The Trailsman (Giant): Idaho Blood Spoor

Pike Driscoll came to the edge of the porch. “It’s nothing personal. It’s my job. Mr. Zared wants to see you, so in you go.” He beckoned impatiently. “Let’s have that six-gun.”

The other two men in black were a shade late in reacting. Both clawed for revolvers under their jackets but froze at the click of the Colt’s hammer.

“Let him try,” Fargo said. He commanded them to pick Driscoll up and carry their unconscious burden indoors. A narrow hall brought them to a sitting room. On a settee sat a white-haired gentleman with bushy side whiskers. He wore an immaculately tailored navy frock coat with a striped vest and striped trousers. Across from him in a chair perched an attractive brunette, about thirty or so, in a floral silk dress. They were talking in hushed, earnest tones. At the sight of the bodyguards they fell silent, and the white-haired man demanded, “What is the meaning of this? What happened to Driscoll?”

“And you must be Benjamin Zared.” Fargo shifted so no one could slink up on him unnoticed from the hall. “I came a long way at your request, and I don’t take kindly to the reception.”

Zared addressed the bodyguard named Walker. “Jim, please be so kind as to explain.” Zared listened, then sighed and spread his hands apologetically toward Fargo. “My sincere regrets over how you were treated. In my defense, Mr. Driscoll was only doing what I pay him to do, namely, safeguard my person from those who would harm me. Long ago I gave a standing order that no one is to be admitted into my presence armed.”

A groan from Driscoll signaled his return to consciousness. Snorting like a mad boar, he shook off the men holding him and turned toward Fargo. “Damn you! You had no call to do that! You’re a dead man—do you hear me?” His face was contorted in fury and his hand was poised to flash under his jacket.

“I must ask you to forgo your natural impulse. Mr. Fargo is here at my request, remember? If you must assign blame for the misunderstanding, blame me. I should have instructed you to admit him without disarming him.”

Fargo glanced at the woman. She did bear a certain resemblance to Zared, especially around the eyes and in the shape of her face. She also filled out the smart dress she wore almost as nicely as Lucy Harper had filled out hers.

Benjamin Zared rose to offer his hand. “Let us try this again, shall we? I am delighted you came.” He indicated his daughter. “This is Edrea. She will be my liaison with you and the rest on this venture. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you only have to ask her.”

Fargo was more interested in his host’s other comment. “That’s twice you’ve mentioned ‘the rest.’ I take it I’m not the only one you sent for?”

“Have a seat and I’ll enlighten you.” Zared waited, and after Fargo was comfortable, he sank back down on the settee. “To answer your question, no, you are not the only one. I trust you won’t hold it against me, but with my son’s life at stake, half measures were not called for.”

Zared held up a hand. “Please indulge me. Rather than repeat myself to each of you, I would rather assemble everyone here in, say, an hour, and present my proposition then.”

“The others don’t know any more than you do,” Edrea Zared interjected. “One of them arrived nearly a week ago but the rest only in the past few days.”

“Their timing has been most fortuitous,” Benjamin Zared said. “Perhaps it is an omen things are finally going my way.” He paused. “What can one more hour hurt, after all those you spent traveling?”

“In the meantime,” Edrea said, “we have a room reserved for you on the second floor. Would you like me to show it to you?” She rose without awaiting a reply and stepped to the hallway. “This way, please.”

Fargo followed her up a flight of stairs. On the landing were two more men in black, lounging against the wall. When they saw Edrea, they straightened. Both bowed their chins as she passed.

“I, on the other hand, have never known any other life. My father was rich when I was born and he has only become richer. I pray that when my times comes, I can do as well as he has in increasing the family’s fortune.”

An innocent comment on Fargo’s part, yet Edrea Zared nearly broke stride. “Of course I’m worried. But I am also mad. Between you and me, he had no business going off into the mountains. Thanks to him, my father and I have been put to a lot of bother.”

Fargo thought it strange she was more mad than upset, but sisters and brothers were often at one another’s throats. “Do you really think he is still alive after all this time?”

“Who can say? My father does, and that’s what counts.” Edrea stopped next to a door. “Here we are.” A key was in the latch. She turned it and held the door open for him to enter.

As boardinghouses went, the room was nicely furnished. Fargo patted the quilt on the bed and noticed the washbasin was full. “I’ve seen worse.”

“I am happy you are pleased,” Edrea said without a shred of genuine sincerity. “Now if you will excuse me, I have preparations to make.” She smiled and backed out, closing the door after her.

Fargo stripped and shook his buckskins out the window to rid them of the dust they had accumulated. His beard needed a trim but his razor was in his saddlebags and he did not feel like fetching it. Instead, he dressed and lay on his back on the bed with his hands behind his head. He would use the time to rest.

A light rap on his door dictated otherwise. Fargo thought maybe Edrea had forgotten to tell him something but it was someone else entirely. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he declared. “Don’t tell me they offered you the job, too?”

