PAYBACK
Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.
The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.
1861, the Flathead Lake country—where a tinderbox of hate ignited an inferno of violence.
1
The patrol was weeks out of Fort Laramie when they stopped for the night beside a creek that had no name. They’d finished their meal of hardtack and beans and were relaxing after their hard day on the trail. It was then, as they sat talking and joking, and some smoked their pipes, that the trouble started.
Skye Fargo saw it coming. A bigger man than most, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, he wore buckskins that had seen a lot of use. So had the Colt on his hip.
Fargo was under orders to guide the patrol to the Flathead Lake country. He’d been there before. Fact was, his wanderlust had taken him most everywhere west of the Mississippi River, which was why he was so widely regarded as one of the best scouts on the frontier.
Private Gunther didn’t think so. Gunther was bigger than Fargo, with a square slab of a face and enough muscle for an ox. He was of the opinion that he was the toughest trooper in the U.S. Army and made a point of showing how tough he was by beating any and all comers. The problem was, he didn’t wait for them to come to him. He went after them.
Gunther had been needling Fargo whenever and however he could. It had started at Fort Laramie when the colonel announced that Captain Benson would be leading a patrol and that Fargo was to be their scout. The men were standing at ease at the time on the parade ground, and Gunther had made bold to loudly remark that he hoped Fargo could find where they were going. No one laughed. Hardly anyone ever laughed at Gunther’s jokes. He didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to be funny. He had issued a challenge.
That became clearer as the days passed. Fargo lost count of the comments Gunther made. They were never outright insults. Gunther was too smart for that.
But they were as close as a man could come to fighting words, such as on their second day out. Fargo had been riding down the line when Gunther loudly declared to the private next to him, “For a scout, he sure does sit a saddle poorly. Look at how he flops around.”
Everyone knew Fargo was a superb horseman. It was the troopers, many of whom had seldom sat a saddle, who bounced and flounced and clung to their saddle horns when the going got rough.
Fargo had let the remark pass. He’d let others pass, too. The time when Gunther had said, “I hear tell our scout has lived with redskins. Makes you wonder whose side he’s on, doesn’t it?” And the time when Gunther had remarked, “How come our scout gets to have a shiny new repeater, and we have to use single-shot rifles?”
Along about the tenth night, Captain Benson had walked over to where Fargo sat and squatted. “I’m in a quandary over Private Gunther.”
Fargo had tried to recollect if he knew what a “quandary” was.
“I’ve told him twice now to leave you be, but he persists with his foolish antics. I can send him back to the fort, but that seems extreme. Especially since I’d have to send a couple of others with him, for protection’s sake.”
Fargo had grunted.
“So I ask you—what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“He’ll just keep at you. You heard about the fight he had with Bear River Tom, didn’t you?”
Fargo had indeed. Bear River Tom was another scout and one of his close friends. The fight took place in a saloon when Gunther remarked that given Bear River Tom’s well-known fondness for tits, it was a shame Tom hadn’t been born female, so he could have tits of his own. Tom didn’t think that was funny and hit Gunther with a chair. They went at it, but a lieutenant broke up their fight.
“You’re not saying much,” Captain Benson now said. “But then, you never do.”
He glanced over at where his troopers were jawing. “The army has more than its share of troublemakers, I’m sorry to say. Bullies are all too common.”
Fargo liked Benson. The captain had enough experience to be competent and was firm but fair with those under him. “Let me handle it. And don’t butt in when it comes to blows.”
“If I let it go that far, I’ll have to put him on report once we get back. It’s a matter of maintaining discipline, you understand.”
That was where they’d left it. Then, that very evening as they were unsaddling their mounts, Private Gunther had looked over at Fargo stripping the Ovaro and laughed.
“Will you look at that critter? It’s about the most sorry excuse for a horse I ever did see.”
Once again, no one laughed.
And this time Fargo refused to let it pass. He bided his time until after their evening meal, when Gunther stretched and yawned and said, “Another day in the saddle tomorrow, boys. I hope our scout’s ass can take it. He’s moving a bit stiff these days.”
Fargo set down his tin cup and stood. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he stepped around the fire and planted himself in front of Gunther. “Speaking of asses, when are you going to get your head out of yours?”
The other troopers froze.
“What was that?” Gunther said.
“You’re the biggest ass at the post, so I reckon there’s plenty of room for that swelled head, but still.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
“As for my horse,” Fargo went on, “it can ride rings around any animal in the army any day of the week. Not that I’d expect a horse’s ass like you to know a good horse from a sorry one. That takes brains. And yours keep leaking out your ears.” He paused. “That is what that brown stuff is?”
Gunther colored red from his collar to his hat.
Most of the soldiers looked at Captain Benson, expecting him to do something.
Private Gunther glanced at Benson, too, and seemed puzzled.
“Yes, sir, boys,” Fargo said to the rest, “when it comes to asses, Gunther here is the top of the heap.”
Pushing to his feet with his cup of coffee in his hand, Gunther glowered. “That’s mighty brave talk when you know the captain won’t let me take a poke at you.”
Fargo glanced at Benson. “Captain?”
“Poke away,” Benson said.
Gunther’s mouth curled in a smirk. “Well, now. Ain’t this something? Most officers would be telling me to behave myself.”
“You’ll behave starting tomorrow,” Fargo said.
“Why will that be?”
“Because your jaw will be too swollen for you to talk and the rest of you will hurt like hell.”
Gunther laughed. “Listen to you.” He balled his left fist and held it up. “I’ve busted boards with this.”
“Boards don’t fight back.”
Gunther gazed at the other troopers, eating up the attention. Puffing out his chest, he said, “Place your bets, boys. But if you bet on him, you’ll lose.”
“No betting,” Captain Benson said. “No gambling allowed.”
“But you’ll let me take a swing at him?” Gunther asked uncertainly.
“I’m not letting you,” Captain Benson said. “I’m just not stopping you. There’s a difference.”
“Damned if I can see what it is,” Gunther said, adding sarcastically, “sir.”
“Are you done flapping your gums?” Fargo said. “We don’t have all night.”
Gunther pointed at Fargo’s holster. “No using that. I hear you’re slick as hell with a six-shooter and I’m no gun hand.”
Fargo pried at his buckle. “What you are,” he said, “is all mouth.”
Some of the soldiers laughed.
As for Gunther, he watched Fargo set the gun belt to one side, and when Fargo straightened, he threw his coffee in Fargo’s face.
