Fargo stayed with Esther another hour. He was willing to stay longer. He liked the feisty gray-haired hen. But she shooed him off, saying she didn't want him sitting there staring at her. She'd recovered enough that he knew she could manage.
Once in the saddle, Fargo searched the forest to the west. He was looking for some sign of the shooter. He spent another hour at it and found no tracks, no trace, nothing.
He headed northwest again, on the lookout for a sign of Thunderhead. He couldn't imagine what had brought the bull up into the high country other than the contrary natures bulls were noted for.
A switchback brought him to a tableland rich with grass sprinkled by islands of trees. The bull would have plenty of graze but he found no evidence it had been there.
A glimmer of blue drew him to a spring at the far end. Cottonwoods shimmered in the sunlight and a dragonfly flitted about.
Dismounting, he let the Ovaro drink. A handy log looked inviting. No sooner did he sit, though, than who should come traipsing out of the cottonwoods but the three redheaded boys. Each held a squirrel rifle but made no attempt to bring it to bear. Their homespun clothes showed a lot of wear. Their pants had holes in them. Their shoes looked ready to fall apart. Their faces were grimy with dirt and their hair was cut so unevenly and poorly, it was obvious they did the cutting themselves.
“Howdy, mister,” said the first and tallest.
“What do we have here?” Fargo said.
“You have the Johnsons,” the tallest boy said. “I'm Solomon but mostly I answer to Sol. My middle brother here is Seth. And the youngest is Jared.”
“Where are your folks?” Fargo asked.
“Dead,” Sol answered. “Some four years now.”
“We make do on our own,” Seth declared.
“Yep,” Jared said.
They set the stocks of their squirrel rifles on the ground and leaned on the barrels. All three had blue eyes and pug noses and oval chins. All three looked about as formidable as chipmunks.
“You shouldn't be here,” Fargo said.
“We have the same right to go after the bull as anybody,” Sol said.
“This is no place for amateurs.”
“We're pint-sized but we have bark on us,” Seth said. “Anyone gives us trouble, we'll learn them not to.”
“We will,” Jared said.
Fargo had met his share of kids set adrift. Life on the frontier was hard. Some would say it was merciless. Fathers were thrown from horses and broke their necks or were dashed to death from moving wagons or took deathly sick or were caught by hostiles. Mothers didn't seem to suffer as many accidents but once they lost their man, their futures were bleak. Work was hard to come by, especially work that paid enough for a mother to feed and clothe herself and her children, to say nothing of keeping a roof over their heads. A lot of widows drowned their sorrows in alcohol and drowned themselves in the bargain.
“You don't have any uncles or aunts?”
“We're fine on our own,” Sol said.
“That we are,” Seth echoed.
“We don't need anybody,” little Jared said.
“Do you have horses?” Fargo asked.
“We'd be plumb stupid to be up here without any,” Sol said and bobbed his head at the cottonwoods. “They're hid so the redskins won't spot us.”
“Smart,” Fargo said.
“Tell us about you, mister,” Seth said. “We heard tell you scout for the army.”
“Sometimes.”
“We heard you track real good, too,” little Jared said.
Sol nodded. “We talked to Mr. Tyler and he said that you and the jasper who wears two pistols and that other fella with the moccasins are the three best trackers of the bunch.”
“We probably are,” Fargo allowed.
“Then you three have the best chance of any of us of findin' that bull.”
“It will be luck as much as anything.”
“We believe in makin' our own luck,” Sol said. “And we want that five thousand.”
“We'd be rich,” Seth said.
“Rich,” Jared echoed.
Fargo frowned. Trying to talk them out of it was pointless. His only recourse was to take their rifles and make them mount up and escort them back down the mountain. The only thing was, there was no one to look after them, and the moment he headed back up, so would they.
“Why do you look so glum, mister?” Sol asked.
First it was the old hen and now these infants. “It's been a hell of a day,” Fargo said.
Jared squinted at the sun and remarked, “Heck, mister. It's not half over.”
“Don't remind me,” Fargo said.
The Ovaro was done drinking and Fargo didn't have a lot of time to spare. Standing, he came right out with, “Is there any chance I can talk you out of hunting for the bull?”
“Not a snowball's,” Sol said.
“We have it to do,” Seth said.
Jared nodded.
“You could get killed,” Fargo bluntly brought up.
“Not likely,” Sol said.
“We're too clever,” Seth said.
