Idaho Gold Fever (12 page)

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.

“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Rachel was shocked. “I’ll go tell my pa and he’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“No,” Fargo said, snagging her wrist as she went to stand. “The only one who is to know is you, and then only so you can keep your eyes peeled when I’m off hunting.”

Rachel leaned closer, her breath warm on his neck. “Peeled for what?”

“Them.” Fargo nodded at Rinson and his men. “Their comings and goings. Keep track of who goes where and when, and let me know when I get back.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Don’t let them catch on,” Fargo warned.

“What will they do? Try to kill me? I very much doubt it. Besides, what purpose would it serve? If you ask me, whoever it was who took a shot at you was acting on their own behalf.” Rachel gnawed her lower lip. “I bet it was Slag or Perkins. Neither of them likes you.”

“Just be careful,” Fargo stressed.

Grinning impishly, Rachel squeezed his leg. “Why, kind sir, does this mean you care?”

Before Fargo could answer, Martha Winston was in front of them, and she wasn’t happy. “How many times must I tell you, daughter? Look at yourself. Sitting there with your hand on Mr. Fargo’s leg, cozying up to him for everyone to see.”

“Oh, Ma,” Rachel began.

“Don’t Ma me. Take your hand off his leg right this second. It’s bad enough you’re the talk of the camp. I won’t have you acting the hussy where everyone can see.”

“She hasn’t done anything to be ashamed of,” Fargo came to Rachel’s defense.

“Spare me your lies, Mr. Fargo,” Martha said sharply. “You seem to forget we are God-fearing folk. We live by the Bible. To some that might seem silly. But we try to do what’s right, and it’s not right for an unmarried woman to carry on with a man the way my daughter has been carrying on with you. I haven’t said anything until now because I’ve hoped and prayed that you would propose. But that’s not going to happen, is it?”

Fargo didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think so. But at least you’re not a hypocrite. You haven’t promised her the moon to get under her skirts. Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?”

“Ma!” Rachel exclaimed.

“Oh, please. I’m a married woman with two children. When I was your age I felt what you’re feeling. But I never gave in, not until I said ‘I do.’ That’s the difference between right and wrong. I won’t cast stones, but I wish to heaven Mr. Fargo would leave so we can get on with our lives and find you a man to call your very own.”

This was the first inkling Fargo had that Rachel’s mother felt this way. “I can’t leave just yet.”

Martha misconstrued. “Of course not. You have a good thing going here. But I ask you to reconsider. For our sakes. The sooner we are shed of you, the better. The longer you drag this out, the more harm it will do to Rachel’s reputation.”

Rachel said, “I don’t care about that.”

“But I
do
. Someone has to watch out for you. Or hasn’t it occurred to you that you are harming your prospects of getting a husband?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Most men don’t want loose women for wives. You best hope your reputation doesn’t spread or you’re liable to end your days alone and miserable, the price of your folly.”

Tears welled in Rachel’s eyes. “How can you talk to me like this?”

“If I don’t, who will? Certainly not your father. He pretends to turn a blind eye to your shenanigans but deep down he’s hurt.”

Rachel bowed her head.

“As for you,” Martha said to Fargo. “Haven’t you done enough harm? Can’t you control your urges and leave us be?”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

“I will only say this once,” Martha said. “And keep in mind I know how to use a gun. I’ve hunted game, and shot ducks on the wing.”

Fargo had a disturbing thought.

Martha turned. “I’ve said my piece.” Wheeling, she walked off, her back as rigid as a ramrod.

“She’s right,” Rachel said softly. “I didn’t give it any thought. But God help me, she’s right.” She slowly stood. “Excuse me. I need to be alone for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Fargo said.

Rachel walked away, her head bowed.

A few glances were thrown Fargo’s way by those who overheard Martha’s tirade. Rather than sit there and be stared at, Fargo got up and walked about to stretch his legs, and to think. It was preposterous, his suspicion, but stranger things had happened. He was so deep in thought that he nearly collided with someone who suddenly stepped in front of him.

“We need to talk,” Rinson said.

“You, too?”

“What?” Rinson lowered his voice. “Did you see any Injun sign when you were out hunting today?”

“No.”

“One of my men did. He claims he saw a red devil spying on the farmers from the woods at the end of the valley.”

“Your man didn’t shoot him?”

“We don’t want trouble with the Nez Perce if we can avoid it. Not for our sakes. For the settlers. They’re the ones who have to live here after we’re gone. Unless we’re attacked, we’ll leave the Nez Perce be.”

“That’s damned decent of you,” Fargo said.

“I don’t much like your tone. But I wanted you to know, just in case my man wasn’t seeing things.”

“I’m obliged.”

Rinson hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “See? We can get along if we try.”

Fargo watched the hawk-faced hardcase saunter back to his friends. First Gore, then Martha, now this. Add the Nez Perce into the mix, and he better have eyes in the back of his head or there was a good likelihood he would end up with a bullet in the brain or an arrow between his shoulder blades.

The second attempt to kill him came the next morning.

Fargo was up at daybreak, as usual, and ate breakfast with the Winstons, as usual. Martha was cold to him. Rachel was withdrawn. Lester talked about downing timber for their cabins, and how he couldn’t wait to break soil and plant crops. Billy chattered about an eagle he had seen and possible wolf tracks the boys found.

Fargo was tightening the Ovaro’s cinch when the scent of lilacs wreathed him.

Rachel had a shawl over her shoulders and a bonnet on her head. “I’ve been thinking over what my mother said to us.”

“And?” Fargo prompted when she didn’t go on.

“I’m sorry she’s so upset. But I’m past the age where she can tell me what to do. I can do as I please and it pleases me to be with you.”

Fargo gave the cinch a final tug.

“As for people talking behind my back, that can’t be helped. If they want to think I’m a hussy, so be it. I know I’m not.”

“You’ll have to live with them after I’m gone.”

“So? Either they accept me as I am or they can go to Hades and I’ll go live in a city somewhere. I hear a woman can make it on her own if she’s willing to work hard.”

Fargo reached for the saddle horn but Rachel put a hand on his arm.

“I just don’t want you thinking it’s over between us because of Ma. It’s not, is it?”

“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.