2
Fargo was expecting Gunther to try something. Bullies nearly always fought dirty. He’d seen how Gunther was holding the tin cup down at his side, as if trying to hide it.
So when Gunther flung the coffee at his face, he got his arm up in time to keep the coffee out of his eyes.
Gunther seized the advantage by tackling him around the waist.
Fargo had figured the big trooper would use his fists. But no, Gunther was a grappler. Fargo winced as he was slammed to the ground and his hat went flying. Gunther tried to knee him, but he shifted and took it on his thigh. He rammed a fist at Gunther’s chin and winced a second time. Gunther had a jaw like an anvil.
Gunther butted his forehead at Fargo’s face. Fargo jerked aside and tried to heave Gunther off, but it was like trying to toss an ox. Gunther must weigh two hundred and fifty, if not more.
Snarling in frustration, Gunther went for a headlock. Fargo twisted, slipped his head free, and flung an arm around Gunther’s neck. If Gunther wanted to wrestle, fine. Fargo was no stranger to it.
They rolled, each seeking to fasten a grip the other couldn’t break.
The other troopers were yelling. Fargo didn’t catch much of it, but it seemed that most were rooting for him.
An elbow jab to the gut forced Fargo to focus. He retaliated with an elbow to the temple that appeared to hurt him more than it did Gunther, whose skull must be as thick as a buffalo’s.
After a sudden move, Gunther was behind Fargo, his arms encircling Fargo’s waist. “Got you now,” he rasped in Fargo’s ear, and squeezed.
It was like being caught in a vise. Fargo felt as if his stomach and intestines were about to burst. Fargo thrashed and clawed at Gunther’s arms but couldn’t free himself. Clamping his hands onto one of Gunther’s, he applied all his strength to forcing it from his body. Gunther resisted for all of half a minute, until Fargo got hold of his thumb and was on the verge of snapping it.
Gunther broke away and rose to his knees.
Fargo did the same. He had no time to set himself. Gunther pounced, seeking to apply a neck hold. Fargo ducked, gripped Gunther’s wrist, and levered Gunther’s arm up and around, slipping behind him as he did. Gunther cried out and reached over his shoulder with his other hand, trying to gouge Fargo’s eyes. Fargo wrenched on the arm and Gunther cursed and bucked. Quickly, Fargo reached under Gunther’s other arm, gripped it above the elbow, and pulled it back while simultaneously bracing his elbow against the small of Gunther’s back.
“Ready to give up?”
“Like hell.”
Gunther exploded. Whipping his legs up, he hooked them around Fargo’s head and twisted, apparently seeking to break Fargo’s neck. Fargo pulled his head free but lost skin in the process.
Gunther drove a knee at Fargo’s face. Skipping back out of reach, Fargo crouched.
Confidence lit Gunther’s brutal features. “You’re not so tough, scout. I can take you.”
Fargo coiled and said nothing.
“The great Skye Fargo. The best scout alive. The one everybody is afraid of,” Gunther taunted. “I knew you were hot air. And once I’ve licked you, everyone else will know it, too.”
Captain Benson chose that moment to unexpectedly ask, “Do you want me to stop it?”
“No,” Fargo said.
“I’m going to tie you into a knot and break a few bones,” Gunther boasted. “Just see if I don’t.”
“Anytime you’re ready, jackass.”
Gunther sprang. He flung his arms wide, trying for a bear hug. With his great strength, he could easily crush a man’s ribs.
Fargo had other ideas. He knocked one of Gunther’s arms aside and tripped him.
As Gunther went down, Fargo slammed onto Gunther’s back, slipped his right foot under so that it was around Gunther’s leg, and grabbed both of Gunther’s wrists.
Gunther howled. He bucked, but Fargo’s leg around his prevented him from rising more than an inch or two off the ground. Bunching his shoulder muscles, Gunther sought to tear his arms loose.
Fargo wrenched, pulling both arms back as far as they would go, and then some.
Gunther cried out. “You’re tearing them from their sockets.”
Fargo wrenched harder.
A shriek tore from Gunther’s throat. His chin dipped to his chest, and he closed his eyes and groaned.
“Want me to do it again?” Fargo asked.
Spittle dribbled from a corner of Gunther’s mouth.
“I can’t hear you.”
“No,” Gunther gasped.
“Say it louder.”
“No, damn you,” Gunther said. “I don’t want you to do it again. I’m licked, all right?”
“Say it louder.”
“I’m licked!” Gunther shouted, and his entire body went limp in defeat. “Happy now?”
Fargo rose and stepped back. “You brought it on yourself.”
Gunther nodded bleakly. “You’re one tough bastard. I shouldn’t have prodded you like I did.”
“It wasn’t that, so much,” Fargo said.
Gunther looked up in confusion. “Then what got your dander up?”
“You insulted my horse, you stupid son of a bitch.”
3
Over the next several days Private Gunther was as meek as a kitten. He didn’t insult anyone. He went about his duties quietly, and slowly. He could barely move his arms. Whether riding or walking, he held them close to his sides to lessen the constant pain.
Fargo put Gunther from his mind. He had more important concerns. The patrol was passing through Blackfoot territory, and the Blackfeet had held a grudge against whites since the days of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Lewis and another man had killed two warriors who had been trying to steal their guns. It didn’t help matters that whites then gave guns and horses to the Nez Perce and the Shoshones, longtime enemies of the Blackfeet.
Since then, the Blackfeet had simmered with hostility. They resented any and all white intrusions. So far there hadn’t been an uprising, but that was mainly because their territory was so far from anywhere that few whites ventured there. Trappers and ore hounds, for the most part, until recently.
Word had reached the army of a party of settlers who were homesteading in the mountains to the west of what was known as Flathead Lake. That could cause problems with the Flatheads, a friendly tribe granted their own reservation years ago. The army wanted to be sure the settlers weren’t on Flathead land, and if they were, evict them.
So here Fargo was, guiding two dozen troopers over some of the most rugged terrain on the continent. Few of them had ever been this far out from civilization. Only two, Captain Benson and Sergeant McKinney, had fought hostiles. To say that Fargo didn’t have much confidence in the new recruits was an understatement. Still, he had a job to do.
The fifth morning after his clash with Gunther, Fargo began to breathe a little easier. They were entering Flathead territory and were less likely to encounter Blackfeet.
Fargo was tightening the cinch on the Ovaro when Sergeant McKinney came over. A model of soldiery, he carried himself ramrod straight. His uniform never had a blemish; his boots were always shined.
“The captain’s regards. He’d like you to go on ahead and scout out the lay of the land.”
