The Trailsman (Giant): Idaho Blood Spoor

Before first light, Fargo was up and dressed and about to leave the boardinghouse when out of the sitting room stepped Benjamin Zared. The face under the white mane of hair was haggard.

“So you’re the first to leave? I can’t thank you enough for going after my son. He means everything to me.” Zared offered his hand. “The best of luck.”

“ ‘They’?” Benjamin said, and caught himself. “Oh. Tabor and Asa, too. Why, of course. I’ll be waiting to welcome them with open arms.” He glanced up the stairs. “Watch your back out there. The Picketts are madder than ever at you over something that happened last night.”

“Someone put a dead rattlesnake in Silky Mae’s bed. She had turned in and was almost asleep when she slid her hand under her pillow and touched it.” Benjamin grinned. “You should have heard her shriek. They blamed you but I pointed out you had been gone almost all day so you could not have been the culprit.”

Fargo wondered if Zared suspected the truth. “Thanks for the warning.” Not that he needed one. The others had made it clear that it was every tracker for him- or herself. He went to leave but Zared was not finished.

“There’s no way of telling,” Fargo said. He would hunt for a month, and if he had not turned up a trace of Gideon by then, he would bow out.

“I don’t mean to press you,” Benjamin said, “but the sooner we find him, the better for my peace of mind. I have been worried sick, Mr. Fargo. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t hardly function.”

“In case I haven’t made myself clear, don’t let anyone or anything stand in your way. Do whatever it takes to find my son. If you need help, whether it be supplies or some of my men to back you, get word to me.” Benjamin paused. “I expect to be in Kellogg in a couple of weeks. You can reach me there.”

Fargo hid his surprise. Founded as a mission nearly twenty years ago, Kellogg was a small community well to the north. “Exactly how far into the mountains do you think your son went?”

A vague feeling gnawed at Fargo like a beaver on a tree—a feeling that Zared was not being entirely honest with him. “Kellogg it is,” he said, and went out.

Fort Hall was still asleep. Only a few other early risers were up and about. A dog barked at Fargo from the yard of a frame house but ran off when Fargo threw a stone at it.

Before a golden glow suffused the eastern horizon, Fargo was in the saddle and a mile from the settlement. His plan was to cut across to the Big Lost River and follow it up into the Lost River Range. Once there, he would travel from gold camp to gold camp, seeking word of Gideon Zared’s party.

Fargo was relieved to be away from the settlement. Civilization had its allures, but give him the untamed wilds any day. The towering peaks, the virgin forest, the rushing streams and clear high-country lakes were a tonic to his soul. He soon settled into a routine: up at dawn, coffee and whatever was left over from supper for breakfast, ride until noon and rest for half an hour, then push on until near twilight, when he would camp and take the Henry and shoot something for supper. Some nights he had rabbit, other nights squirrel. Ten days out from Fort Hall he shot a buck, salted strips of meat, and hung them over a makeshift rack. His saddlebags bulged with jerked venison when he rode on.

Everywhere Fargo stopped, it was the same. At every saloon and every establishment that sold dry goods and victuals, he stopped and asked about Gideon Zared. Everywhere it was the same: No one recollected seeing Gideon’s party.

In due course Fargo was deep in the Salmon River Mountains. Here and there gold camps had sprung up. Most were lucky to boast a hundred inhabitants, whose dwellings consisted largely of tents and leantos. At each camp he made the rounds of places where Gideon Zared might have stopped. At each one he was given the same answer.

Beyond the Salmon River Mountains, to the north, were the Clearwater Mountains. The Bitterroot Range bordered both to the east. Thousands of square miles, much of it unexplored, and Gideon Zared somewhere in that vast maze. To say it was like looking for a needle in a haystack was an understatement.

Then, one evening, as Fargo was resting by his campfire after a long day in the saddle, it occurred to him that, with his fiancée along, Gideon would probably take the easiest route. From Fort Hall to Fort Boise would be Fargo’s guess, and from there, north to Lewiston.

