The Trailsman (Giant): Idaho Blood Spoor

The horses were on the other side of the campfires. One fire had been allowed to burn low but wood was added to the other from time to time, and it cast a yellow glow in a large circle. Apparently it would be kept burning all night.

As near as Fargo could tell, everyone except the two men on guard were asleep. Many were snoring. Others were buried under their blankets. Otto Pierce was on his back with his blanket pulled to his chin and his hands folded on his chest. His hat was over his eyes, and his chest slowly rose and fell.

Red Moon, even in sleep, was at Pierce’s elbow. The half-breed did not use a saddle for a pillow, or even a blanket. He lay on his side on the ground, his head resting on his left arm. He had removed his leather band and his long hair hung across his face.

At the moment, one of the guards was warming his hands at the fire. The other had his back to the lean-to.

The time had come. Fargo rose into a crouch and whispered, “Stay close and don’t make any noise.” He crept from the lean-to and sidled to the left, never once taking his gaze off the guards, and slipped around the end of the lean-to. From there the forest was only a dozen strides away. He led the Easterners in a wide loop, staying clear of the circle of firelight.

None of the sleepers stirred. The guard with his back to the lean-to stretched and seemed to be admiring the stars.

Fargo was as silent as a wraith but he could not say the same about those he was trying to save. Gideon tried hard, but if there was a twig to be stepped on, he stepped on it. Asa had a knack for rustling the brush. Only Tabor moved quietly enough to earn his respect.

They were halfway around the clearing when Gideon snatched at Fargo’s sleeve and pointed. The one outlaw had turned and was strolling toward the lean-to, his rifle in the crook of an elbow.

The guard stopped a pebble’s toss from the lean-to. He gazed at it, but the opening was too dark for anyone to see inside unless they were right in front of it. Instead of entering, he drifted to his right, making a circuit of the clearing.

Fargo came to the string. Most of the horses were dozing. The Ovaro was tied at the middle of the string, and he saw that no one had seen fit to strip the saddle. Hoping against hope, he checked the scabbard but the Henry was not there. Undoing the reins from the picket rope, he turned, and realized none of the others had picked a horse. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Mount up!”

All three gave him blank looks, and Tabor whispered, “You want us to ride one of these?” She sounded greatly surprised.

“Unless you can flap your arms and fly.” Fargo put a hand on the saddle horn and raised his leg to the stirrup.

“We have never ridden bareback,” Gideon confirmed. “We wouldn’t want to fall off in the dark and break our necks.”

Fargo reminded himself that Easterners did not rely on horses to get around as much as people who lived west of the Mississippi. Rich Easterners rode even less; they were shuttled everywhere in carriages, surreys, and buggies. “Clamp your legs tight and hold on to the mane. You’ll do fine.”

“I’m not so sure about this,” Tabor whispered skeptically, but she was the first to chose a horse and lead it from the string.

Fargo glanced toward the fire. The one guard was still warming his hands and the other was halfway across the clearing. Fargo forked leather, and as he did, his gut balled into a knot. Red Moon was on his feet, staring in their direction.

Gideon and Asa were gazing uncertainly at the bareback animals. Then Gideon shrugged, said, “What the hell?” and chose a claybank.

A war whoop rent the night. It brought all the outlaws to their feet with their revolvers drawn or rifles in their hands.

Fargo and Tabor and Gideon were ready to ride but Asa could not get the bay he had chosen to stand still long enough for him to mount.

A gun boomed. Fargo braced for more but Otto Pierce roared, “No more shooting, you lunkheads! We need them alive or we don’t get the money!”

“Damn.” Fargo reined over to Asa Chaviv, hooked an arm under Chaviv’s, and swung him onto the bay, all in one smooth motion. “There! Now light a shuck!”

Shifting in the saddle, Fargo saw that Asa had fallen a bit behind. “Keep up with us!” he shouted. He did not want to lose any of them in the dark.

A grassy slope marked the end of the tableland. Confident in his horsemanship, and in the Ovaro, Fargo galloped down it. But the others were not as sure of themselves, and when he came to the bottom and looked up, they were descending much too slowly. “Hurry!”

