Range War (9781101559215) (11 page)

“You'll think this is silly,” she said as they sat their horses and gazed out over the valley. “But I'm as attached to them as I would be to my own children.”

“Wait until you have some,” Fargo said.

“Sheep are in our blood,” Delicia said. “My grandmother likes to say that God put sheep on this earth to teach us to be humble.”

That made no sense to Fargo but all he said was, “Constanza is a fine one to talk. She's as bloodthirsty as an Apache.”

“Not where sheep are concerned. She'd no more harm one than she would a baby.”

Fargo had something more important on his mind. “How much of this valley have your people explored?”

Delicia shrugged. “I don't know. Some of the men have hunted in the mountains a lot. Why?”

“The Hound has to have a place to lie up.”

“Find the lair and we can put an end to the monster?” Delicia nodded. “My people had the same idea. My brother and several others spent days searching but didn't find it.” She looked at him. “You think it will strike again soon, don't you?”

“Odds are,” Fargo said.

“I saw how upset that cowboy was when he told us about the dead cows. I believe you, now, that they are not to blame. It must be a wolf. A
lobo
.”

Fargo was scanning the heights. “I have most of the afternoon to myself,” he said. “I reckon I'll spend it keeping my promise to your grandpa.”

“By your lonesome?” Delicia shook her head. “I'll go with you.”

“No,” Fargo said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I can't hunt and protect you, both. Go back to the wagons where you'll be safe.”

“What if I refuse?”

“I'll tie you over your saddle and send you back anyway.”

“I believe you would,” Delicia said, annoyed. But she clucked to her horse and started down.

Fargo didn't budge until he was sure she wasn't going to try to trick him and circle back.

Above the bench grew thick timber. Above the timber were difficult grades with sparse vegetation. Given the size of the valley, searching for tracks was akin to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Not that Fargo didn't find any. There were plenty of deer tracks. There were elk. He found bear sign, including a tree covered with claw and rub marks. At the highest elevations there was evidence of bighorn sheep.

Smaller game was everywhere. He came across raccoon tracks and skunk tracks, badger and weasel. A careless bobcat had left a few, and he even found a mountain lion print. He discovered coyote tracks and a few fox tracks.

But nowhere did he come across the tracks of the creature he sought.

By four in the afternoon Fargo was ready to head down. He had a long ride to the cowboy camp. He idly scanned the valley from end to end—and stiffened. On the far side, almost directly across from him, an animal was loping down an open slope. At that distance he couldn't tell much other than it had the build of a dog or a wolf but it was a lot bigger. It disappeared into a patch of pines, and although he waited another quarter of a hour, he didn't see it again.

Fargo gigged the stallion down the mountain. He reached the bench and started across. He wasn't expecting trouble. When three riders loomed at the crest he suspected they had been there all along, waiting for him.

“Hold up, gringo,” Carlos demanded. “We want a word with you.”

Fargo drew rein. “You don't want to do this,” he said.

“But we do,” Carlos said with a smirk. “Permit me to introduce my friends. On my left is Pablo, on my right is Horaz.”

The other two were young, like Carlos, and like him, they were smirking at how clever they thought they were being.

“Can you guess what we want to talk about, gringo?” Carlos asked.

“You want advice on how not to be so stupid?”

Carlos lost his smirk. “Insulting me, gringo, proves that you are the one who isn't very smart.”

“You won't like what happens if you do this,” Fargo said.

“Can you read my thoughts now?” Carlos said. “Do you know what I am going to do before I do it?” He uttered a cold bark. “I think not.”

“Have it your way,” Fargo said. “We'll play this out. Go ahead and say what's on your mind.”

“My sister,” Carlos said.

“A fine filly,” Fargo said.

“Too fine for the likes of you. You are an outsider. We do not like it when outsiders trifle with our women. I want you to stop talking to her. I want you to stop going for rides with her.”

“That's up to her.”

