The Trailsman (Giant): Idaho Blood Spoor

Otto Pierce was a killer many times over. The number of those he had shot, stabbed, strangled or beaten to death was reputed to be anywhere from twenty to two hundred. Granted, saloon gossips had a tendency to embellish. Tall tales were their stock in trade. But there was no denying that whatever the tally, Otto Pierce shed blood as casually as other men shed their clothes.

Fargo knew of one incident, sworn to be true by the muleskinner who witnessed it, where Pierce slit a man’s throat after the man inadvertently blew cigar smoke in Pierce’s face.

So it was all the more startling when Pierce smashed the butt of a pistol across Billy Bob Pickett’s head instead of blowing Billy Bob’s brains out. The Southerner folded like wet paper.

Ironically, Red Moon asked the question uppermost on Fargo’s mind, and no doubt the minds of many others: “Why did you spare him?”

“The trouble with you,” Otto Pierce said, “is that you never listen. Clean the wax out of your ears sometime.”

“I heard him insult you. I heard him insult me. What more did I need to hear?” Red Moon challenged. “Sometimes you make no sense.”

Pierce laughed and twirled his pistol into his holster. “I make enough sense that you have stuck with me going on seven years now.”

Contrary to popular belief, Red Moon had a sense of humor. He smiled and said, “I stick with you because you don’t mind when I kill other whites.” He stared at the figure on the ground. “Or at least you never did until now.”

“Come with me.” Pierce strode to the flap. “We have some palavering to do.”

A collective sigh of relief filled the saloon. Several men gathered around Billy Bob and rolled him over.

Fargo went to the flap and peered out. Pierce and Red Moon were walking down the rutted track that passed for Wilbur Creek’s main street. They were having an animated talk. He closed the flap.

“Whoever he is, he was born under a lucky star,” commented another. “I never thought I’d see the day when Otto Pierce spared a living soul.”

By then Fargo was on one knee, running a hand over the back of Billy Bob’s head. There was a nasty bump and a little blood but the Southerner would be fine once his head stopped hurting. “Fetch some water.”

Fred brought a glass filled to the brim. “Is he a friend of yours, mister? You ought to learn him better than to stick his head in the mouths of grizzly bears.”

Fargo held the glass over Billy Bob’s face and upended it. Almost immediately Billy Bob coughed and sputtered and his eyes blinked open. He gaped in confusion. Then, as his memory returned, he abruptly sat up, and groaned.

“Death on a holiday,” Fred said. “Count your blessings it’s only your head.”

“Did that make no kind of sense or is it me?” Billy Bob squinted at Fargo. “You! I came in to find out what was takin’ you so long, and some fella called me an idiot.”

“You are.” Fargo helped him to stand. “Can you manage or should we wait a while?”

Shrugging off Fargo’s hand, Billy Bob declared, “I can manage!” He took a step, and would have pitched forward had Fargo not caught him. “Then again, maybe I’d best rest. I feel woozy.”

“It comes from having curdled brains, boy,” Fred said. “But if you can count your toes, no real harm done.”

Billy Bob scowled and asked, “Who is this jasper and why is he babblin’ like a lunatic?”

Fargo had something more important to ask. “I told you to stay with your sister. Where did you leave her?”

“With the horses. Where else?” Billy Bob said defensively. “She can take care of herself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Fred took the words right off the tip of Fargo’s tongue. “Sonny, I hope to heaven your sister takes better care of herself than you do of you. That performance of yours was downright pitiful.”

A husky prospector warned, “You’ll do no such thing, boy. This here is the only saloon in camp, and Fred runs it. Shoot him, and the rest of us will treat you to a strangulation jig from the nearest cotton-wood.”

Fargo went to the flap. Otto Pierce and Red Moon were nowhere to be seen. “Come on.” He beckoned, and did not wait to see if Billy Bob followed. He went left and only had to go a short distance when he saw the string, and the shapely figure leaning against a packhorse with her arms folded.

“What kind of damn fool question is that? Of course I do. We might have a spat now and then but she’s my sister. Where we come from, blood kin counts for more than anything else in the world.”

Billy Bob surveyed the dirt street and the motley assortment of tents and other temporary structures. “I don’t see any at the moment but there have to be a few here somewhere.”