Fargo liked McKinney. The only real soldier among the enlisted men, the sergeant was the glue that held the patrol together. “I aimed to do that anyway.”
Sergeant McKinney nodded. “The captain’s regards again. He remembers the smoke from yesterday and was hoping you would investigate.”
The day before, after the sun had gone down and the gray of twilight was giving way to the black of night, a sentry called out that he’d spotted smoke in the distance. Fargo had gone over with some of the others but hadn’t seen any smoke. “A dollar says Private Timmons was seeing things.”
“No betting, remember?” Sergeant McKinney grinned, then shrugged. “Could be Flatheads.” He sobered and said, “Could be Blackfeet.”
“Could be a whorehouse but I doubt it.”
McKinney laughed. “You and your doves. Bear River Tom once told me that you have the worst case of tit fever’s he’s ever seen.”
“Tom’s a fine one to talk. He hasn’t stopped talking about them since he was weaned.”
“Granted,” McKinney said. “But back to the smoke. I could send a couple of troopers with you.”
Fargo finished with the cinch. “No.”
“They’re not all worthless,” McKinney said. “I’ve trained them, haven’t I? Some show real promise.”
“It’s still no.”
“How about Corporal Worthington, then? He’s young, but he listens well, and he’s a damn fine shot.”
Fargo gripped the reins and reached the saddle horn, about to mount. “I don’t need my hand held.”
Sergeant McKinney shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. No one knows better than me that you’re the best there is at what you do. I’d like some of it to rub off.”
“How’s that again?”
McKinney nodded at the troopers, who were preparing to head out. “A day with you can teach them more than parade ground drills for a year. It’ll be something they can brag to their friends about. Riding scout with the Trailsman.”
“You’re laying it on a little thick.”
“That’s what folks call you these days, isn’t it? And I’m not laying it on so much as asking a favor. Share some of that woodlore and whatnot you have in that head of yours.”
“Damn you, Mike.”
“I know,” McKinney said. “It’s a lot to ask. The army hires you to scout, not to wet-nurse. But consider this. The things the corporal picks up from you could mean the difference for a lot of good men living or dying someday.”
Fargo sighed. “I’ll take Corporal Worthington.”
“And two or three others?”
“Worthington and only Worthington. You want me to take others, I will another time.”
“Good.” Sergeant McKinney smiled. “Worthington shows real promise. I’d like to see him make sergeant one day. You’re helping me a lot. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You can thank me by buying me a bottle when we get back.”
“A whole bottle? You sure you don’t want me to treat you to a dove while I’m at it?”
“Now that you mention it . . .”
“A bottle for Worthington, and if you take one or two others out sometime, I’ll throw in a whore.”
“Deal,” Fargo said.
“I’ll go fetch him. And remember, I want him to learn about tracking and such. Not about cards or women or whiskey.”
“Well, damn,” Fargo said.
Corporal Worthington was a cherub in uniform. He had curly blond hair and blue eyes and a baby face. He was also on the plump side, a remarkable feat given the quality of army food. Beaming fit to split his jaw, he came over leading his horse and snapped to attention. “Sergeant McKinney says I’m to accompany you, sir.”
Fargo reminded himself that McKinney thought the boy showed promise. “First off, you don’t call me sir. Save that for the officers.”
“Sorry. I just want to make a good impression.”
“You can impress me more if you don’t stand there as if you have a broom shoved up your backside.”
“But I’m a soldier, si—” Corporal Worthington caught himself. “When we’re drilling we always have to stand straight.”
“You’re not drilling now,” Fargo said. “Act around me like you do around your friends when you’re at ease.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Fargo.”
“I’m not a ‘mister,’ either. And why the hell not?”
“Why, as famous as you are, it wouldn’t be right.”
“Famous, my ass.”
“But you are. Everyone has heard of you. Word is that you’ve fought the Apaches and the Sioux and all kinds of hostiles.” The corporal lowered his voice. “They also say you’re powerful fond of tits.”
“That’s Bear River Tom, not me.”
“You’re not fond of them?” Corporal Worthington said in surprise.
Fargo inadvertently raised his voice. “I’m not powerful fond of tits, no.”
The rest of the patrol stopped what they were doing to stare. Even Captain Benson and Sergeant McKinney.
“Son of a bitch,” Fargo said.
“The one thing no one told me,” Corporal Worthington said, “was how much you cuss.”
4
Fargo was still annoyed half an hour later. He didn’t mind helping Sergeant McKinney. But every time he glanced at Corporal Worthington’s eager babyish face, he couldn’t help thinking this was a mistake.
They were crossing the tail end of a range overlooking the long valley that was home to Flathead Lake. Thick forest covered every slope, phalanxes of ponderosa pine broken here and there by stands of cedar, spruce, and aspens. Firs were common, higher up.
Wildlife was everywhere. Blue jays screeched and black-billed magpies winged about. Now and again ravens flew overhead, the rhythmic beating of their wings loud in the rarefied air. Hawks pinwheeled in search of prey. Eagles soared on the high currents, both the bald and the golden variety.
Deer were abundant. So were elk, but the elk stayed better hidden. A few times, Fargo caught the white flash of mountain sheep on towering crags. He found sign of buffalo, too.
Fargo had about forgotten about Corporal Worthington when he happened to look over and the corporal was gazing in wonder at a pair of sparrows frolicking in a bush. “Sparrows, for God’s sake,” he muttered.
Corporal Worthington tore his eyes from the birds. “Pardon? You need to speak up, sir.”
“What did I tell you about that sir business?” Fargo nodded at the bush. “What’s so interesting about them?”
“I’m from New York,” Worthington said.
“They don’t have sparrows there?”
“New York City,” the corporal amended.
“None there, either?”
“It’s not the kind,” Worthington said, and motioned at the rolling vista of woodland and peaks. “It’s being here. In the Rocky Mountains. Seeing things hardly anyone has ever seen before.”
“If we counted all the folks who have seen sparrows,” Fargo said, “we’d run out of numbers.”
“No, you don’t understand. In the city I hardly ever saw wild things. Not even sparrows. Here, creatures are all around us. Everywhere we look. That butterfly a while ago. That doe and her fawn. The hawks. The eagle.”
“You get used to them,” Fargo said.
“You, maybe. Sure, sparrows are ordinary. But here they’re part of the wonder of it all.”
“You, sound more like one of those poets than a soldier. Don’t get carried away. Out here there’s a dark side to things that can get you killed.”
“I’m not stupid.”