From Lewiston, Gideon either went on north into the remote Coeur d’Alene Mountains, or east to Kellogg and then into the distant Bitterroots.

Fargo tried to think like the younger Zared. The Bitterroots were a lot farther than the Coeur d’Alenes, and closer to Blackfoot territory. To a young man with a woman to look after, the Coeur d’Alenes were a much safer proposition.

Day blended into day, night into night. Fargo came to a stream that had no name, and a small gold camp. A dozen tents and one dugout were clustered near where the prospectors panned and dredged. Across the side of the largest of the tents, in crude letters, was SALOON. Only two people were inside. Everyone else was off panning or at their digs.

The proprietor was an older gent with gray hair. He brought over a bottle and a glass and filled the glass to the brim. “Anything else, mister?”

“Leave the bottle.” Fargo had no intention of getting drunk but one glass would not suffice. He paid, and as the proprietor turned to go, he said, “I don’t suppose you saw any sign of two young men and a woman about three months ago?”

The man snickered. “How in hell am I supposed to remember that far back? Hell, I can barely recollect what I had for breakfast yesterday.” Chortling, he took a couple of steps, and stopped. “Although—”

“Females are as scarce as hen’s teeth in these parts. Married men won’t bring their wives for fear of the savages. So it’s an event when a filly shows up.”

“There was this girl,” the proprietor said. “A pretty snip of a thing, as friendly as could be. I think two young fellas were with her.”

“I was interested in her, not them. She wanted milk and was sad when I didn’t have any. But what could I do? Cows are even scarcer than females.”

The man nodded. “Could have been. It could also have been Martha Washington or the Queen of Sheba for all I know. I told you I don’t recollect what it was.”

The man’s brow puckered and he gnawed on his lower lip. “It’s been so long. But I seem to recall as how they wanted to know how far it was to Canada.”

The man nodded. “Yep. That’s what it was. I remember more now. When they came in, I was plumb flabbergasted. Women are scarce enough, but to have one walk into a saloon”—he smiled at the memory—“and such a cute little filly. Anyway, all they wanted was something to eat, and when I brought it, the girl asked if I knew how long it would take them to get to Canada.”

“I asked what in the world they wanted to go to Canada for, and one of the boys nudged her. Then she smiled real sweetly and told me she was just curious, is all.” The man looked at him. “Anything else, stranger?”

“No, thanks.” Fargo sat back and took a sip of whiskey. As it burned a pleasant path to his stomach, he tried to reason out how Canada figured into the situation. Why look for gold north of the border when there was plenty to be found south of it? It made no sense.

Suddenly Fargo was aware that the other customer had risen and come over beside him. Shifting in his chair, he placed his right hand on his Colt.

“No need for that, friend,” said a middle-aged man in a derby. He had watery eyes and a red nose and a nervous tic to his mouth. “I couldn’t help but overhear about the girl and her friends.”

“Well, I talked to them for a bit. My name is Harvey Wilcox. I’m a whiskey drummer. I sell it to the saloons in all the gold camps.” Wilcox nodded at an empty chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Wilcox removed his derby and set it on the table. “Thank you. I don’t suppose you could treat me to a drink? I lost all my money in a poker game last night.”

“I sold the last I had with me to Dempsey there,” Wilcox said with a nod at the proprietor, “and the mangy buzzard won’t let me have any on credit.”

“Oh, no, sir, I would never do a thing like that,” Wilcox assured him. “I can prove it, too. My memory is better than Dempsey’s. Her name was Tabor.”

“I happened to be here on my last trip up, and when they came in, it was about the middle of day. Like now, there weren’t many at the tables. After they ate, the three of them came over and she asked me the same thing they had asked old Dempsey. How far is it to Canada? I told them I wasn’t sure but I reckoned they could make it to the border in three weeks or thereabouts.”