“Like foxes,” from Jared.
“You have a high opinion of yourselves,” Fargo mentioned.
“You did hear me say our folks have been dead goin' on four years?” Sol said.
“How do you reckon we've lasted so long?” Seth asked.
“We're foxes,” little Jared said.
“Damn it, boys,” Fargo said.
They looked at one another and Jared cradled his squirrel rifle and said, “We savvy that you're worried about us, mister. That's nice, you bein' a stranger, and all. People do it all the time. Because we're kids, they figure we need lookin' after.”
“But we don't,” Seth said.
“We surely don't,” Jared declared.
“There are Blackfeet . . .” Fargo began.
“Injuns don't scare us none,” Sol said. “We've kilt a few when we've had to.”
“We'll kill more if need be,” Seth said.
“I like killin',” Jared declared.
Fargo had done all he could. Before he rode off, he warned them that, “There's something else. Someone has killed one of the bull hunters and tried to kill another.”
“By someone you don't mean the redskins?” Sol asked.
“I mean white.”
They looked at one another again and Sol said, “You say only one has been kilt?”
“The farmer. His name was Humphries.”
“Met him,” Sol said.
“Not too bright,” Seth said.
“Nope,” Jared said.
“The old woman was shot but she'll live,” Fargo let them know.
“You don't say,” Sol said and looked at Jared.
“I wish you would reconsider staying in the hunt.”
“Five thousand is more than we could make any way except stealin' it,” Sol said. “We can't pass this up.”
Both Seth and Jared shook their heads and Jared said, “Can't.”
“Suit yourselves.” Fargo stepped to the Ovaro, gripped the saddle horn, and swung up. As he settled himself, the three came over.
“We like you, mister,” Sol said. “We think you'll likely be the one.”
“Yep,” Seth said.
For once Jared didn't contribute.
“Good luck,” Sol said. “Watch out for the redskins and those Hollisters we heard about who are after you and anything else that might want to do you in.”
“You need to find the bull,” Seth said.
“Find it,” Jared said.
Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He glanced back after he had gone a short way but the boys weren't there. They had disappeared into the cottonwoods. “That was damn strange,” he summed it up, and put them from his mind.
He needed to stay sharp as a razor. The woods were crawling with enemies. Not literally, but there were enough that all it would take was for him to let down his guard for a moment and he'd wind up like Humphries.
He thought he might come on more of the bull hunters since they were all headed in the same general direction, but the afternoon waxed and waned and he saw no one else.
Toward sundown he came on a ribbon of a stream and made camp. He didn't bother with a fire. It would serve as a beacon to those inclined to do him in. A cold camp sufficed. He drank mountain water and chewed pemmican from his saddlebag.
It had been an eventful day. He lay reviewing all that had happened until sleep claimed him. His rest, once again, was fitful. He woke up at the slightest or farthest of sounds and then would lie there a while before he could get back to sleep.
Toward dawn he awoke feeling as if he hadn't slept a wink. Throwing his blanket off, he got up, decided to hell with it, and put coffee on. When it was hot, he downed three cups and almost felt like himself.
He was tightening the cinch on his saddle, about to head out, when a shot crackled and echoed. This time it came from lower down. Not more than a quarter-mile, he reckoned, and as he scoured the slopes he had climbed the day before, he spied the red and orange of dancing flames.
It was stupid to go back, he chided himself. He should press on after the bull. But he reined down the mountain, not up, and in half an hour came to a halt in a clearing.
“Hell,” Fargo said.
Esther was flat on her back with her arms outflung and a look of surprise on her wrinkled face. The Dragoon was in its holster. She still wore the bandage. Only now, an inch below it was a new bullet hole. Someone had shot her in the center of her forehead as she was making coffee of her own.
“You should have listened, old woman,” Fargo said.
He had a choice. Leave her for the buzzards and other scavengers or bury her. The smart thing was to leave her.
Fargo climbed down. With a fallen tree limb that had a jagged tip, he dug a shallow grave. She had nothing on her, no purse, no poke, nothing. He didn't say any words over the grave. What was the point?
Her mule and packhorse hadn't been taken. More proof it wasn't the Blackfeet. He rigged a lead rope and slipped it over each.
They would slow him down. But his only recourse was to point them down the mountain and smack them on the rump, and they might die untended.
By noon he was close to where the trappers must have seen Thunderhead. He scoured for sign, and it wasn't ten minutes later that he sat staring down at week-old tracks.