Fargo wasn’t quite sure what he was, and decided to find out. It would be good to know more about him should they wind up at the wrong end of a gun or a charging grizzly. “How old are you, anyhow?”
“What’s my age have to do with it?”
“How old?”
“Eighteen,” Worthington said, quickly adding, “but I’ll be nineteen in a month.”
“What are you doing in the army?”
“Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a soldier. To wear a uniform. Some might say that’s not much of a dream, but it was mine.”
“And here you are.” It impressed Fargo, the boy going after something he wanted so much. A lot of folks didn’t have that gumption. “Is it all you’d thought it would be?”
“Frankly, no,” Worthington said. “I’m not fond of being told what to do. I’m not fond of drilling on horseback for an hour and a half a day, six days a week. Or of all the marching around we have to do. And don’t get me started on the food.”
Fargo chuckled.
“But you know what? God help me, I love it. I love serving my country. I love that I can make a difference.”
“At what?”
“At making the frontier safe for folks to live. That’s the reason we’re here. To protect people. To put down hostiles when they act up. Those sorts of things.”
“The hostiles don’t see you that way,” Fargo mentioned. “To them, whites are invaders who want to take their land away.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Corporal Worthington said as he reined around a spruce. “And do you know what I think? I agree with them.”
“You do?” Fargo said in considerable surprise. A lot of people, settlers and soldiers alike, believed it was their manifest destiny, as some called it, to lay claim to all the land between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.
“Some of these tribes have lived where they do for more years than any of them can remember. The land is their home. So of course they resent it when we move in and say it’s ours.”
“The Blackfeet would be pleased to hear you say that.”
“Probably not,” Worthington said. “Because even though I think it’s wrong, it’s right.”
“I’ve lost your trail,” Fargo said.
“The East is bulging with people. In some states, all the good land has been taken. And game has grown so scarce families can’t keep food on the table.” Worthington gestured at the panorama of wilderness that stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. “Out here there’s a feast of plenty. Game everywhere. Good land to be had. Everything a man can want to make something of himself.”
“And the Indians?”
“They have a right to live here, but they can’t keep it all to themselves. The way I see it, the two sides should try to get along. Work things out so that both can live in peace.”
Fargo grunted. He understood Worthington better now. And he liked what he’d learned. “Those are fine sentiments, Corporal. But there’s one thing you’d better keep in mind if you want to live to old age.”
“What’s that?”
“A lot of folks don’t want to get along. A lot of whites kill Indians just because they’re red and a lot of Indians kill whites because they’re not red. The land has nothing to do with it. They kill out of hate, plain and simple.”
“Killing another person over his skin color is wrong. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Fargo agreed. “As fair-minded as you are, I reckon you’d make a good sergeant someday. Maybe even an officer.”
“Why, thank you,” Worthington said, and he actually blushed. “I’ve thought about that, as a matter of fact.”
They came around a bend in a slope, and Fargo stiffened. “Sergeant McKinney wants me to teach you some of what I know, so I’ll start with two things that can save your life.”
“I’m listening.”
“The first is to never take it for granted that others think the way you do. Trust too easily and you could wind up with a bullet or an arrow in your back.”
“And the second thing?”
“Slide that rifle of yours out of your saddle scabbard and hold it in front of you, casual-like.”
“Whatever for?”
“In about a minute or two,” Fargo said, “someone might try to kill us.”
5
The corporal had been so caught up in their talk he hadn’t noticed smoke rising from a hollow below. Fargo had spied it right away. He’d also glimpsed the glint of metal in a cluster of pines near where the smoke came from. Now, winding down the slope, he switched his reins to his left hand and placed his right hand on his hip above his Colt.
It could be anyone. Anyone white. Indian war parties had more sense than to let their campfires give them away.
Fargo figured it might be some of the settlers. Then again, he never took anything for granted.
Worthington slid his rifle free and cradled it. He kept glancing every which way, and his throat bobbed.
“Calm yourself, Corporal,” Fargo said quietly. “Nerves are no good in a fight.”
“What’s out there? Hostiles?”
“You haven’t seen the smoke yet?” Fargo could smell it.
Worthington peered ahead, and blinked. “I’ll be. Sergeant McKinney is always telling us we need to be more aware of things.”
Figures moved in the pines. Two or three. Fargo saw hats and a vest. That none of them had taken a shot at the corporal and him was encouraging, but as soon as he came within pistol range, he drew rein.
Worthington followed suit.
“Let me do the talking. Don’t shoot unless I do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fargo squared his shoulders. “You in the trees. Come out where we can see you.” When no one answered, he added, “If you don’t, as soon as the rest of the patrol gets here, we’ll come in and find you. They’re not far behind.” He mentioned that last in case they took it into their heads to open fire. The shots would bring the soldiers right quick.
A man called out, “How do we know you’re with the army? You could be makin’ it up.”
Fargo pointed at Corporal Worthington. “What’s he wearing, you damn lunkhead? A dress?”
“Oh,” the man said. “A uniform.”
“Your eyes work,” Fargo said. “Does your brain?”
“Give us a minute to talk it over.”
Fargo didn’t see what they needed to talk about. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
“Why do you talk to them like that?” Corporal Worthington whispered. “It’ll make them mad.”
“I can’t abide stupid.”
“People can’t help being how they are.”
Fargo didn’t reply. He sat and waited impatiently, and presently another man joined those already there and after a brief exchange, not two or three but five men came cautiously into the open, all with rifles. His instincts kicked in. Their looks, the way they carried themselves—these were wolves, not sheep.
The man who had just joined the others wasn’t much over five feet tall. He wore a black hat and had a Smith & Wesson on his left hip. Cradling a Spencer, he sauntered to a stop. He raked Fargo from hat to boots and then looked at Corporal Worthington, and smirked. “On you it should be, boy.”
“I beg your pardon?” Worthington said.
“I heard what this scout said,” the man replied. “You’re too young to be much of a soldier.”
“My sergeant says I have the makings of a good one.”
“Does he, now?”
Fargo wished the corporal had kept his mouth shut. Now the five knew he was next to harmless. Or would be in a fight.
“Hell, boy,” the man in the black hat went on, “with all that fuzz on your chin, you don’t even shave yet. Some soldier you are.”
“I happen to be a corporal.”
“Good for you,” the man said. “I’ve never been fond of bluecoats myself. Most are weak sisters pretendin’ to be men.”
“How about me?” Fargo intervened. “Think I’m weak?”
The man lost his smirk. A wary look came into his dark eyes and he shook his head. “No, mister. You’re the real article.”
PAYBACK
Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.