The man who entered was not nearly as tall or as broad across the shoulders as Fargo, but in other respects they were much alike; the man wore buckskins, he had a dark beard, his skin had been bronzed by countless hours under the burning sun, and he carried himself much like a panther. He was not armed. “As I live and breathe!” he exclaimed, breaking into a smile. “They’ll let anyone in here.”

The fraternity of frontier scouts was a small one, the number of those who were exceptional even smaller. Kip Weaver was widely considered as good as Fargo. A Pennsylvania farm boy, he came west with his parents, who were massacred by the Sioux. An old frontiersman by the name of Brent Hollings took Weaver under his wing and molded the youngster into a scout. Later Hollings gave up the ghost, dying with his boots off in a house of ill repute when his heart gave out. Ever since, Kip Weaver had done the old scout proud.

“You’re the first I’ve seen, only because I happened to spot you coming down the hall with the lovely Miss Zared.” Kip folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “They’ve kept me pretty much in the dark, and I can’t say as I like it.”

“The soldier boys will just have to get by without me for a spell.” Weaver grinned. “It isn’t every day I have a chance at ten thousand dollars.”

“Anyone who doesn’t is a fool,” Kip declared hotly. Then a smile split his sun-bronzed face. “What say we find a saloon and treat ourselves to some coffin varnish? On me?”

“That’s forty minutes we could spend drinking.” Kip grinned, then became serious. “Between you and me, hoss, I can’t say I’ve been all that impressed with Zared and his crew.”

“And bossy, too. He always wants everyone at his beck and call. I had better things to do than sit around twiddling my thumbs waiting for him to explain things.”

“I’d like that. Lord knows, I could use one. I’ve tried to swear off while I’ve been here but it hasn’t been easy. A man gets used to his creature comforts.” Weaver chuckled and winked.

If his friend had one failing, Fargo recalled, it was that Kip Weaver was much too fond of whiskey. Fargo liked to drink as much as the next man, but for Weaver, drinking had become a religion. Nearly every night, Kip could be found in a saloon, drinking himself into a near-stupor. Fargo hated to admit it, but Weaver was one of the few persons on the face of the earth who could drink him under the table, and still go on guzzling.

“We’ll do it up right later,” Kip said eagerly. “Turn this settlement upside down and give them something to remember us by, eh?”

“You almost make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” Weaver said good-naturedly. He clapped Fargo on the shoulder. “Hellfire and tarnation, it’s grand to see you again! Gossip has it you nearly lost your hide more than a few times since we shared a bottle last.”

Weaver moved to a chair and straddled it. “The damn Piegans nearly had my hair a few months back. Shot my horse out from under me with an arrow, then ran me ragged for pretty near a week. The war party just wouldn’t give up. I had to use every trick I know, and then some, to shake them off my scent.”

The Piegans, as Fargo was aware, had been generally unfriendly since the days of Lewis and Clark. Lewis and some companions had caught several Piegan warriors trying to steal their guns and powder, and in the ensuing struggle, one Piegan was stabbed to death and another was shot. As a result, the Piegans were always on the lookout for white intruders in their territory, and woe to the white man who fell into their vengeful clutches. They never forgot a grudge.

“At one point I had gone so long without food and water,” Weaver was saying, “that I was as weak as a newborn kitten, and near delirious. They surrounded me in a patch of woods.” He gave a little shudder at the recollection. “I crawled inside a log to hide. There I was, helpless, with those bloodthirsty devils all around me, poking their red noses into every bush and thicket. I thought for sure they would find me, and I’d end my days burned at the stake, or maybe tied down over an ant hill, or skinned alive and left for the buzzards and the coyotes.”

Fargo grunted. The same fate hung over the head of each scout like a guillotine’s blade about to fall. He had come close to experiencing them on more than one occasion.

“I’m serious. When I realized they had gone on by the log without finding me, I laid there whimpering like a baby, I was so happy.”

“Some are closer than others. But hell, that’s the life we’ve chosen, isn’t it? We have to take the good with the deadly, the close shaves with the spectacular sunsets.”

“And I aim to go on doing so for a good many years yet,” Weaver declared. “I’d like to end my days whittling in a rocking chair.”

“I never used to think about dying much”—Weaver would not let it drop—“but I do now practically all the time. Pitiful, huh?”

“The habit you have of always putting yourself in other people’s moccasins. You’re hard as gristle on the outside but inside you’re mush, and if you’re not real careful, one day the mush will do you in.”

Which was exactly how they spent the next half hour. Fargo related his recent escapades, and Kip Weaver recounted some of his. They were so engrossed in their talk that when a knock came on the door, Fargo was surprised at how much time had gone by.

As Edrea walked off, Kip Weave smirked and said quietly, “There’s one rose that has never been plucked, I warrant. Comes from having ice in her veins.”

The two bodyguards were still on the landing. Downstairs, in the hall, stood Pike Driscoll and Walker. Driscoll glared at Fargo but Fargo ignored him.

Extra chairs had been brought to the sitting room. Benjamin Zared had the settee to himself, his arms spread out across the back, sitting tall and straight and looking for all the world like a foreign potentate about to hold a royal audience. His daughter was in a chair to his left, facing the rest, a sheath of papers on her lap.