“They didn’t say,” Wilcox answered, “but I can tell you one more thing for certain sure.” He paused. “They were scared, those three—powerful scared.”

“They didn’t say but I could tell. A drummer has to learn to read people if he’s to make a sale, and I read them as scared out of their wits. It was little things, like how they kept glancing at the tent flap, and how whenever they heard someone ride by, the boys would put their hands on their rifles.”

“Not to me, no. But after they asked about Canada, they went back to their table and whispered among themselves. I couldn’t hear much but I overheard enough to know that they were arguing over where they should go from here. That one boy, Gideon, was all for pushing for Canada. But the girl and the other boy weren’t so sure. The girl mentioned New York a couple of times.”

“There’s more,” Wilcox said. “One thing I did hear clear as could be was when the Gideon boy told the others that they were as good as dead if they were caught. His exact words.”

“It’s all right,” Fargo came to the drummer’s defense. “He’s earned it.” He filled Wilcox’s glass himself, and mentioned, “Gideon’s father has hired me to find them.”

The drummer nodded. “Two days ago another man came through. Tough-looking bastard, with a patch over his nose. Never gave his name. I was outside when he rode up, and I was the first person he asked. He never even dismounted. I told him what I knew, and off he went, riding hell for leather.”

Fargo had assumed that he had outdistanced the others but he was wrong. No-Nose Smith was now ahead of him, and that much closer to finding the younger Zared and his companions.

“If you ask me, they had no business being in these mountains. It was as plain as that red bandanna of yours that they are city folk, and city folk don’t last long out here.”

“True. Very true. But I know my limits. I stick to the main trails when I make my rounds of the camps, and I always ride with others for protection.” Wilcox smiled. “I hope for their sake you find them before they get themselves killed.”

Since the sun would set in less than half an hour, Fargo decided to push on early in the morning. He shared half of the bottle with the drummer and, when he was ready to leave, slid what was left toward him. “The rest is yours.”

“Don’t overdo it.” Fargo exited the tent and forked leather. He followed the stream past the claims and into the next expanse of verdant forest. Twilight had descended when he stripped the Ovaro and bedded down for the night.

As he lay propped on his saddle, listening to the crackle of the fire, Fargo racked his brain for an explanation as to what Gideon Zared and the other two were up to. If they really were making for Canada, they were biting off more than they could chew. To survive in the country north of Lewiston was a challenge for seasoned frontiersmen. For greenhorns it was certain death.

The warmth, the crackling, and the peaceful night combined to lull Fargo into dozing. He drifted on a tide of chaotic dreams for he knew not how long. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was fully awake and not sure why. The answer came when the Ovaro whinnied. Easing onto his side, he saw the pinto standing with its ears pricked, staring intently into the forest to the north.

It could be anything: another grizzly, a black bear, a mountain lion, wolves, coyotes, even two-legged predators. Indians, though, rarely roved abroad at night. It was white men who were fond of striking from ambush in the cover of darkness.

The Ovaro continued to stare. Fargo waited for some sign—a grunt or a snarl or a cough, anything. He laid his hand on the Henry, which he always kept beside him when he slept.

Finally, a sound. But it was not the kind Fargo expected. It was the muted ratchet of a rifle lever being slowly worked so as to feed a round into the rifle’s chamber. Instantly, Fargo flung himself backward and rolled toward cover.

A rifle cracked, once, twice, three times. Fargo heard the slugs thud into the ground. He had his blanket to thank. It had clung to his shoulders and was flapping as he rolled, confusing the bushwhacker’s aim.

Twisting, Fargo scanned the clearing. All he saw was the Ovaro. He turned to crawl to the west when a thought jarred him to his marrow. The Ovaro! He could not say why, but he had a vivid and certain conviction that the bushwhacker might decide to shoot the pinto.

Fargo tried telling himself that was silly. Indians never shot horses; they would much rather steal them. A white man might shoot one, but only if he did not have a horse of his own. Or, Fargo thought, if he had reason to want to strand someone afoot.