The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.
1861, the Flathead Lake country—where a tinderbox of hate ignited an inferno of violence.
1
The patrol was weeks out of Fort Laramie when they stopped for the night beside a creek that had no name. They’d finished their meal of hardtack and beans and were relaxing after their hard day on the trail. It was then, as they sat talking and joking, and some smoked their pipes, that the trouble started.
Skye Fargo saw it coming. A bigger man than most, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, he wore buckskins that had seen a lot of use. So had the Colt on his hip.
Fargo was under orders to guide the patrol to the Flathead Lake country. He’d been there before. Fact was, his wanderlust had taken him most everywhere west of the Mississippi River, which was why he was so widely regarded as one of the best scouts on the frontier.
Private Gunther didn’t think so. Gunther was bigger than Fargo, with a square slab of a face and enough muscle for an ox. He was of the opinion that he was the toughest trooper in the U.S. Army and made a point of showing how tough he was by beating any and all comers. The problem was, he didn’t wait for them to come to him. He went after them.
Gunther had been needling Fargo whenever and however he could. It had started at Fort Laramie when the colonel announced that Captain Benson would be leading a patrol and that Fargo was to be their scout. The men were standing at ease at the time on the parade ground, and Gunther had made bold to loudly remark that he hoped Fargo could find where they were going. No one laughed. Hardly anyone ever laughed at Gunther’s jokes. He didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to be funny. He had issued a challenge.
That became clearer as the days passed. Fargo lost count of the comments Gunther made. They were never outright insults. Gunther was too smart for that.
But they were as close as a man could come to fighting words, such as on their second day out. Fargo had been riding down the line when Gunther loudly declared to the private next to him, “For a scout, he sure does sit a saddle poorly. Look at how he flops around.”
Everyone knew Fargo was a superb horseman. It was the troopers, many of whom had seldom sat a saddle, who bounced and flounced and clung to their saddle horns when the going got rough.
Fargo had let the remark pass. He’d let others pass, too. The time when Gunther had said, “I hear tell our scout has lived with redskins. Makes you wonder whose side he’s on, doesn’t it?” And the time when Gunther had remarked, “How come our scout gets to have a shiny new repeater, and we have to use single-shot rifles?”
Along about the tenth night, Captain Benson had walked over to where Fargo sat and squatted. “I’m in a quandary over Private Gunther.”
Fargo had tried to recollect if he knew what a “quandary” was.
“I’ve told him twice now to leave you be, but he persists with his foolish antics. I can send him back to the fort, but that seems extreme. Especially since I’d have to send a couple of others with him, for protection’s sake.”
Fargo had grunted.
“So I ask you—what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“He’ll just keep at you. You heard about the fight he had with Bear River Tom, didn’t you?”
Fargo had indeed. Bear River Tom was another scout and one of his close friends. The fight took place in a saloon when Gunther remarked that given Bear River Tom’s well-known fondness for tits, it was a shame Tom hadn’t been born female, so he could have tits of his own. Tom didn’t think that was funny and hit Gunther with a chair. They went at it, but a lieutenant broke up their fight.
“You’re not saying much,” Captain Benson now said. “But then, you never do.”
He glanced over at where his troopers were jawing. “The army has more than its share of troublemakers, I’m sorry to say. Bullies are all too common.”
Fargo liked Benson. The captain had enough experience to be competent and was firm but fair with those under him. “Let me handle it. And don’t butt in when it comes to blows.”
“If I let it go that far, I’ll have to put him on report once we get back. It’s a matter of maintaining discipline, you understand.”
That was where they’d left it. Then, that very evening as they were unsaddling their mounts, Private Gunther had looked over at Fargo stripping the Ovaro and laughed.
“Will you look at that critter? It’s about the most sorry excuse for a horse I ever did see.”
Once again, no one laughed.
And this time Fargo refused to let it pass. He bided his time until after their evening meal, when Gunther stretched and yawned and said, “Another day in the saddle tomorrow, boys. I hope our scout’s ass can take it. He’s moving a bit stiff these days.”
Fargo set down his tin cup and stood. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he stepped around the fire and planted himself in front of Gunther. “Speaking of asses, when are you going to get your head out of yours?”
The other troopers froze.
“What was that?” Gunther said.
“You’re the biggest ass at the post, so I reckon there’s plenty of room for that swelled head, but still.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
“As for my horse,” Fargo went on, “it can ride rings around any animal in the army any day of the week. Not that I’d expect a horse’s ass like you to know a good horse from a sorry one. That takes brains. And yours keep leaking out your ears.” He paused. “That is what that brown stuff is?”
Gunther colored red from his collar to his hat.
Most of the soldiers looked at Captain Benson, expecting him to do something.
Private Gunther glanced at Benson, too, and seemed puzzled.
“Yes, sir, boys,” Fargo said to the rest, “when it comes to asses, Gunther here is the top of the heap.”
Pushing to his feet with his cup of coffee in his hand, Gunther glowered. “That’s mighty brave talk when you know the captain won’t let me take a poke at you.”
Fargo glanced at Benson. “Captain?”
“Poke away,” Benson said.
Gunther’s mouth curled in a smirk. “Well, now. Ain’t this something? Most officers would be telling me to behave myself.”
“You’ll behave starting tomorrow,” Fargo said.
“Why will that be?”
“Because your jaw will be too swollen for you to talk and the rest of you will hurt like hell.”
Gunther laughed. “Listen to you.” He balled his left fist and held it up. “I’ve busted boards with this.”
“Boards don’t fight back.”
Gunther gazed at the other troopers, eating up the attention. Puffing out his chest, he said, “Place your bets, boys. But if you bet on him, you’ll lose.”
“No betting,” Captain Benson said. “No gambling allowed.”
“But you’ll let me take a swing at him?” Gunther asked uncertainly.
“I’m not letting you,” Captain Benson said. “I’m just not stopping you. There’s a difference.”
“Damned if I can see what it is,” Gunther said, adding sarcastically, “sir.”
“Are you done flapping your gums?” Fargo said. “We don’t have all night.”
Gunther pointed at Fargo’s holster. “No using that. I hear you’re slick as hell with a six-shooter and I’m no gun hand.”
Fargo pried at his buckle. “What you are,” he said, “is all mouth.”
Some of the soldiers laughed.
As for Gunther, he watched Fargo set the gun belt to one side, and when Fargo straightened, he threw his coffee in Fargo’s face.
2
Fargo was expecting Gunther to try something. Bullies nearly always fought dirty. He’d seen how Gunther was holding the tin cup down at his side, as if trying to hide it.
