The Trailsman (Giant): Idaho Blood Spoor

Fort Hall got its start as a trading post in 1834. It became a stopover on the Oregon Trail. Some emigrants liked the area so much they decided to stay, and before long the trading post had grown into a small but thriving settlement.

In 1849 the Secretary of War established a military post several miles to the north and gave it the name Cantonment Loring, after Lieutenant Colonel William F. Loring, who oversaw the building of the post. But no one called it Cantonment Loring. They called it Fort Hall. It lasted less than a year. After the post was built, and manned, the army decided it was in a poor location, and abandoned it.

The settlers chuckled but were not worried. By now the original settlement had reached the point where the settlers need not fret about an Indian attack.

For their part, the tribes in the region were not happy about the influx of whites. They were even less happy after a white man discovered gold on Orofino Creek. Suddenly whites poured in from all over, and mining camps and new settlements and towns sprang up. Inevitably, clashes occurred. Lone travelers and small parties sometimes disappeared without a trace.

One of those lone travelers this bright summer morning was Skye Fargo. By his reckoning he was ten miles southeast of the original settlement, and he expected to arrive by midafternoon.

A big man, Fargo had broad shoulders, a lean waist, and the muscular build of someone who spent nearly all his time in the wilds. He was uncommonly handsome, as many a filly would attest. His piercing lake blue eyes, which could chill an enemy with an icy glare or light with mirth during his revels at saloons, now squinted against the harsh glare of the sun as he scoured the countryside.

No one who did not stay alert lasted long on the frontier. The price paid for a lapse in vigilance was one’s life. Hostiles, outlaws, beasts, and the elements themselves conspired to make the life of the unwary as short as an Irishman’s temper.

In Fargo’s saddlebags was the letter that had brought him. He was in Denver, indulging in cards, whiskey and women, although not necessarily in that order, when the letter caught up with him.

Fargo had almost ignored the letter’s request. He figured that by the time he got here, those he was expected to find would be long dead. But ten thousand dollars would buy a lot of cards, whiskey, and women. So he saddled up and headed northwest, and now, after a long, tiring journey, he was almost at his destination.

A white hat so dusty from the trail it appeared to be brown was perched on his thatch of hair. Like most frontiersmen, he preferred buckskins. A Colt was strapped to his hip, a Henry rifle was snug in the saddle scabbard. Also, like most frontiersmen, he carried a hideout in his right boot, in his case a double-edged Arkansas toothpick that had saved his hide more than once.

Ahead sat a wagon, one of the countless prairie schooners that made the arduous trek to Oregon Country on a regular basis. A bent-backed turtle on wheels, this particular turtle was crippled. The driver had strayed too far to the side of the trail and struck a boulder hidden by the brush. Several spokes had broken. Now the driver was about to replace them, and was hunkered beside the busted wheel, setting up a jack made of heavy iron-bound wood.

Ordinarily, it would have been none of Fargo’s business. But in this instance, his interest was piqued, and he sat there a minute, waiting to see if someone else would appear. When no one did, he gigged the stallion forward and drew rein a few yards out. “Howdy, ma’am.”

The woman was so engrossed in the jack that she had not heard the dull clomp of the Ovaro’s hooves. Now she whirled and rose. Her right hand dropped to a revolver at her waist. Her dress was plain homespun, her shoes as plain and well worn. But there was nothing plain about the woman herself. Lustrous blond hair framed a face that any man would give a second look. Nor could her plain dress hide the tantalizing curves underneath.

The confirmation that she was traveling alone surprised Fargo, and impressed him. “How is it you don’t have a husband tucked away under that canvas?”

Her back stiffened and she said testily, “How is it that you poke your nose into the personal affairs of others? Be off with you before I get mad and shoot you out of that saddle.”

“Of course you do.” Fargo reached for the jack. It had a toothed iron rack, a pinion wheel, and a pawl to lock the rack in place once the axle was high enough. Judging by its condition, it had not been used much.

“What in God’s name is the matter with you?” the woman snapped, fingering the trigger of her Remington. “Get back on your damn horse.”

“Do you always go around killing folks who offer to help you?” Fargo aligned the jack. “Wherever you hail from must be a real friendly place.”

The woman’s exasperation brought a flush to her full cheeks. “Ohio is plenty friendly, I’ll have you know.” She stamped a slender foot. “Damn you, anyway! Why won’t you listen?”

Fargo smiled at her. “Because you’re as lovely a woman as I’ve seen in a coon’s age, and I would be a fool not to make your acquaintance.” He quickly added to soothe her anxiety, “But don’t worry. I’ll lend a hand with the wheel and leave you in peace, if that’s what you want.”

“Of course it’s what I want.” After a few moments she replaced the Remington in its holster and said almost apologetically, “A woman can’t be too careful. You understand, don’t you?”

Fargo introduced himself, and to make small talk and further put her at ease, he mentioned, “I’m on my way to Fort Hall on business. But another half an hour or so won’t make a difference.”

A grin spread across her face and she hunkered at his elbow. “I’m Lucille. Lucille Harper. But most folks call me Lucy.” She watched him adjust the iron rack. “I can pay you for your help. I have a little money.”

