“Hell, no.” Perkins laughed. “I’ve never had a problem killing folks. Or anything else.”
Gore turned. “Mr. Larson, would you be so kind as to fetch more burlap bags.”
“Right away.” Larson nodded and hustled toward the horse string.
Fargo tensed. The bags must be bundled on one of the horses, but which one? He couldn’t tell from where he was lying. He hoped it was a horse at the other end.
Larson came almost straight toward him. Fortunately, he was staring at the ground. Then, when only a few feet away, he glanced up—and stopped in his tracks.
“Mr. Gore! Rinson! It’s Fargo! He’s here!”
18
Larson should have gone for his six-shooter. His shout bought Fargo the split second he needed to surge to his feet, the toothpick low at his side. Larson’s hand swooped to his revolver but by then Fargo was next to him. The razor-sharp double-edged blade lanced up and in. Larson gasped and stiffened and was dead on his feet.
There were bellows of outrage and fiery oaths from the others. Then, almost as one, they clawed for their own hardware.
Fargo snatched Larson’s revolver. It was a Smith & Wesson. The barrel was longer than his Colt’s and the grips were different but the caliber was the same. It bucked when he squeezed off a shot and the nearest man clutched at his chest and crumpled.
Whirling, Fargo ran to one of the horses he had cut loose. The shot and the shouts had spooked it and it was turning down the canyon. A bound brought him alongside.
As six-guns boomed and lead buzzed, Fargo leaped, caught hold of the saddle horn, and swung astride the saddle. A hard jab of his spurs brought the animal to a gallop. Swinging onto the side, Comanche fashion, he raced toward the bend. His skin crawled with the expectation of taking a slug but he wasn’t hit.
“After him!” Victor Gore roared. “Don’t let him get away!”
In a thunder of hooves Fargo was around the bend and momentarily safe. Swinging back up, he rode for his life. He wished he had the Ovaro under him. The horse under him was fast but not as fast as his stallion.
In no time Fargo was out of the canyon and flew into the trees. Bringing the horse to a stop, he looked back.
Riders swept out of the canyon in pursuit. When they didn’t spot him, they drew rein.
“Which way did he go?” one shouted. It sounded like Stern.
“Shut up and we can hear him!” Rinson snapped.
Fargo patted his horse to keep it still.
“I don’t hear anything,” Slag hollered.
Perkins’ voice rose. “I bet he’s making for the dirt-pushers. He’ll warn them we’ll be coming for their wagons.”
“Let him!” Rinson said, and uttered a hard laugh. “Do you honestly think they’ll believe him? They trust us, remember.”
“What do we do, then?” Slag asked.
“We go back and get the rest of the gold out,” Rinson said. “Come morning, we’ll be ready for the wagons, just like Gore wants.”
Fargo stayed where he was until they filed into the canyon. Then he raised the reins. His natural impulse was to fly through the woods to reach the valley as soon as possible but it was dark and the war party was out there, somewhere.
It seemed to take forever.
A lone campfire in the center of the circled wagons served as a beacon. No one challenged him as he rode up.
Passing between two of the covered wagons, Fargo wearily drew rein. Sleeping forms were all around. The saddle creaked as he stiffly climbed down.
The guard didn’t appear.
Fargo reckoned the man Rinson had left behind must be sleeping. He quietly stole to a row of figures next to the Winstons’ wagon. The largest was snoring loud enough to cause an earthquake. Dropping to one knee, Fargo shook his shoulder.
“Lester, wake up.”
The big farmer snorted and muttered and went on sleeping.
“Lester, damn it.” Fargo shook harder and this time Lester rolled onto his back and his eyes blinked a few times.
“What? Who? What time is it?”
The position of the Big Dipper gave Fargo some idea. “About one in the morning. You need to get up. You have trouble on the way.”
Rubbing his face, Lester sluggishly rose onto his elbows. “What are you talking about? What kind of trouble?”
“Gore and Rinson are coming here to wipe your people out.”
Lester stopped rubbing. “Say that again? I must be befuddled by sleep. Or else I’m dreaming.”
“Gore and Rinson aim to kill all of you.”
“All of us?”
“I know I sound loco but I’m serious, damn it. Gore has found gold. He needs a way to transport it out. So he’s taking your wagons.”
For fully half a minute the farmer simply stared. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve had a hard day and need my sleep.”
Exasperation made Fargo boil. “Damn you, listen to me. Gore didn’t come back to this part of the country just to see it again. He was after the gold all along. He found a vein back when he was a trapper and now he needs your wagons to get the ore out.”
“You don’t say,” Lester said. “But if Victor found gold that long ago, why did he wait all this time to come back for it?”
“He didn’t want his scalp lifted.”
Lester smiled a tolerant smile. “Let me get back to sleep and we’ll talk about this in the morning.”
“They’ll be on their way by then.”
“And take how long to get here?”
“If they start at sunrise they can be here by midmorning.”
“Then we have plenty of time, don’t we?” Lester started to lie back down but Fargo gripped his wrist.
“Why won’t you believe me?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t. I didn’t say I do. But if I understand you, you’re saying that Gore tricked us into coming to this valley. You’re forgetting that I was the one who insisted we come. Victor tried to talk me out of it.” Lester gave a strange sort of laugh.
“He’s clever,” Fargo said. “He got you to think it was your idea when it was his doing all along.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Please,” Fargo said. “Don’t do this.”
“Let me sleep.” Lester sank back down. “I’m plumb worn-out and can’t think straight.”
“But Gore and Rinso—” Fargo began.
“We’ll talk in the morning.” Lester rolled onto his side so his back was to him. “I’ll listen to whatever else you have to say then.”
Fargo’s anger turned to fury. He had gone through a lot to warn them, and now the lunkhead wouldn’t listen. Then again, he could understand why Lester thought his story was far-fetched. How could he convince him? he wondered. The answer was like a slap in the face. He shook Winston’s shoulder again.
“You’re becoming a nuisance.”
“The man Rinson left to guard you. Where is he?”
“We don’t know. He rode off shortly before sunset. Said he saw some riders in the trees. He never came