To the west, artificial thunder rumbled. That would be Pierce’s gang, out to recapture them at all costs.

Gideon came to the bottom first, and drew rein. Tabor was next. Asa Chaviv followed last. “Whew! That scared me half to death!”

If he thought that was scary, Fargo grimly reflected, he had not seen anything yet. “Keep going!” he shouted, and spurred the Ovaro into the trees. A deeper darkness enveloped them. They could not see more than ten feet ahead, and what they did see were vague shapes and indigo shadows.

Fargo had ridden in the forest at night before, many times, although not always by choice. It was experience that now stood him in good stead as he reined around a pine, vaulted a log, and ducked under a low limb.

Gideon was cursing. Tabor cried out. But they stayed on their horses, and kept up with him. Asa was farther back.

Fargo counted on the woods to slow down the outlaws. Not a lot, but he and the others should be able to stay ahead until daylight. Then he would ride like hell for the gold camp. He needed a rifle and a pistol. Once he was armed, let Otto Pierce and company come.

Another tree loomed, and Fargo expertly skirted it. The others were struggling to maintain his pace. Occasional shouts from their pursuers goaded them on.

Each minute was an eternity. Fargo could not say how many eternities had gone by when Tabor Garnet screamed his name. She had reined up, and Gideon was quick to do the same, leaving Fargo no choice but to rein around and race back to investigate. “Why did you stop?” he demanded, none too pleasantly.

Chaviv’s horse had halted. That was because Chaviv was no longer on it. Fargo flew to the spot and rose in the stirrups. A few yards away something was thrashing madly about in a thimbleberry thicket. Swinging down, Fargo ran to Chaviv and tried to grip him by the shoulders to hold him still but it was like trying to hold a bucking bronco.

Asa’s hands were to his throat and he was gurgling and sputtering and gasping. Suddenly he reached up and grabbed Fargo’s buckskin shirt. He went to say something but all that came out was a strangled whine. Asa arched his back, convulsed, and was still.

Fargo bent lower, and only then saw Chaviv’s throat. It looked as if it had been smashed by a hammer. Glancing up, he saw a low limb a few yards from where Chaviv lay.

Gideon and Tabor had dismounted. They came running up, and Gideon anxiously asked, “What’s wrong with him? Why is he lying there like that?”

Fargo pointed at the limb. In his mind’s eye he imagined Chaviv galloping at full speed to keep up with them, and in the dark not seeing the limb until it was too late to duck. It was just Chaviv’s luck that the limb caught him full across the throat.

Gideon knelt and shook Asa. “Please, no. He’s my best friend. He can’t be dead. He just can’t.” He bent and placed an ear to Chaviv’s chest, then lifted a limp wrist and felt for a pulse. “I can’t feel it beating.” He was on the verge of tears.

“We must keep going,” Fargo said, rising. He listened but did not hear sounds of pursuit. Could it be Pierce had lost them? Or was Pierce being smart and taking his time to conserve his horses?

“How can you suggest such a thing?” Tabor asked. “We’re not going anywhere until we bury poor Asa.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting we leave Asa lying there?” Gideon said, appalled. “That would be uncivilized.”

Fargo wondered where Gideon thought he was. “Every minute we waste is a minute closer Pierce and his men are to catching us.”

“Then don’t let his death be for nothing, which is what it will be if Pierce gets his hands on you again.”

That did it. Gideon tossed his head as if rousing from a horrific dream, and turned to Tabor. “Fargo is right. We must push on. Otto Pierce won’t rest until he has us. We’re worth too much to him.”

“But to leave Asa there,” Tabor said sorrowfully, tears trickling down her cheeks. “It’s barbaric.”

“We have to, dearest.” Gideon hugged her. “Please. I don’t want to lose you, too, and if Pierce turns us over to my father, that is exactly what will happen.” He kissed her forehead. “For me. Before it is too late.”