“No, it isn't. She only thinks it is.” Carlos paused. “But she is just part of the reason I have come to see you. The other part is this.” He touched his swollen face. “You beat me, made me look the fool.”

“You had it coming.”

“Who are you to judge? I was doing what I thought best to protect my people.”

“And you got Alejandro killed.”

“He went with me willingly. He knew what might happen.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“He is gone. It is pointless to talk about him. But my sister is very much alive, and I tell you now, to your face, that you have no right to be with her.”

“Is that all?” Fargo wanted to be on his way.

“There is just this. Pablo, Horaz and I have had enough of you, and we are escorting you out of the valley, here and now.”

“What about Trask?” Fargo said. “I'm to meet with him tonight. You don't care that I might be able to smooth things over so that your people and the cowboys can get along?”

“Filthy gringos,” Carlos said. “What gives you the idea we
want
to get along? This is our valley. They are the ones who must leave. So long as they stay, we will go on spilling their blood.”

“This isn't about the good of your people,” Fargo said. “It's about your hate.”

Carlos put both hands on his rifle. “What will it be? Will you leave or will you die?”

The other two didn't have rifles or revolvers. They had knives in sheaths at their hips, and when Carlos gripped his rifle, each gripped the hilt of his weapon.

“I take back what I said about you being stupid,” Fargo said.

Carlos blinked in surprise. “You do?”

“To be stupid you have to have a brain.” And with that, Fargo whipped out his Colt and jabbed his spurs. The Ovaro bounded between Carlos' horse and Pablo's. With a lightning swing to either side, Fargo slammed the Colt against their heads. Carlos fell but Pablo stayed on and reined aside, reeling.

Fargo shifted to cover Horaz but Horaz did an incredible thing: He rose onto his saddle, leaped onto Carlos' horse, and from there sprang at Fargo. And as Horaz sprang, he drew his knife.

Fargo barely got his arm up in time. Horaz was big, and his weight was enough to knock him from the saddle. Each got a grip on the other's arm as they toppled. Fargo tried to turn so that Horaz bore the impact but they both came down hard on their sides. Horaz made it to his feet first. Fargo was only to his knees when the sheepherder slashed at his neck. Fargo ducked and smashed the Colt against Horaz's knee, and Horaz cried out and staggered. Fargo smashed his other knee. Horaz swore and came down on his hands and toes.

“Damn you, gringo!”

Fargo hit him once, and then again, and Horaz crumpled, unconscious.

Hooves drummed as Fargo pushed to his feet. Pablo had recovered enough to try to ride him down. Fargo darted aside and the horse swept past. Instantly, Pablo reined around to try again.

Fargo took a long bound and leaped. With his left hand he grabbed Pablo's serape even as with his right he rammed the Colt into Pablo's side. Pablo cried out, and the next moment Fargo hauled him from the saddle and slammed him to earth. Pablo groaned and went limp.

Fargo thought that was the end of it but a blow to his shoulder spun him half around. His gun arm went numb.

Carlos had his rifle by the barrel and was wielding it like a club. His face contorted in hate, he hissed, “I will cave your head in, gringo!”

Fargo dodged a swing but lost his hat. He skipped back and Carlos came after him, swearing furiously. Fargo tried to raise the Colt but his arm wouldn't work. He went to border shift, and tripped over Pablo.

Before Fargo knew it, he was flat on the ground with Carlos rearing over him and the rifle hoisted high to bash his brains out.

“Now, gringo! Now!” Carlos screamed.

Fargo rolled and the stock thudded into the dirt. Scrambling onto his knees, Fargo crossed his left hand to his right boot to try to draw the Arkansas toothpick. But Carlos came at him again, swinging. It was all he could do to twist away. His right arm was tingling but he still couldn't bring the Colt to bear.

And Pablo was slowly getting up.

Carlos swung the rifle low, seeking to sweep Fargo's legs out from under him. Leaping into the air, Fargo kicked Carlos in the chest. Gripping the Colt by the barrel with his left hand, Fargo whipped it out and around and had the satisfaction of seeing Carlo's mouth explode with blood and bits of teeth.