Fargo glanced sharply at her. “Don’t tell that to anyone ever again. Out here there are some who will slit your throat for a few measly dollars.”

Lucy’s forehead pinched and she regarded him intently. “You sure are a strange one. You haven’t known me three minutes and you act as if you’re truly concerned for my welfare.”

“I’ve seen too many people die for stupid reasons,” Fargo said sourly, applying himself anew to the task at hand. “People like you who come out here thinking the same rules of conduct apply that apply back east. But there are no rules west of the Mississippi. It’s kill or be killed. You would do well to remember that.”

“Oh, honestly, Mr. Fargo,” Lucy said, “you make it sound as if my life is in my hands every minute. Yet I’ve had a pleasant enough journey. The wagon train I’m with is filled with nice people. And those we’ve met along the way have been equally nice.”

“Where did this wagon train get to?” Fargo asked. It was customary for a train to halt when someone broke down. Stragglers were easy pickings for the many two-legged wolves that called the wilds home.

“Everyone was so eager to reach the settlement, I just couldn’t let them linger on my account. But the captain of our train, Mr. Perkins, said he would come back and help me. I expect him any time now.”

As if on cue, hooves thudded, and a rider came from the west, a brawny man in a brown jacket and a short-brimmed hat. On spying Fargo he jerked his head up and applied his spurs.

“Did you hear me, friend? Off you go. I’m Max Perkins, the wagon boss of the wagon train Miss Harper is with, and she is my responsibility.”

Fargo slowly shifted and tilted his head back. It wasn’t often that he took an immediate dislike to someone, but he took an immediate dislike to Perkins. The captain had an air about him—the sort of air a weasel had when it was about to pounce on a hapless chicken, or the air of a sly fox who was being too devious by half. “Move the hand or lose the fingers.”

“What’s that?” Perkins stepped back. “Did you just threaten me?” His left hand moved, exposing a Smith & Wesson. “I don’t know who you think you are but that kind of talk has gotten many a jackass buried.”

“You heard him,” the wagon master said, and a grim aspect came over him. “I won’t tell you again, mister. On your horse and on your way, or by the Almighty, I’ll throw you on it.”

“I’ll have you know this is the fourth train I’ve guided,” Perkins declared, “and I took each and every one through with no disasters.”

Perkins made a sniffing sound. “I don’t see where it concerns you, but I’ve lost a few. It happens. The dangers on the trail are many, and I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“You’re not in charge of me.” Fargo had a fair idea what was coming, and he would be damned if he would stand for it. “Why not catch up with your train while you still can?”

“How dare you threaten me!” Max Perkins lunged, his thick fingers seeking Fargo’s throat even as his left knee drove at Fargo’s groin.

Quick as thought, Fargo sidestepped. He swatted Perkins’s hands aside, then delivered a punch to the gut that doubled the wagon boss over and left him wheezing and sputtering.

Fargo agreed, but then, he had not started it. Perkins was the one who should let it drop. But some men were as stubborn as mules; they only learned the hard way. Or was it that, having overstepped himself, the wagon boss refused to back down and look bad in the eyes of Lucy Harper?

Fargo avoided a wild swing and dodged an uppercut. He flicked a jab that jolted the wagon master on his heels but it was not enough to discourage Perkins from pressing the attack.

It was impossible for Fargo not to, Perkins roared it so loud. He blocked a blow, countered, blocked another, slipped a third. The wagon boss was big but he was ungainly, a bear who relied on his bulk and his strength instead of his brain.

Fargo lost his hat to a backhand he ducked. He connected to the ribs and caught Perkins on the left cheek hard enough to split the skin. Perkins sprang back, out of reach, and Fargo said, “Had enough?”

“Suit yourself,” Fargo said, and waded in. He had no taste for this but he wanted to end it quickly. A solid right to the jaw should have brought Perkins crashing to the ground but the wagon boss gritted his teeth and unleashed another uppercut. Sidestepping, Fargo retaliated with a flurry that forced Perkins to give ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Fargo glimpsed Lucy Harper with a hand pressed to her mouth and the other pressed to her bosom. The distraction cost him. His side was seared by pain; then a fist clipped his chin. Concentrating, he blocked yet another punch, then scored with several in a row. He put all he had into the last one and lifted the wagon master clean off his feet.

That was when Lucy stepped forward and pushed Fargo back. “Enough! I can’t believe two grown men are acting so childish! And for what? Over who gets to fix a broken wheel?”

“It makes no difference to me so long as the job gets done,” Lucy said. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I think you should go and let Mr. Fargo tend to the wheel. He stopped first, so I can’t rightly turn him down.”

“Sure you can. He’s not a member of our train,” Perkins persisted. Sitting up, he rubbed his jaw. “If you want him to do it instead of me, then I refuse to take responsibility. If anything happens, it’s on your head.”