“God in heaven,” he breathed.
They were huge. The largest hoofprints he'd ever come across. Thunderhead wasn't just a bull. He was a monster.
When Fargo squatted and held his hand to one of the tracks, his fingers weren't long enough to reach the other side.
Straightening, he scanned the timber above. He didn't spot the bull.
But he did see the Blackfeet.
There were seven. They were descending an open slope in single file. Even at that distance, Fargo saw their war paint.
Quickly, Fargo pulled the Ovaro and the mule and the packhorse into cover. He prayed the Blackfeet hadn't caught sight of him. He would rather avoid them than fight. This was their land, not his. He was just another invader.
When the mule and the packhorse were swallowed by forest, he climbed on the Ovaro and rode due north. His aim was to swing wide of the war party. But he hadn't gone half a mile when he looked back and there they were.
They'd seen him, all right.
And they were after him.
“Hell,” Fargo growled.
Since he couldn't outrun them leading the extras, he reluctantly let go of the lead rope and used his spurs. He needn't worry that the mule and the packhorse would be eaten. The Blackfeet weren't like the Apaches, to whom a roasted horse, or mule, was delicious.
Too, Fargo figured the war party would stop to claim their prizes, buying him time to increase his lead. But the Blackfeet left only one warrior to handle them and the rest came on at a gallop.
Fargo was careful not to push the Ovaro too hard. Its stamina was second to none, and if he did this smart, he could outlast them.
The thought of “smart” make him think of the three freckled kids. They were lucky the Blackfeet saw him and not them. Could be that the Blackfeet would take them prisoner, rather than kill them, and possibly adopt them into the tribe.
The next time Fargo looked back, he couldn't see the war party. He expected them to appear out of the trees but they didn't.
He stopped to give the Ovaro a brief breather, and that was when he spotted them again.
The wily warriors had split. Three had borne to the west and three to the east, and now they were coming on fast. Their intent was clear. To catch him between them.
Fargo pushed on to a broad ridge. Deadfall covered the next slope. Firs, hundreds of them, lay as if flattened by a tempest. He skirted them and came to the top and stopped.
He needed to discourage the war party and this was as good a spot as any. Shucking the Henry from his saddle scabbard, he roosted on a convenient stump.
It wasn't long before the warriors to the east broke into the open, followed shortly after by the warriors to the west. They signaled one another and met up at the bottom of the deadfall.
They weren't quite in range yet but Fargo brought the Henry to his shoulder. Two warriors appeared to be arguing over something. Maybe whether to keep on after him.
The argument ended and they moved to come around the tangle as he'd done.
Fargo sat motionless except for thumbing back the Henry's hammer. When he was sure, he held his breath to steady the rifle and stroked the trigger.
The lead warrior jerked at the impact and clutched his shoulder but wasn't unhorsed. The whole war party immediately turned and streaked to the bottom.
Fargo smiled. That should discourage them. Hopping off the stump, he shoved the Henry into the scabbard, forked leather, and rode like a bat out of Hades for pretty near half an hour. The next time he looked back, he'd lost them.
He was pleased with himself. He'd avoided killing them.
It bothered him, though, that they continued to pose a threat to the bull hunters. Anyone they counted coup on was on his shoulders.
Troubled, he commenced to circle back to where he had found Thunderhead's tracks. He'd covered about half the distance when the Ovaro snorted and shied, and glancing about, he discovered why.
Two bull hunters were over under a spruce. They had spread out their blankets the night before and turned in, and sometime during the night someone had slit their throats from ear to ear. Pools of blood had collected under and around them, and it was the stink that caused the Ovaro to react.
Fargo remembered seeing them at the ranch but he'd never learned their names. They were faces in the money-hungry crowd, nothing more.
Their horses were tied to the tree. Their rifles were by their sides. Plainly, the Blackfeet weren't to blame here, either.
Whoever killed Humphries and Esther had claimed two more.
Fargo sought some clue to the killer's identity. The carpet of needles under the spruce didn't bear prints. He ranged wider but all he found were a few scrapes.
Whoever the killer was, he was damn good.
Fargo wasn't about to bury these two. He did go through their pockets and their saddlebags and found it interesting that he didn't find any money. Not a single cent between them. He hadn't found any money on Esther, either.
Unfurling, he turned to the Ovaro to climb back on.
And froze when a gun hammer clicked behind him.