Tabor let him guide her toward her horse. She moved woodenly, unable to take her eyes off Asa Chaviv. Gideon boosted her up, and she sat there weeping profusely.

Fargo swung astride the Ovaro and brought the stallion alongside her dun. “Shed your tears later.”

“The kind who wants to keep you alive.” Fargo started off and looked back to make sure she followed. She did, but she was still crying and not watching where she was going.

Gideon reined his mount into step beside hers. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” he assured Fargo. “Don’t worry about us.”

An hour went by—an hour of weeping and sniffling and then more weeping and more sniffling. Gideon sought to console her but Tabor cried until she had no more tears to shed.

Listening for the beat of hooves was futile until Tabor finally stopped. Fargo strained his ears but heard nothing to indicate the outlaws were anywhere near. He should have been elated, but their good fortune was too good to be true. A man like Otto Pierce did not give up easily, not with one hundred thousand dollars at stake.

Another hour dragged past, the benighted woodland rife with menace. Once, at a faint sound to the south, Fargo placed his right hand on his holster, where his Colt should have been, and frowned. The sound was not repeated, nor did he hear anything else of consequence until the eastern sky began to brighten and somewhere a bird stirred and warbled.

Fargo supposed it couldn’t hurt. He came to a stop in a small glade. “Fifteen minutes is all we can spare.”

Gideon climbed down and helped Tabor to dismount. She sagged against him, as much from grief as from fatigue. He assisted her to a log and they sat arm in arm, her head on his shoulder.

Fargo scanned the forest before sliding off. He was tired and sore, and it felt good to stretch his legs. He roved the edge of the glade, and became aware that Gideon Zared was staring at him. “Have something on your mind?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Fargo said, shading it ten points in their favor, “provided we reach the gold camp before they catch us.”

“I can’t stop thinking about Asa. He was the best friend anyone ever had. He came all this way with us out of the goodness of his heart. Now he’s gone, and it’s all my fault.”

“But Asa would not have been here if not for me. Oregon and Canada were my ideas. I dragged him clear across the country to die a needless horrible death in the middle of nowhere.”

Tabor raised her head from his shoulder. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again. I’m as much at fault as you are. I couldn’t wait to be married. I couldn’t wait to start a family and a new life.”

“If my father only knew,” Gideon said bitterly. “All he’s gone through to stop us from being husband and wife, and he’s too late.”

Fargo doubted it would. Benjamin Zared was accustomed to having his way. Zared would not let a little thing like marriage keep him from tearing Gideon and Tabor apart.

“The happiest moment of my life,” Gideon was saying, “and look at all the misery it has bought us.”

“Never in a million years,” Gideon said softly. “If I had it to do things all over again, I would do them exactly the same. I could not imagine life without you by my side.”

“The worst is behind us,” Tabor said. She looked at Fargo. “I’m sorry for how I behaved. I’m better now.” She smiled, then went as rigid as a board, her smile transformed into an expression of stark terror.

Red Moon stood a dozen paces away. In his hands was a leveled rifle—Fargo’s Henry. He did not say anything. He did not have to. His vicious smirk said it all.

Clasping Tabor to him, Gideon shot to his feet. “Damn you! Can’t you leave us alone? This isn’t fair!”

“What does fair have to do with anything, white boy?” Red Moon sneered. “Life is cruel. Then we die.” He stayed well out of reach, the Henry centered on Fargo. “You tried your best, eh?”

Tabor pulled free of Gideon, balled her fists, and walked toward Red Moon, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. “I won’t take this anymore! Do you hear me? I have had all I can stand!”

“Or else what?” Tabor railed. “You can’t kill us! If you do, you won’t collect your precious money!”

Fargo tensed. She was going to get herself shot. She was right that Pierce needed them alive, but there was nothing to stop Red Moon from putting lead into her leg or her arm.

Gideon grabbed her from behind but Tabor shook him off and stalked toward the last person in the world she should have antagonized. “I dare you to fire! Go ahead! I dare you!”

“Stupid cow,” Red Moon said. “Let’s see how much scratching you do with your kneecap blown off.”