Of the three others present, Fargo recognized one, a tall, morose man in a buckskin jacket and brown pants, distinguished by the fact that where his nose should be there was an oval leather patch. His name was James Smith but he was more commonly known as No-Nose Smith, thanks to a run-in with hostiles. A tomahawk had taken off his nose and part of his cheek, leaving him scarred emotionally as well as physically. For where before James Smith had been an easygoing, likable rogue who spent all his idle hours in the company of willing doves, after his mutilation, Smith became grim and taciturn and avoided human contact except as it was required in his capacity as a scout.

Now Smith nodded at Fargo and Kip Weaver, all they could expect from him by way of a greeting even though they had known him since before the mishap.

The other two were strangers. Right away Fargo saw that they were related; their features were identical. The same sandy hair, the same pointed chins, the same pouty mouths and green eyes, the same wealth of freckles. They had to be brother and sister. Both were in their twenties, Fargo judged. The man wore a green shirt and britches and a coonskin cap like the cap once favored by the famous bear hunter and hero of the Alamo, Davy Crockett. His sister wore identical clothes, but instead of a coonskin cap, she wore a cap made of fox fur complete with the head and tail still attached.

“Come in, come in, gentlemen,” Benjamin Zared urged, pointing at two empty chairs. After they sat, he cleared his throat and looked at each of them in turn. “First, let me thank each of you for answering my letter. I sent out other notices but only you five had the courtesy to show up.”

“Shucks, Mr. Zared,” the man in the coonskin cap said with a distinct Southern drawl, “courtesy had nothin’ to do with it. Silky and me hanker after that fortune you’re offerin’.”

“Honesty. I like that,” Benjamin Zared said. “Before we go any further, I should introduce everyone for the benefit of those who might not have met.”

The brother and sister were Billy Bob and Silky Mae Pickett. They hailed from South Carolina. They always smiled, the two of them, as if life were a source of great humor. When Silky Mae was introduced, she smiled at Fargo and gave him the sort of scrutiny he was more accustomed to getting from ladies on city street corners late at night.

“So you’re Fargo? We’ve heard about you. Folks say you’re Daniel Boone, Kit Carson and Jim Bridger all rolled into one.” Silky Mae had pearly-white teeth she showed constantly. “I doubt you have heard of us, but down south we have somethin’ of a reputation.”

Silky Mae flashed him a tight smile. “Why, yes, Mr. Weaver, the two of us. Or is it that you think a woman can’t track and shoot as good as a man?”

Billy Bob Pickett snickered. “You best be careful, Mr. Weaver. My sister doesn’t like it none when her gender is belittled. She can hold her own against any man, and I should know.”

“No offense taken,” Silky Mae said, but her tone gave Fargo the impression that she was less than pleased. “And yes, most women would rather spend their lives chained to a stove or a washtub. Not me. I like my freedom too much to ever shackle myself with a husband.” She shifted her attention to Fargo. “I hear tell you’re the same way. They say you’ve bedded more fillies than there are blades of grass on the prairie.”

“I’m only repeatin’ what I’ve heard,” Silky Mae said with feigned innocence. “If Mr. Fargo takes exception, he’s welcome to put me in my place.”

Before Fargo could respond, Benjamin Zared leaned forward on the settee. “If you don’t mind, and even if you do, can we restrict ourselves to the issue at hand? I didn’t ask you to come all this way to listen to accounts of amorous adventures. You’re here because I am in dire straits and need the help of the most skilled trackers money can buy.”

Benjamin Zared nodded. “None of you have ever been a parent, so you cannot possibly appreciate how deeply the loss of a child hurts. It is a heartache beyond all understanding.”

“I don’t know whether Gideon is or he isn’t,” Zared said. “If he isn’t, my joy will know no bounds. If he is, then I want you to find his remains and bring them back to me.” His face clouded. “And if he was slain by hostiles, find out which tribe and I will wipe them out—every last buck, squaw, and nit.”

Grief made a person say things they otherwise wouldn’t. Fargo was willing to excuse his host’s comment on that basis. But something told him it was no idle threat, and exterminating a tribe was something he would never stand for.

Zared happened to be looking at him, and something in Fargo’s expression must have given his thoughts away because the distraught father quickly said, “I don’t mean that literally, of course. It’s emotion talking. If my son has been killed, it’s only natural I would want those responsible to pay.”

“You can wipe out all the redskins you want, Mr. Zared,” his sister chimed in. “We’re hill folk. Where we come from, people live by the feud, and have for hundreds of years. We’ve lost kin to other clans and made them pay. We wouldn’t begrudge you doin’ the same. No, sir.”

The Picketts regarded him with amusement, and Billy Bob said, “You’re an Injun lover—is that it? You would let a pack of red heathens get away with spillin’ white blood?”

Silky Mae nodded. “That’s true. But I must say you are a powerful disappointment. Any white man who would side with redskins ain’t much of a man at all.”