“What?” Billy Bob started. “You’re joshin’. Why, if she was the only female in these parts—” He stopped. “Oh, my God. The only female? Why, there are hundreds of men here, and they probably haven’t been with a woman in—” Again he stopped. “Damn me to hell. My thinker sure is puny sometimes.”

Silky Mae came to meet them. She was so intent on them that she did not notice that every man she passed gazed at her as a hungry wolf might gaze on a helpless fawn.

Billy Bob swore. “Look at them! Why, I’d shoot the whole lot if I had enough bullets.”

“Where have you two been?” Silky Mae asked. “I was gettin’ worried.” She glanced around. “And the looks some of these jaspers give me! Why, you would think I was a Saint Louis dove dressed in satin instead of a country gal in homespun.”

“What on earth are you on about now? Why would you want to do that?” Silky Mae asked.

“What purpose brothers serve is beyond me. I swear, Billy, the older you get, the less sense you make.”

Fargo was on the toes of his boots, craning his neck for sign of Otto Pierce and Red Moon. Instead, he spotted a pair of riders, entering the gold camp from the north. Both wore black from head to toe. “What do you make of them?”

“I wonder what they’re doing here?” Silky Mae said. “Didn’t Walker tell us that the rest of the bodyguards were with Mr. Zared in Kellogg?”

The men in black drew rein a hundred yards away and were about to climb down when a broad-shouldered bull in a flat-crowned hat and a half-breed with a wide leather band around his hair came out of a tent and greeted them.

Fargo grabbed the siblings by their arms and pulled them between two tents. “It’s best those bodyguards don’t spot us.”

“Why is that?” Silky Mae’s confusion was growing. “One of you had better start talking, and right quick.”

Never taking his eyes off Otto Pierce and Red Moon, Fargo explained who they were and related some of the more vile deeds attributed to them.

“But what would Mr. Zared’s bodyguards be doing with men like that?” Silky Mae scratched her head. “It makes no sense.”

Pierce and one of the bodyguards were having a long conversation. It ended with Red Moon going down the street and returning with two horses. Pierce and Red Moon climbed on and the quartet headed west, out of Wilbur Camp.

Fargo stepped from between the tents. “You two go on to Kellogg with the string. I’ll catch up as soon as I can.”

“Like hell,” Billy Bob said. “I owe that big one for the wallop he gave me. I’m comin’ with you.”

Fargo did not have time to argue. “Your brother is going to Kellogg and so are you.” He focused on Silky Mae since she was the more levelheaded. “Those men might give us a clue to where Gideon Zared is. Alone, I have a better chance of shadowing them without being seen.”

Billy Bob shook his head. “You’re not leavin’ me here no matter what you say.”

“If Tabor Garnet is still alive,” Fargo said to Silky Mae, “it could be that Otto Pierce has her.”

“A man like that?” Silky Mae pursed her lips. “I savvy. Very well. My brother and me will go on to Kellogg like you want.”

Billy Bob was his usual pigheaded self. “I’ll do no such thing, sis. You didn’t see what that coyote did to me.”

Placing a hand on his, Silky Mae said softly, “Please.” When Billy Bob growled like a kicked dog, she said it again, even more softly. “Please, brother. Fargo is right in this.”

Trusting in her to keep him there, Fargo ran to the Ovaro. The trail up into the mountains saw steady use thanks to the gold seekers. No one had made a really big strike up there yet, but greed sprang eternal.

Fargo came to the first bend and dismounted. Poking his head past a tree, he verified Pierce and Red Moon and the men in black were up ahead. When Red Moon started to twist in the saddle, he ducked back. The rest of the afternoon, Fargo let them get far enough ahead that he need not worry about Red Moon spotting him. Their tracks were plain enough: three shod and one unshod.

Half an hour before sunset, Fargo realized their tracks were no longer there. “Damn,” he said, and drew rein. They had turned off somewhere and he had missed it. Reining around, he noticed a dry wash he had not paid much attention to. Sure enough, their tracks led into it.