Carlos screeched and dropped the rifle and clutched at his face.

Fargo hit him again. There was a
crack
and Carlos dropped where he stood.

Pablo was almost to his feet. He had a hand to his head and was shaking it to clear it.

“Had enough?” Fargo said.

Pablo spun. Glaring, he clawed at the knife on his hip.

Fargo kicked him in the groin. The tip of his boot caught the young sheepherder where it would hurt any man the most and Pablo shrieked and folded as Carlos had done. Pablo's eyelids fluttered and his body convulsed before he lay still.

Fargo looked at the three of them.

“Jackasses.”

He tried his right arm and although it was tingling to where it hurt, he could move it. He proceeded to climb on the Ovaro and gathered up their horses. “Enjoy the walk,” he said to the limp figures, and headed down the mountain.

The camp was quiet when he arrived. Most of the women were in their wagons; most of the men were off tending the sheep.

A few children scampered about but paid him no mind. He had tied the horses and was pouring himself a cup of coffee when Constanza stalked over, her flinty face pinched with wrath.

“Where are my grandson and his friends?”

“Here we go again.”

“Don't treat me like fool,” Constanza said. “I saw you ride up with their horses and I know they went to have a talk with you.”

“Talk?” Fargo sipped and peered at her over the tin cup. “Your grandson tried to bash my brains out. And I bet it was with your blessing.”

Constanza smiled.

Insight dawned, and Fargo said, “It was your idea, wasn't it? That grandson of yours wouldn't do anything without your say-so. Was it you who told him to kill those cows, too?”

“My grandson stands up for us, which is more than I can say about my husband.” Constanza folded her arms. “Now where is he? Have you killed them?”

“I should have,” Fargo said.

“You are a tough hombre, senor,” Constanza said. “I will grant you that much.”

“I don't give a damn what you think.”

“Good. Then you won't mind my telling you that I hate you and your kind.”

“Kind?” Fargo said.

“Anglos. All Anglos.”

“You're one of those.” Fargo had a special dislike for bigots. He'd seen too many of them in his travels—whites who hated red men, red men who wanted all whites dead, whites who loathed blacks, blacks who despised whites, whites who looked down their noses at those they called greasers . . . and on and on it went.

“
Si
, senor,” Constanza was crowing, “and proud of it. You would never understand.”

“What's your excuse for hating so much?”

“Who needs one?” Constanza said. “But if you must know, I am a pureblood Spaniard, as were my father and mother and their parents and all those before them. Can you say as much?” She didn't give him a chance to respond. “Of course not, because you do not have a heritage like mine. You are nothing, and less than nothing. You are a mongrel.”

“I'd rather be a mongrel than a bitch.”

In indignation Constanza drew herself up to her full height. “You make it easy for me to hate you, senor.”

“Don't expect me to lose sleep over it.”

“It is a mistake to take me lightly,” Constanza said. “I give you this warning. Forget your promise to my silly husband. We will kill the Hound ourselves. Forget about Trask and his cowboys. Climb on your horse and ride away or you will not live to see out the week.”

“Your grandson made the same threat. I didn't listen to him and I'm sure as hell not going to listen to you.”

“Before this is over you will wish you had,” Constanza said.

The first thing Fargo noticed were all the new cows, more than a thousand head, with punchers riding herd.

The second thing were all the new hands. By his reckoning there were thirty or more.

There was a cook wagon, too, and a wagon for supplies. They were parked close to the trees.

The sun was about to relinquish its reign when Fargo drew rein and climbed down. He wasn't expecting a warm welcome but he wasn't expecting to be ignored, either. Yet except for a few cold stares, he was treated as if he wasn't there. “Ben Trask invited me,” he said.

No one responded.

A sense of uneasiness came over him, a feeling that he was about to step into a bear trap. But he didn't fork leather and leave. He never was one for showing yellow. Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he sauntered to the fire and nodded at Shorty.