It was the moment Fargo had been waiting for. He hadn’t really expected a savvy killer like Red Moon to take his eyes off him, but Red Moon did. Fargo sprang. He thrust one arm at the Henry.

Instantly, Red Moon pivoted, but he was a shade too slow. The Henry went off, the slug digging a furrow in the dirt.

Fargo wrapped his hand around the bone-handled hunting knife at the half-breed’s waist and streaked it from its sheath. Red Moon skipped backward so he could level the Henry but Fargo foiled him by slashing the hunting knife at Red Moon’s hands. The keen edge sliced open two knuckles. Swearing, Red Moon dropped the Henry. Almost in the same breath, Red Moon clawed for his revolver, and Fargo slashed again. This time the blade opened Red Moon’s forearm, and the revolver joined the rifle on the ground.

Furious, Red Moon bounded out of reach, drew his tomahawk, and coiled. “For cutting me, I will kill you the Blackfoot way. Your scalp will go in my saddlebags with the other white scalps I have taken.”

Fargo retreated. The tomahawk was longer than the knife, giving Red Moon greater reach. When Red Moon suddenly swung high, at his head, he stabbed low, at Red Moon’s chest. He missed a killing stroke but the blade sliced through Red Moon’s shirt and glanced off a rib.

The half-breed recoiled, but only for a split second. Voicing a feral snarl, Red Moon unleashed a whirl-wind of blows. He sought to split Fargo’s skull, but Fargo blocked the tomahawk with the blade.

Red Moon began circling. Scarlet drops fell from his knuckles, and a dark stain was spreading across his shirt. “You are the fastest white I have ever met. But that will not help you.”

Nearby lay the Henry and the revolver. Gideon could easily reach them, but Gideon and Tabor were riveted in place.

“It’s not too late to do as the girl wanted,” Fargo said, knowing full well Red Moon would never agree. He only mentioned it to distract Red Moon as he reversed his grip on the knife, which he held low against his leg.

“I expected better from you,” Red Moon said, continuing to circle. “We are not like these silly ones, you and I. We are wolves. They are sheep.”

“You are not a wolf,” Fargo said. “You are a mad dog.” On “dog,” he whipped his right arm in a throw he had practiced many times. The hunting knife flashed between them, spinning smoothly. By rights it should have imbedded itself to the hilt in Red Moon’s chest. But quick as thought Red Moon flicked the tomahawk and the hunting knife went flying.

Unarmed, Fargo had to give way. He skipped right; he skipped left. He nearly lost an eye and almost had his neck split. Suddenly he glimpsed the Henry and the revolver, almost at his feet. He dipped toward them, only to jerk back when Red Moon aimed a terrific blow at his face. Dropping flat, he scrambled for the revolver, palmed it, and rolled. Beside him came a thud. He kept rolling and heard a second thud, and a third.

Then Fargo was on his back with Red Moon rearing above him and the tomahawk rising for a killing stroke. Fargo fired as it started to descend. He fired as Red Moon staggered. He fired as Red Moon screeched like a cougar and leapt at him, and he fired as Red Moon pitched forward.

Gideon and Tabor came over to gape at the body. In a tone that implied it was an unthinkable act, Tabor said, “You killed him!”

“A lot more will die before this is over with,” Fargo predicted. The revolver was a Smith & Wesson, not a Colt. He did not have ammunition for it but he found five cartridges in Red Moon’s pocket. Reloading, he shoved the Smith & Wesson into his holster. Then he picked up the Henry and brushed dust from the brass receiver. “Otto Pierce is in for a surprise.”

Edrea Zared wore a smart riding outfit complete with short-topped boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a quirt. Strapped around her slender waist was a pearl-handled Remington.

“Sis!” Gideon happily exclaimed. “Are you a sight for sore eyes! But what in God’s name are you doing here?”

Edrea did not answer. Instead, she gestured with the quirt, and out of the trees in a skirmish line advanced seven men in black, with rifles. “You will be so kind as to drop those guns you just picked up,” she instructed Fargo, “or I will give the order to have you shot to pieces.”