The wash led steeply upward. Its bottom was littered with loose dirt and stones, and Fargo had to exercise caution that the Ovaro’s hooves did not dislodge a lot of it and give him away. He climbed so slowly that it was full dark when he beheld flickering flames a quarter of a mile above. Pierce and the bodyguards had stopped for the night.

Fargo rode up out of the wash and found a suitable spot. Swinging down, he wrapped the reins around a branch. He removed his spurs, stuck them in a saddle-bag, shucked the Henry, and headed higher on foot, thankful for the gusty wind that had sprung up with the setting of the sun. The clearing they had picked was sheltered on three sides by thickets. Fargo crawled within earshot and parted the brush.

Otto Pierce and the men in black were chewing jerky and drinking coffee. Red Moon was not there, although his horse was.

Unease crept over Fargo. The half-breed was the wariest, a panther in human guise. Fargo kept waiting, in vain, for him to reappear. Nor were Pierce or the bodyguards saying much.

The bodyguards interested him. Zared had close to two dozen in his employ. Fargo did not know the names of these two but he vaguely recollected seeing them before. He thought it important he remember exactly where but he couldn’t.

Then the taller of the two raised his head and said, “If anything happens to us, the deal is off.”

Otto Pierce grinned over his coffee cup. “Why, Jansen, what makes you say a thing like that? Can it be you don’t trust me?”

“What I think doesn’t matter,” Jansen said. “I’m only following orders. Were it up to me, I would not have any dealings with you whatsoever. You are a scoundrel, Mr. Pierce, and that is putting it mildly.”

Pierce was a while answering. When he did, his eyes were glittering spikes of simmering violence. “I’ve been called a lot of things. Bastard. Son of a bitch. Outlaw. Killer. A preacher I shot called me a misanthrope, whatever the hell that means. Scoundrel is new. It’s a polite Eastern way of calling a man scum without really calling him scum.”

“That’s all right,” Pierce said with a dismissive wave. “I should shoot you but I won’t. It would make your boss mad, and I can’t afford to do that until I have the money I’m owed.” He chuckled at something, then said, “This makes twice today I’ve had to keep my gun in its holster.”

“You will have the ten thousand dollars once the rest of the details have been agreed upon,” Jansen said.

“What is left to work out?” Pierce asked. “I have the merchandise. I have been true to my word, and I expect your boss to be true, too.”

“Never fear in that regard. But I need to see them with my own eyes. Once I report back, you will get your money.”

“I hope so,” Otto Pierce said. “I hope your boss doesn’t decide to double-deal me. I’ll put up with a lot, but not that. Never that. Double-deal me and not one of you will make it back across the Mississippi River.”

“Unlike you Easterners,” Pierce responded, “I always say what I mean and mean what I say. Ask anyone. I might kill and steal and treat myself to ladies whether they want me to treat myself to them or not, but I am always as good as my word.”

Jansen shrugged. “That’s something, I suppose. But again. What I do is not up to me. It’s up to the person who pays me.”

“What sort of question is that? My job is to save lives. I would only kill if I had to, and so far I have been spared from having to.”

Fargo lingered, hoping to learn more, but Pierce stayed silent. All the bodyguards did was exchange a few words about the weather and how hard the riding was on their back sides.

Red Moon’s continued absence was disturbing. Fargo could not explain it. Then it hit him that Pierce might have sent the half-breed down the trail to see if they were being followed, in which case Red Moon might find the Ovaro.

As silently as he had crawled up to the clearing, Fargo now backed away from it. Once he was far enough, he rose and cat-footed along the rim of the wash until he came to where he had left the pinto. He did not go right over to it but stood looking and listening until he was convinced it was safe.

Unwrapping the reins, Fargo slid the Henry into the scabbard and started to lead the Ovaro deeper into the trees, saying, “Come on, boy.”

The sudden touch of metal to the side of his neck froze Fargo in his tracks. He did not look around. Any movement, however slight, could prove fatal.

“Do not move unless I say so. If you do, I will kill you. Do not speak unless I say so. If you do, I will kill you.” Red Moon stepped back. “Lift your arms out from your sides.”

Fargo did, and felt his Colt snatched from its holster. A hand patted his buckskin shirt, searching for other weapons. It patted around his waist and under his right arm and then under his left arm. It patted down his leg but did not pat the top of his right boot.

