In sheer reflex Fargo caught her wrist and stopped the knife a whisker’s width from his jugular. He twisted her arm to make her drop it, but instead she held fast to the hilt and tried to knee him. Sidestepping, he let go of the Henry and grabbed her other wrist. “Calm down! I am not out to hurt you!”
The Untilla woman was short, no more than five feet tall, and slight of stature, which Fargo had heard was a trait of the tribe. But she was a wildcat. Hissing, she struggled fiercely to break free.
“Damn it! Do you speak the white man’s tongue?”
Her response was to suddenly open her mouth wide and attempt to sink her teeth into his arm.
“Simmer down!”
Fargo was wasting his breath. It was plain she did not know English. Since the Utes controlled a large territory to the south of the Untilla, he tried the Ute tongue, “I am not your enemy!” But again he saw no sign that she understood.
Then a shout came from up ahead. “Skye! Where are you? I need you over here!”
Reluctantly, Fargo released the Untilla woman and she bolted like a frightened doe. Scooping up the Henry, he ran in the direction of Mabel’s voice. “Keep yelling so I can find you!”
Mabel did not respond. The woods were silent again. Fuming, Fargo bawled, “Mabel! Where the hell are you?” He kept running and casting about for some trace of her while shouting her name over and over. Just when he again thought the Untillas might have carried her off or killed her, there she was, standing stock still with her head tilted to one side. She motioned for him to stop, and put a finger to her lips.
Fargo raised the Henry but there was no one to shoot. He waited over a minute, then growled, “Damn it. What is going on?”
“I am trying to listen,” Mabel said. “I heard one of them going through the brush a bit ago.”
“What happened?”
“Those devils stole it!” Mabel exclaimed. “I was sitting there doing my hair and a hand came from behind me and snatched it from my grasp. Can you believe the gall?”
“Stole what?” Fargo said.
“My hairbrush. I yelled for you and chased them but they were too fast for me.”
“Them?” Fargo said. “How many were there? And how many were warriors?”
“None,” Mabel said. “All three were women. Not much bigger than fifteen-year-olds but they were full-grown women. I could tell.”
“We have to get out of here.”
Mabel angrily shook her head. “I am not leaving without my hairbrush. It is the only one I have with me.”
“You don’t get it,” Fargo said. “There must be a village nearby. When those women tell the others, we will have the whole tribe after us.”
“What tribe are they?”
Fargo told her what he knew about them while scouring the vegetation. The Untilla were partial to the bow and arrow, the men accounted to be skilled archers. Since he did not care to be turned into a porcupine, he plucked at Mabel’s sleeve. “Let’s go while we still can.”
“But my hairbrush!”
“It can’t do you any good if you are dead.” Fargo turned and hurried toward the clearing. He glanced back to see if she was following. She wasn’t. “Do I have to drag you or will you come of your own accord?”
“Without my hairbrush my hair will become a tangle,” Mabel objected.
“If the Untillas slit your throat, your hair will be the least of your worries.”
“Oh, all right!” Mabel snapped, and stomped a foot.
Fargo broke into a jog and she paced him.
“These Untillas. How come I have never heard of them?”
“They are a small tribe, and they keep to themselves,” Fargo answered. Even he knew little about them. Some tribes wanted nothing to do with whites, or as little as possible, and were as secretive as could be. They shunned contact. When whites strayed into their territory, the Untillas made sure the whites did not stray out. Yet another perilous aspect of life on the frontier that those who wanted to live to see the next dawn must never forget.
“I can’t get over them taking my hairbrush. What a low-down thing to do.”
“Did they try to hurt you?”
“No. They only wanted the brush. They took it and ran. That was when I shouted for you, and chased after them. But they are fast little devils—I will grant them that.”
“You were lucky you didn’t blunder into their village,” Fargo said. Some tribes tortured captives before they killed them, although he had heard nothing to suggest the Untillas were one of them.
“If I had, I would have given them a piece of my mind and demanded they give my hairbrush back.”
“You are a fool, Mabel Landry,” Fargo said.
Mabel slowed, her face mirroring shock and hurt in equal degrees. “How can you say a thing like that?”
“All you care about is your stupid brush when you should be worried for your life.”
“You fret too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough. We must light a shuck and put a lot of miles behind us before we will be safe.”
After that, neither said a word until they reached the clearing. Fargo was relieved to find the horses still there. “Mount up.”
Mabel, her arms folded across her bosom, glared at him and at the world in general. “Running scared, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. That is what you are doing.”
“Insult me all you want,” Fargo said. “I am only doing what I have to do to keep you alive.”
“You will earn no thanks from me. You don’t seem to realize how important that hairbrush is.”
If Fargo lived to be a hundred he would never fully understand women. He grinned at the thought, and forked leather. “I won’t ask you again.” The Untillas could show up at any moment.
“You did not ask. You ordered me.” Deliberately moving slowly to annoy him, Mabel climbed on her mare. “I will not forget this. I will not forgive you, either.”
Tired of her carping, Fargo responded with, “This is the reason I doubt I will ever marry.” He pricked the Ovaro with his spurs, heading south. He did not look back this time. If she followed, fine. If not, the consequences were on her shoulders, not his. But after a bit he heard the drum of the mare’s hooves.