Glowering at Fargo, Max Perkins pushed to his feet. His cheek was beginning to swell, and before the day was out, he would sport a number of bruises. “All right. I’ve done all I can. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Nothing doing,” Perkins declared, and walked to his horse. Taking hold of the reins, he gripped the saddle horn and swung up. He was mad as hell and trying not to show it, but failing. “I credited you with better judgment,” he told Lucy. “We’ll talk more at Fort Hall.”

“That wasn’t about who should help me,” Lucy said. “Perkins has had his eyes on me ever since I signed on in Westport. I’ve been civil but I could do without the nuisance.” She paused. “I reckon it comes from being female and single. But I do wish men could take a hint.” She paused again. “Thank you.”

Fargo nearly fell when he gave another tug and the wheel popped off like a cork out of a bottle. He set it flat and raised his head. “You’re not out of the woods yet. It’s a long way from Fort Hall to Oregon, and he’s liable to be more of a nuisance.”

“Where are your tools?” Fargo asked, rising. As she turned to get them, he said, “It’s early in the season yet. You can always wait at Fort Hall for another wagon train to come along.”

“I paid in advance for the right to travel with Perkins,” Lucy said. “One hundred and fifty dollars—the going rate. There are no refunds. It’s in the contract I signed. I won’t get a cent back if I switch trains.”

It took longer than Fargo anticipated to repair the wheel. He had to remove two of the felloes to get at the spokes, and one of the pegs was jammed fast. Meanwhile, Lucy told him about her life in Ohio; she had been raised on a farm, the fourth of seven siblings, and was now en route to join her oldest sister, who had married and moved to Portland.

“My parents were scandalized by me wanting to strike out on my own. They were sure I’d fall prey to hostiles or die of hunger or thirst or have my virtue compromised.” Lucy giggled. “You would think I was a child, how they carried on.”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead. Jobs are scarce, but so are females, so I figure I won’t have a problem finding one. My sister and her husband have offered to put me up until I can find a place of my own.” Lucy idly stretched, arching her back, and her bosom swelled against the fabric of her dress. “I had to do it. I had to get away. To see something of the world. I didn’t want to milk cows and feed chickens the rest of my life.”

“I tried to tell my folks that. I tried to make them understand that what made them happy did not necessarily make me happy. They expected me to marry one of the local boys and settle down and do as my mother had done. But I just couldn’t. I felt trapped, like there were invisible walls around me.” Lucy bit her lower lip. “Thank God my older sister had already moved away. It gave me an excuse to follow in her footsteps.”

“Listen to me, will you?” Lucy grinned. “Prattling on to a total stranger. You have to excuse me. I haven’t been able to socialize much on this trip and I’m half-starved for someone to talk to.”

“Oh, the men are friendly enough. Some are too friendly. But their wives don’t take kindly to them associating with an available woman. They don’t take it kindly, at all.” Lucy’s shoulders drooped. “You would think I was a hussy, the way some have treated me.”

“You should have the wheel checked by the blacksmith at Fort Hall,” Fargo advised, and turned toward the Ovaro. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait!” Lucy exclaimed, much louder than was called for. “What’s your rush? I was sort of hoping you would escort me in. In fact”—she hesitated, a pink tinge creeping up her face—“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind riding up in the wagon with me. I’ll make it worth your while. I have a flask of whiskey. For medicinal purposes only. But you’re welcome to some if you would like.”

“Most men are. I never could stand the taste, myself. It burns going down something awful.” Lucy smoothed her dress. “So what do you say? Would you mind my company a while more yet?”

Lucy was waiting, the reins in hand. Next to her was the flask. “As promised,” she said, and clucked to the team. The dust-caked mules lumbered into motion, and the wagon creaked and began rolling.

Fargo opened the flask and tipped it to his lips. It was whiskey, all right, and not the cheap coffin varnish peddled at most saloons and taverns. He savored his first drink since Denver, letting it rest in his mouth before he swallowed. “Smooth as silk,” he complimented her.

“Sniffed a lot of them?” Fargo teased, and she laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” When she shook her head, he treated himself to a second swallow and then a third.

Fargo admired how the sunlight played over her fine features. She had exquisite full red lips that reminded him of ripe strawberries. “How long is the wagon train stopping over?”

“Mr. Perkins said we can spare four whole days, the longest any of us has had to rest since we started out. I’m told there is a general store, and I’m low on essentials. But what I most want is a long, hot bath.” Lucy caught herself and blushed again. “Sorry. It wasn’t proper of me to mention that.”

Fargo could not decide if she truly was prim and proper, or whether she was extending a subtle invite. “Mention it, hell. I’ll help you find a tub and fill it for you and scrub your back after you climb in.”

Lucy’s hazel eyes filled with warmth and amusement. Just then the wagon gave a lurch and her left leg moved a few inches, brushing his. It all seemed perfectly innocent, but Fargo noticed she did not move her leg away.

“You say the darnedest things,” Lucy informed him. “But I must admit, I find myself growing fond of you anyway. And I can’t thank you enough for your assistance with the wheel.”

The trail wound near to the gurgling river. Colorful birds flitted among the trees, and here and there wild-flowers grew. A butterfly flitted by on gossamer wings. When they rounded the next bend, several does bounded for cover.