?”
“For leading that simpleton Winston and his people into Nez Perce country. The army has been trying to keep people out. And since you’ve scouted for them and done other work for the military, I hear, it hit me that maybe they sent you in.” Gore’s brow knit. “But then you made no attempt to stop us, which confused me considerably until it dawned on me that, incredible as it seemed, you’d figured out what I was up to.”
Fargo stared at the others, feverishly working. “There had to be more to this than your old haunts.”
“Ah. Then you did suspect?” Pleased with himself, Gore chuckled.
“How did you find it?” Fargo asked, nodding at the vein. He immediately regretted it; the throbbing grew worse.
“First things first.” Gore straightened and beckoned to Perkins, who stopped chipping and hurried over. “Would you be so good as to tie Mr. Fargo’s wrists and ankles?”
“I’ll fetch my rope.”
Fargo put his hands flat on the ground to push to his feet but Victor Gore produced a derringer. “Stay right where you are, if you please. We’ll continue our talk in a minute. And when we’re done, well.” He wagged the derringer. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll make it quick. A bullet to the brain so there is little pain.”
“You’re all heart,” Fargo said.
16
“Now where was I?” Victor Gore asked.
Fargo was on his side in the dirt. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles had been tied. The rope was so tight on his wrists, his arms were starting to hurt. “You changed your mind. You were going to cut me loose and let me go.”
Gore blinked, then threw back his head and roared. “That was a good one. Such spirit, when here you are about to meet your Maker.”
The gold ore, Fargo noticed, was being put in burlap sacks. So far dozens of sacks had been heaped in piles, and the piles were steadily growing.
“No, Mr. Fargo. I’m afraid you stuck your nose in where you shouldn’t have, and it will cost you dearly.”
“There is one thing I’d like to know,” Fargo said. “Why did it take you so long?”
“To come back, you mean? I’ll get to that in a moment.” Gore glanced at the workers, grunted in satisfaction, then said, “As you have guessed, I found the vein during my trapping days. Or, rather, a friend and I did. It was between trapping seasons, when we had free time to do as we pleased. I loved to explore, and he always tagged along. One day we weren’t far from here, just riding along without a care, when we were set on by hostiles. Not the Nez Perce, by the way. Piegans. No doubt on a raid. And the moment they saw us, they whipped their horses and shrieked like banshees.”
Fargo didn’t doubt it. The Piegans were notorious for killing every white they came across.
“We fled, of course. And as fate would have it, our flight brought us to this very canyon. We thought we had given them the slip. But no sooner did we spot the vein than the red devils appeared on the rim above us, raining down arrows. We spurred our mounts to escape but one of the shafts struck my friend in the eye.” Gore stopped,