So when Gunther flung the coffee at his face, he got his arm up in time to keep the coffee out of his eyes.
Gunther seized the advantage by tackling him around the waist.
Fargo had figured the big trooper would use his fists. But no, Gunther was a grappler. Fargo winced as he was slammed to the ground and his hat went flying. Gunther tried to knee him, but he shifted and took it on his thigh. He rammed a fist at Gunther’s chin and winced a second time. Gunther had a jaw like an anvil.
Gunther butted his forehead at Fargo’s face. Fargo jerked aside and tried to heave Gunther off, but it was like trying to toss an ox. Gunther must weigh two hundred and fifty, if not more.
Snarling in frustration, Gunther went for a headlock. Fargo twisted, slipped his head free, and flung an arm around Gunther’s neck. If Gunther wanted to wrestle, fine. Fargo was no stranger to it.
They rolled, each seeking to fasten a grip the other couldn’t break.
The other troopers were yelling. Fargo didn’t catch much of it, but it seemed that most were rooting for him.
An elbow jab to the gut forced Fargo to focus. He retaliated with an elbow to the temple that appeared to hurt him more than it did Gunther, whose skull must be as thick as a buffalo’s.
After a sudden move, Gunther was behind Fargo, his arms encircling Fargo’s waist. “Got you now,” he rasped in Fargo’s ear, and squeezed.
It was like being caught in a vise. Fargo felt as if his stomach and intestines were about to burst. Fargo thrashed and clawed at Gunther’s arms but couldn’t free himself. Clamping his hands onto one of Gunther’s, he applied all his strength to forcing it from his body. Gunther resisted for all of half a minute, until Fargo got hold of his thumb and was on the verge of snapping it.
Gunther broke away and rose to his knees.
Fargo did the same. He had no time to set himself. Gunther pounced, seeking to apply a neck hold. Fargo ducked, gripped Gunther’s wrist, and levered Gunther’s arm up and around, slipping behind him as he did. Gunther cried out and reached over his shoulder with his other hand, trying to gouge Fargo’s eyes. Fargo wrenched on the arm and Gunther cursed and bucked. Quickly, Fargo reached under Gunther’s other arm, gripped it above the elbow, and pulled it back while simultaneously bracing his elbow against the small of Gunther’s back.
“Ready to give up?”
“Like hell.”
Gunther exploded. Whipping his legs up, he hooked them around Fargo’s head and twisted, apparently seeking to break Fargo’s neck. Fargo pulled his head free but lost skin in the process.
Gunther drove a knee at Fargo’s face. Skipping back out of reach, Fargo crouched.
Confidence lit Gunther’s brutal features. “You’re not so tough, scout. I can take you.”
Fargo coiled and said nothing.
“The great Skye Fargo. The best scout alive. The one everybody is afraid of,” Gunther taunted. “I knew you were hot air. And once I’ve licked you, everyone else will know it, too.”
Captain Benson chose that moment to unexpectedly ask, “Do you want me to stop it?”
“No,” Fargo said.
“I’m going to tie you into a knot and break a few bones,” Gunther boasted. “Just see if I don’t.”
“Anytime you’re ready, jackass.”
Gunther sprang. He flung his arms wide, trying for a bear hug. With his great strength, he could easily crush a man’s ribs.
Fargo had other ideas. He knocked one of Gunther’s arms aside and tripped him.
As Gunther went down, Fargo slammed onto Gunther’s back, slipped his right foot under so that it was around Gunther’s leg, and grabbed both of Gunther’s wrists.
Gunther howled. He bucked, but Fargo’s leg around his prevented him from rising more than an inch or two off the ground. Bunching his shoulder muscles, Gunther sought to tear his arms loose.
Fargo wrenched, pulling both arms back as far as they would go, and then some.
Gunther cried out. “You’re tearing them from their sockets.”
Fargo wrenched harder.
A shriek tore from Gunther’s throat. His chin dipped to his chest, and he closed his eyes and groaned.
“Want me to do it again?” Fargo asked.
Spittle dribbled from a corner of Gunther’s mouth.
“I can’t hear you.”
“No,” Gunther gasped.
“Say it louder.”
“No, damn you,” Gunther said. “I don’t want you to do it again. I’m licked, all right?”
“Say it louder.”
“I’m licked!” Gunther shouted, and his entire body went limp in defeat. “Happy now?”
Fargo rose and stepped back. “You brought it on yourself.”
Gunther nodded bleakly. “You’re one tough bastard. I shouldn’t have prodded you like I did.”
“It wasn’t that, so much,” Fargo said.
Gunther looked up in confusion. “Then what got your dander up?”
“You insulted my horse, you stupid son of a bitch.”
3
Over the next several days Private Gunther was as meek as a kitten. He didn’t insult anyone. He went about his duties quietly, and slowly. He could barely move his arms. Whether riding or walking, he held them close to his sides to lessen the constant pain.
Fargo put Gunther from his mind. He had more important concerns. The patrol was passing through Blackfoot territory, and the Blackfeet had held a grudge against whites since the days of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Lewis and another man had killed two warriors who had been trying to steal their guns. It didn’t help matters that whites then gave guns and horses to the Nez Perce and the Shoshones, longtime enemies of the Blackfeet.
Since then, the Blackfeet had simmered with hostility. They resented any and all white intrusions. So far there hadn’t been an uprising, but that was mainly because their territory was so far from anywhere that few whites ventured there. Trappers and ore hounds, for the most part, until recently.
Word had reached the army of a party of settlers who were homesteading in the mountains to the west of what was known as Flathead Lake. That could cause problems with the Flatheads, a friendly tribe granted their own reservation years ago. The army wanted to be sure the settlers weren’t on Flathead land, and if they were, evict them.
So here Fargo was, guiding two dozen troopers over some of the most rugged terrain on the continent. Few of them had ever been this far out from civilization. Only two, Captain Benson and Sergeant McKinney, had fought hostiles. To say that Fargo didn’t have much confidence in the new recruits was an understatement. Still, he had a job to do.
The fifth morning after his clash with Gunther, Fargo began to breathe a little easier. They were entering Flathead territory and were less likely to encounter Blackfeet.
Fargo was tightening the cinch on the Ovaro when Sergeant McKinney came over. A model of soldiery, he carried himself ramrod straight. His uniform never had a blemish; his boots were always shined.
“The captain’s regards. He’d like you to go on ahead and scout out the lay of the land.”