Fargo’s body seemed to move of its own volition. He was up and barreling through the brush, bearing east, not west. Then he abruptly cut toward the clearing near where the Ovaro stood. He broke from cover on the fly and was at the stallion in a twinkling.

A sharp tug, and the picket pin was out and Fargo was swinging onto the Ovaro’s broad bare back. He slapped his heels against its sides and the pinto bolted toward the woods. Simultaneously, lead sizzled the air above Fargo’s head.

The bushwhacker had time to get off only one shot before the Ovaro plunged in among the trees. Fargo quickly reined to the left in a wide loop that would bring him up on his attacker from the east. He was not foolish enough to ride into a blazing muzzle, so when he had gone halfway around the clearing, he reined the Ovaro to a stop.

Before Fargo could alight, hoofbeats resounded. The bushwhacker was lighting a shuck. Fargo started to give chase but reined the Ovaro up. It was too risky to go after the man at night. The killer might stop and wait for him to blunder into a hail of lead.

Fargo reined into the clearing. This made twice now someone had tried to ambush him out of the darkness—someone who had trailed him all the way from Fort Hall. Who wanted him dead that badly? He pondered that question until midnight but could not answer it. One thing was for sure, though: Whoever it was, he was bound to try again.

The fire had burned low but was not quite out. Fargo did not rekindle it. He gathered up his saddle, blankets, and bedroll and moved everything into the trees. He spread out his blankets, picketed the pinto, and prepared to catch some sleep.

Slumber proved elusive. The attempt on his life had Fargo’s mind racing faster than the pinto. He tossed and turned until almost three a.m. and was up shortly past five. He chose to forgo his usual coffee. Saddling up, he roved through the woods to the north and, after a while, found what he was looking for: hoofprints. He was not surprised to find the horse had been shod.

Fargo followed the tracks and soon established the killer was heading northwest, toward Lewiston. He also established that the rider had not stopped for the night but had ridden the whole night through, and by now was miles and hours ahead.

Lewiston was days away. Fargo was content to stick to the tracks until he reached it, but the second day after the attempt on his life, as he was winding up a switchback, he came to a spot where the bushwhacker had stopped. Fargo figured it was to rest his mount, but the man had inexplicably broken into a gallop until he came to the crest, and from there headed east at a trot.

To Fargo it was strange behavior. He had assumed the man was heading for Lewiston. Presently the trees thinned, and the forest gave way to terrain so rocky, the killer’s horse left few prints.

Suddenly Fargo understood. The man had not stopped on the switchback to rest his horse. No, the killer had stopped to check his back trail, possibly with a spy glass, and had discovered he was being pursued. Now the killer was trying to lose him.

Drawing rein, Fargo leaned on his saddle horn. Tracking the bushwhacker now might take days, time he could not afford to waste. As much as it galled him, he had to let the man go.

On to Lewiston. Since the killer was now behind him, Fargo made it a point to repeatedly check his back trail. He did not see anyone or hear anything but he had a feeling he was being followed, a feeling that grew stronger as the day wore on.

Fargo made a cold camp next to a small spring and hid the Ovaro in a thicket. Pemmican sufficed for his supper. On edge from the previous attempt on his life, he did not fall asleep until well after midnight. He tossed and turned a lot.

Dawn found him traveling. By midmorning he reached a pass that would take him into the next valley. That high up, he could see for miles. He couldn’t miss spotting gray tendrils of smoke to the southeast.

Fargo moved behind a fir and steadied the Henry’s barrel against the trunk. The hoofbeats grew louder. There were more than there should have been if it was only one rider.

More minutes went by, and Fargo’s patience was rewarded. Into view, riding in single file, climbed three men dressed alike, in black hats, black jackets, black pants, black boots: three of Benjamin Zared’s bodyguards, the last leading a packhorse.