“You will walk ahead of me up the wash. If you stop, I will shoot. If you run, I will shoot. If you try to jump on your horse, I will shoot you and the horse.”

Anger boiled up in Fargo, not at the renegade, but at himself. Like a rank amateur, he had let Red Moon slip up on him. He told himself it could have happened to anyone, but he was not just anyone.

“How are you known?” Red Moon asked. He was to Fargo’s right and a step or two behind.

“Why do I know that name? I have heard it somewhere.” Red Moon might as well have been a ghost for all the noise he made walking. “Do you have an Indian name?”

“I was known by that name once, yes,” Fargo admitted. In his travels, he had stayed with various tribes at one time or another, and each had given him a name they felt fit him.

“You scout for the blue coats.” It was a statement, not a query. “You are the one who rubbed out Blue Raven. You are the one who killed High-Backed Bear.”

“They were renegades, and they were trying to kill me at the time,” Fargo mentioned, and received a sharp jab in the ribs from Red Moon’s rifle.

Fargo took a calculated gamble. “If you are going to shoot me, do it. But don’t treat me like you would a woman.”

“I have heard you are brave,” Red Moon said. “I have also heard you always speak with a straight tongue. But that I do not believe. Every white dog I have met speaks with two tongues.”

“Pierce is my blood brother. He is the one white man who does not look at me with hate in his eyes because I am half and half.”

“Not all whites hate half-breeds—” Fargo began, and received a harder jab than the first one.

“It is not wise to remind me of their hatred. When I think of it, I lose my head. I want to kill, and kill some more.”

Fargo gauged the distance between them. He could spin and spring but Red Moon would get off a shot before he could reach him. He had to wait and see how things played out.

Otto Pierce and the bodyguards heard them, and rose. A pistol appeared in Pierce’s hand as if out of empty air, and he said, “Well, now, what do we have here? So there was someone on our back trail. Good work, Red Moon.”

“He is a hunter of men,” the half-breed said. “I think he hunts us for the blue coats.”

“Bring him into the light so I can have a look at him before I bed him down with the worms.”

Jansen and the other bodyguard showed only mild interest until Fargo came close to the fire. Then Jansen blinked and exclaimed, “I know him! He’s one of the scouts Benjamin Zared hired. His name is Fargo.”

Otto Pierce’s thick eyebrows pinched together. “You don’t say. That brat down in the gold camp was also hired by Zared. What was that boy’s handle again?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Pierce remarked, and switched his gaze to the bodyguards. “How is it Fargo followed you up here?”

“What are you talking about?” Jansen rejoined. “This is the first I’ve seen him since he left Fort Hall.”

“He sure wasn’t trailing Red Moon and me,” Pierce said. He wagged his six-shooter at Fargo. “Have a seat while I work this out in my head. Nice and slow, if you please. Red Moon, if he so much as twitches, put lead in him. Cripple, don’t kill. He has some talking to do.”

“Go all the way back to Kellogg? That would take days. I want this over with so I can get the money we’re owed.” Pierce holstered his pistol but kept his hand on the butt.

“I can count as good as most. Even if you ride your horses into the ground, it’s three days there and three days back. That’s the better part of a week.”

“It wouldn’t—” Jansen started to repeat himself, but stopped when the other bodyguard nudged him. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

“Something is wrong here,” Otto Pierce said to Red Moon. Planting himself in front of Fargo, he tapped his fingers on his Colt. “Make this easy on yourself. How much do you know?”

Fargo had no reason to keep silent. “You and your men were seen chasing Gideon Zared.”

“Now why would they be keeping an eyes on us?” Pierce wondered. “And how is it they let you know?”

Jansen was a few apples short of a bushel. “What difference does it make? From what I’ve heard, the Nez Percé are friendly. So what if they saw you?”

“If the Nez Percé told him,” Otto Pierce said, wagging a thumb at Fargo, “who else have they told? Some have turned Christian. What if they tell a minister or some other leaky mouth, and word gets back to Benjamin Zared? He could bring in the army to hunt me and my men.”

Otto Pierce drew his butcher knife from its sheath and held the blade close to Fargo’s face. “Mister, start wagging your tongue or lose it.”