Fargo liked McKinney. The only real soldier among the enlisted men, the sergeant was the glue that held the patrol together. “I aimed to do that anyway.”
Sergeant McKinney nodded. “The captain’s regards again. He remembers the smoke from yesterday and was hoping you would investigate.”
The day before, after the sun had gone down and the gray of twilight was giving way to the black of night, a sentry called out that he’d spotted smoke in the distance. Fargo had gone over with some of the others but hadn’t seen any smoke. “A dollar says Private Timmons was seeing things.”
“No betting, remember?” Sergeant McKinney grinned, then shrugged. “Could be Flatheads.” He sobered and said, “Could be Blackfeet.”
“Could be a whorehouse but I doubt it.”
McKinney laughed. “You and your doves. Bear River Tom once told me that you have the worst case of tit fever’s he’s ever seen.”
“Tom’s a fine one to talk. He hasn’t stopped talking about them since he was weaned.”
“Granted,” McKinney said. “But back to the smoke. I could send a couple of troopers with you.”
Fargo finished with the cinch. “No.”
“They’re not all worthless,” McKinney said. “I’ve trained them, haven’t I? Some show real promise.”
“It’s still no.”
“How about Corporal Worthington, then? He’s young, but he listens well, and he’s a damn fine shot.”
Fargo gripped the reins and reached the saddle horn, about to mount. “I don’t need my hand held.”
Sergeant McKinney shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. No one knows better than me that you’re the best there is at what you do. I’d like some of it to rub off.”
“How’s that again?”
McKinney nodded at the troopers, who were preparing to head out. “A day with you can teach them more than parade ground drills for a year. It’ll be something they can brag to their friends about. Riding scout with the Trailsman.”
“You’re laying it on a little thick.”
“That’s what folks call you these days, isn’t it? And I’m not laying it on so much as asking a favor. Share some of that woodlore and whatnot you have in that head of yours.”
“Damn you, Mike.”
“I know,” McKinney said. “It’s a lot to ask. The army hires you to scout, not to wet-nurse. But consider this. The things the corporal picks up from you could mean the difference for a lot of good men living or dying someday.”
Fargo sighed. “I’ll take Corporal Worthington.”
“And two or three others?”
“Worthington and only Worthington. You want me to take others, I will another time.”
“Good.” Sergeant McKinney smiled. “Worthington shows real promise. I’d like to see him make sergeant one day. You’re helping me a lot. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You can thank me by buying me a bottle when we get back.”
“A whole bottle? You sure you don’t want me to treat you to a dove while I’m at it?”
“Now that you mention it . . .”
“A bottle for Worthington, and if you take one or two others out sometime, I’ll throw in a whore.”
“Deal,” Fargo said.
“I’ll go fetch him. And remember, I want him to learn about tracking and such. Not about cards or women or whiskey.”
“Well, damn,” Fargo said.
Corporal Worthington was a cherub in uniform. He had curly blond hair and blue eyes and a baby face. He was also on the plump side, a remarkable feat given the quality of army food. Beaming fit to split his jaw, he came over leading his horse and snapped to attention. “Sergeant McKinney says I’m to accompany you, sir.”
Fargo reminded himself that McKinney thought the boy showed promise. “First off, you don’t call me sir. Save that for the officers.”
“Sorry. I just want to make a good impression.”
“You can impress me more if you don’t stand there as if you have a broom shoved up your backside.”
“But I’m a soldier, si—” Corporal Worthington caught himself. “When we’re drilling we always have to stand straight.”
“You’re not drilling now,” Fargo said. “Act around me like you do around your friends when you’re at ease.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Mr. Fargo.”
“I’m not a ‘mister,’ either. And why the hell not?”
“Why, as famous as you are, it wouldn’t be right.”
“Famous, my ass.”
“But you are. Everyone has heard of you. Word is that you’ve fought the Apaches and the Sioux and all kinds of hostiles.” The corporal lowered his voice. “They also say you’re powerful fond of tits.”
“That’s Bear River Tom, not me.”
“You’re not fond of them?” Corporal Worthington said in surprise.
Fargo inadvertently raised his voice. “I’m not powerful fond of tits, no.”
The rest of the patrol stopped what they were doing to stare. Even Captain Benson and Sergeant McKinney.
“Son of a bitch,” Fargo said.
“The one thing no one told me,” Corporal Worthington said, “was how much you cuss.”
4
Fargo was still annoyed half an hour later. He didn’t mind helping Sergeant McKinney. But every time he glanced at Corporal Worthington’s eager babyish face, he couldn’t help thinking this was a mistake.
They were crossing the tail end of a range overlooking the long valley that was home to Flathead Lake. Thick forest covered every slope, phalanxes of ponderosa pine broken here and there by stands of cedar, spruce, and aspens. Firs were common, higher up.
Wildlife was everywhere. Blue jays screeched and black-billed magpies winged about. Now and again ravens flew overhead, the rhythmic beating of their wings loud in the rarefied air. Hawks pinwheeled in search of prey. Eagles soared on the high currents, both the bald and the golden variety.
Deer were abundant. So were elk, but the elk stayed better hidden. A few times, Fargo caught the white flash of mountain sheep on towering crags. He found sign of buffalo, too.
Fargo had about forgotten about Corporal Worthington when he happened to look over and the corporal was gazing in wonder at a pair of sparrows frolicking in a bush. “Sparrows, for God’s sake,” he muttered.
Corporal Worthington tore his eyes from the birds. “Pardon? You need to speak up, sir.”
“What did I tell you about that sir business?” Fargo nodded at the bush. “What’s so interesting about them?”
“I’m from New York,” Worthington said.
“They don’t have sparrows there?”
“New York City,” the corporal amended.
“None there, either?”
“It’s not the kind,” Worthington said, and motioned at the rolling vista of woodland and peaks. “It’s being here. In the Rocky Mountains. Seeing things hardly anyone has ever seen before.”
“If we counted all the folks who have seen sparrows,” Fargo said, “we’d run out of numbers.”
“No, you don’t understand. In the city I hardly ever saw wild things. Not even sparrows. Here, creatures are all around us. Everywhere we look. That butterfly a while ago. That doe and her fawn. The hawks. The eagle.”
“You get used to them,” Fargo said.
“You, maybe. Sure, sparrows are ordinary. But here they’re part of the wonder of it all.”
“You, sound more like one of those poets than a soldier. Don’t get carried away. Out here there’s a dark side to things that can get you killed.”
“I’m not stupid.”