Alert for movement or warriors concealed in ambush, Fargo rode with his hand on the Colt. He would rather avoid the Untillas than fight them, but fight he would, if forced.
Fargo was not an Indian hater. He was not one of the countless whites who despised Indians simply because they were red. He did not look down his nose at them as inferior, or deem them savages, or heathens. They had their way of life, and the whites had theirs. But strip away beliefs in the Almighty versus the Great Spirit, and some of the different customs, and the red man and the white man were a lot more alike than either was willing to admit.
They had been riding for an hour when Mabel coughed and called out, “Slow up a minute, will you?”
Fargo obliged, and she came up next to him. “I warn you,” he said. “It better not be about that damn hairbrush or I will take you over my knee and spank you.”
Mabel, surprisingly, grinned. “I might like that. But no, I want to say I am sorry for how I acted back there. Now that I have had time to think, I see I treated you unfairly.”
“There is hope for you yet.”
“I have a temper, yes, and I tend to speak my mind when I shouldn’t. But I am mature enough to admit my mistakes.” Mabel looked at him. “No hard feelings, I trust?”
“No hard feelings,” Fargo set her at ease. “But if you still want to be spanked, remind me tonight.”
Mabel laughed. “I was beginning to think you might be a monk in disguise. It is good to know we are both of us human.”
The slope they were climbing brought them to a sawtooth ridge. From the crest Fargo could gaze out over a broad valley. At the far end reared the backbone of the Sawatch Range, several of the peaks gleaming white with snow. Down the middle of the valley wound a river, visible here and there through gaps in the trees. It curved close to the bottom of the ridge.
“How very pretty!” Mabel declared. “We do not have anything nearly as grand back home.”
“Do you see that smoke?” Fargo asked, pointing at gray wisps that rose toward the sky.
“Skagg’s Landing?”
Fargo nodded.
“At last!” Mabel excitedly exclaimed. “Soon I will have word of my brother.”
It took them two hours to get there. Fargo stuck to a well-worn trail that paralleled the river. At one point Mabel inquired, with a nod, “Does this waterway have a name?”
“The Untilla River.”
“I should have guessed. Is the river named after the tribe or is the tribe named after the river?”
“You ask the damnedest questions.”
“Here is another. How is it the tribe hasn’t wiped out the people at Skagg’s Landing, or driven them off?”
“Skagg’s Landing is the only trading post for hundreds of miles. Malachi Skagg gives them things they can’t get anywhere else so they let him and his friends stay.”
“You say his name as if you were talking about the plague.”
“Do I?” Fargo shrugged. Maybe he did. He disliked Skagg. He disliked Skagg a lot. But then, he never thought highly of anyone who lorded it over others. It did not help that Skagg had the temperament of a rabid wolf and no scruples whatsoever.
“I pray he knows where my brother is,” Mabel said. “I can’t wait to see Chester again.”
Fargo was afraid she was getting her hopes up, only to have them dashed. “Remember,” he cautioned. “It has been three months since you heard from him.”
“I know, I know,” Mabel said. “But when you love someone, what can you do?”
They came to a bend in the river. Fargo shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.
“Is that necessary?” Mabel asked.
“When you poke your head in a grizzly’s den, you should be ready for anything,” Fargo said. Once around the bend, he drew rein and announced, “There it is.”
Skagg’s Landing consisted of the trading post and a handful of cabins. A few lean-tos and tents had been erected since Fargo was there last. All were on the north side of the Untilla River, close to a long log landing built into the bank. Lashed to the dock were four canoes. Horses were tied to a hitch rail in front of the trading post.
“It looks harmless enough,” Mabel said. “I don’t see anyone out and about, though.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a man in buckskins appeared from out of a lean-to and strolled to one of the cabins. He knocked on the door and it was opened by a woman in a red dress. She said something, and he held up a coin. Smiling, she stepped aside and let him enter.
“Are they doing what I think they are doing?” Mabel asked.
“A while back Skagg brought several doves from Denver,” Fargo said. “At a dollar a poke they don’t make much money, and what little they do make they have to split with him.”
“I have never understood women who sell their bodies. I would never sell mine, no matter how destitute I was.”
Fargo made no reply. But he was thinking that life could be a cruel mistress, and sometimes women, and men, were forced by circumstances to do things they would not do otherwise.
“What else can you tell me about this place?”
“Skagg has men working for him,” Fargo disclosed. “The kind you would not want to meet in a dark alley.”
“Will he remember you?”
“Probably,” Fargo said. “Seeing as how the last time we met, I smashed a chair over his head.”
“What? Why?”
“Let’s just say he rubbed me the wrong way.” Fargo reckoned she would find out soon enough. He clucked to the Ovaro. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I am in no hurry,” Mabel said. “I intend to stay here as long as need be to find out where my brother is.”
“Do you like lice?”
“No. Who in their right mind does? Why would you even ask something like that?”
Fargo nodded toward the motley assortment of dwellings. “The buildings are crawling with lice and fleas and God knows what else. Keep that in mind if Skagg offers to rent you a room.”
“What makes you think he will?”
“You are female.”
“I have to say, I think you are exaggerating again,” Mabel said. “Neither the buildings nor this Malachi Skagg can possibly be as vile as you make them out to be.”
That was when the door to the trading post opened and out strode the master of the outpost.
“Dear God!” Mabel Landry blurted.