Fargo wasn’t quite sure what he was, and decided to find out. It would be good to know more about him should they wind up at the wrong end of a gun or a charging grizzly. “How old are you, anyhow?”
“What’s my age have to do with it?”
“How old?”
“Eighteen,” Worthington said, quickly adding, “but I’ll be nineteen in a month.”
“What are you doing in the army?”
“Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a soldier. To wear a uniform. Some might say that’s not much of a dream, but it was mine.”
“And here you are.” It impressed Fargo, the boy going after something he wanted so much. A lot of folks didn’t have that gumption. “Is it all you’d thought it would be?”
“Frankly, no,” Worthington said. “I’m not fond of being told what to do. I’m not fond of drilling on horseback for an hour and a half a day, six days a week. Or of all the marching around we have to do. And don’t get me started on the food.”
Fargo chuckled.
“But you know what? God help me, I love it. I love serving my country. I love that I can make a difference.”
“At what?”
“At making the frontier safe for folks to live. That’s the reason we’re here. To protect people. To put down hostiles when they act up. Those sorts of things.”
“The hostiles don’t see you that way,” Fargo mentioned. “To them, whites are invaders who want to take their land away.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Corporal Worthington said as he reined around a spruce. “And do you know what I think? I agree with them.”
“You do?” Fargo said in considerable surprise. A lot of people, settlers and soldiers alike, believed it was their manifest destiny, as some called it, to lay claim to all the land between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.
“Some of these tribes have lived where they do for more years than any of them can remember. The land is their home. So of course they resent it when we move in and say it’s ours.”
“The Blackfeet would be pleased to hear you say that.”
“Probably not,” Worthington said. “Because even though I think it’s wrong, it’s right.”
“I’ve lost your trail,” Fargo said.
“The East is bulging with people. In some states, all the good land has been taken. And game has grown so scarce families can’t keep food on the table.” Worthington gestured at the panorama of wilderness that stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. “Out here there’s a feast of plenty. Game everywhere. Good land to be had. Everything a man can want to make something of himself.”
“And the Indians?”
“They have a right to live here, but they can’t keep it all to themselves. The way I see it, the two sides should try to get along. Work things out so that both can live in peace.”
Fargo grunted. He understood Worthington better now. And he liked what he’d learned. “Those are fine sentiments, Corporal. But there’s one thing you’d better keep in mind if you want to live to old age.”
“What’s that?”
“A lot of folks don’t want to get along. A lot of whites kill Indians just because they’re red and a lot of Indians kill whites because they’re not red. The land has nothing to do with it. They kill out of hate, plain and simple.”
“Killing another person over his skin color is wrong. I don’t care what anybody says.”
Fargo agreed. “As fair-minded as you are, I reckon you’d make a good sergeant someday. Maybe even an officer.”
“Why, thank you,” Worthington said, and he actually blushed. “I’ve thought about that, as a matter of fact.”
They came around a bend in a slope, and Fargo stiffened. “Sergeant McKinney wants me to teach you some of what I know, so I’ll start with two things that can save your life.”
“I’m listening.”
“The first is to never take it for granted that others think the way you do. Trust too easily and you could wind up with a bullet or an arrow in your back.”
“And the second thing?”
“Slide that rifle of yours out of your saddle scabbard and hold it in front of you, casual-like.”
“Whatever for?”
“In about a minute or two,” Fargo said, “someone might try to kill us.”
5
The corporal had been so caught up in their talk he hadn’t noticed smoke rising from a hollow below. Fargo had spied it right away. He’d also glimpsed the glint of metal in a cluster of pines near where the smoke came from. Now, winding down the slope, he switched his reins to his left hand and placed his right hand on his hip above his Colt.
It could be anyone. Anyone white. Indian war parties had more sense than to let their campfires give them away.
Fargo figured it might be some of the settlers. Then again, he never took anything for granted.
Worthington slid his rifle free and cradled it. He kept glancing every which way, and his throat bobbed.
“Calm yourself, Corporal,” Fargo said quietly. “Nerves are no good in a fight.”
“What’s out there? Hostiles?”
“You haven’t seen the smoke yet?” Fargo could smell it.
Worthington peered ahead, and blinked. “I’ll be. Sergeant McKinney is always telling us we need to be more aware of things.”
Figures moved in the pines. Two or three. Fargo saw hats and a vest. That none of them had taken a shot at the corporal and him was encouraging, but as soon as he came within pistol range, he drew rein.
Worthington followed suit.
“Let me do the talking. Don’t shoot unless I do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fargo squared his shoulders. “You in the trees. Come out where we can see you.” When no one answered, he added, “If you don’t, as soon as the rest of the patrol gets here, we’ll come in and find you. They’re not far behind.” He mentioned that last in case they took it into their heads to open fire. The shots would bring the soldiers right quick.
A man called out, “How do we know you’re with the army? You could be makin’ it up.”
Fargo pointed at Corporal Worthington. “What’s he wearing, you damn lunkhead? A dress?”
“Oh,” the man said. “A uniform.”
“Your eyes work,” Fargo said. “Does your brain?”
“Give us a minute to talk it over.”
Fargo didn’t see what they needed to talk about. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
“Why do you talk to them like that?” Corporal Worthington whispered. “It’ll make them mad.”
“I can’t abide stupid.”
“People can’t help being how they are.”
Fargo didn’t reply. He sat and waited impatiently, and presently another man joined those already there and after a brief exchange, not two or three but five men came cautiously into the open, all with rifles. His instincts kicked in. Their looks, the way they carried themselves—these were wolves, not sheep.
The man who had just joined the others wasn’t much over five feet tall. He wore a black hat and had a Smith & Wesson on his left hip. Cradling a Spencer, he sauntered to a stop. He raked Fargo from hat to boots and then looked at Corporal Worthington, and smirked. “On you it should be, boy.”
“I beg your pardon?” Worthington said.
“I heard what this scout said,” the man replied. “You’re too young to be much of a soldier.”
“My sergeant says I have the makings of a good one.”
“Does he, now?”
Fargo wished the corporal had kept his mouth shut. Now the five knew he was next to harmless. Or would be in a fight.
“Hell, boy,” the man in the black hat went on, “with all that fuzz on your chin, you don’t even shave yet. Some soldier you are.”
“I happen to be a corporal.”
“Good for you,” the man said. “I’ve never been fond of bluecoats myself. Most are weak sisters pretendin’ to be men.”
“How about me?” Fargo intervened. “Think I’m weak?”
The man lost his smirk. A wary look came into his dark eyes and he shook his head. “No, mister. You’re the real article.”
