Range War (9781101559215) (2 page)

Then came a noise that wasn't so slight—a scream torn from a human throat.

For the second time that night Fargo's skin crawled. He pushed to his feet and moved past the boulders.

The scream was borne to him out of the valley below. It keened to a high, ululating pitch, and ended as abruptly as the snuffing of a candle.

Fargo could tell the screamer was a man, possibly young, and were he to wager on it, probably dead. He probed the veil of darkness for sign of another fire or the light from a dwelling. There was none. Were he to go searching, he might stumble around until daybreak and not find the victim.

Suddenly, from the same vicinity as the scream, rose a piercing howl trilling with ferocity, the same as earlier.

The implication was obvious; whatever had paid him a visit had attacked someone else.

Fargo returned to the fire and pondered. By rights it was none of his affair. He could skirt the valley and push on to Dallas and a high time with his lady friend. He decided that was what he would do and after a while he turned in. Sleep proved elusive. He was lucky if he'd slept two full hours by the time pink splashed the eastern horizon. He chewed a piece of pemmican and finished the rest of the coffee and was in the saddle when the sun gave birth to the new day.

For a moment Fargo paused. Then, instead of reining aside to skirt the valley as he'd intended, he swore and tapped his spurs and rode down into it.

Hermanos Valley was eleven miles long and half that wide. Lush grass covered the valley floor, bordered by timber on the lower slopes. As Fargo recollected, it had been a haven for sheepherders since the days of Spanish rule.

The valley was unique in that above the timberline, a quarter-mile-wide bench, rich with grass, made for more excellent graze. As he neared it he saw hundreds of woolly white shapes.

In a clatter of rocks and pebbles the Ovaro came down the last slope and Fargo drew rein. The nearest sheep showed no alarm. Most ignored him.

Fargo clucked to the stallion. After a dozen yards the Ovaro whinnied and tossed its head and came to a stop of its own accord.

A splash of red in the green grass told Fargo why. Palming his Colt, he dismounted and advanced on foot.

The body was on its back, the face contorted in terror. The throat was a shredded cavity; it had literally been ripped out. A few flies were crawling in and around the ruin. Scarlet drops had spattered a serape and the white cotton shirt and pants.

It was a boy, not more than fifteen or sixteen, Fargo judged. Whatever attacked him had killed him swiftly. Other than a few claw marks, the clothes were untouched.

Fargo hunkered and cast about for sign. The grass was flattened in spots but there were no paw prints.

Fargo frowned and stood and shoved the Colt into his holster. He had no means to dig a grave other than his hands.

A broken limb from the timber below would suffice, and he went to the Ovaro and gripped the reins and was about to climb on when behind him a rifle lever ratcheted.

“Stand where you are, gringo, or I will kill you.”

Fargo didn't know which surprised him more, that he had been taken unawares, or that the speaker was female. He looked over his shoulder and almost whistled in appreciation.

She was twenty or so, with flowing black hair, lustrous in the sun. Her beautiful dark eyes, at the moment smoldering with anger, were highlighted by long lashes. Her face was the kind that would cause men on the street to stop and stare. She wore a plain dress that covered her from her neck to her ankles but couldn't hide her charms.

“
Buenos días
,” Fargo said, and smiled.

She put her cheek to her rifle and sighted on his chest. “Gringo pig.”

“We're starting off on the wrong foot,” Fargo said. “What did I do that you treat me like this?”

She nodded toward the body. “You killed Ramon,
bastardo
.”

“I tore his throat out with my teeth?” Fargo said. “Be sensible.”

“Where is it?” she asked.

“Where's what?”

“The dog you gringos use to kill us.”

Fargo's patience was fraying. He didn't like staring into the muzzle of her rifle. Any moment her finger might twitch. “Lady, I don't know what in hell you're talking about.”

“Sure you don't,” she said, and wagged her weapon. “Unbuckle your gun belt and let it fall. I am taking you back. At last we have caught one of you, and we will do to you as you have done to us.”

Fargo was confident he could dive to one side and draw and shoot her before she shot him but he had no desire to harm her.

“What's your name?”

“Delicia.”

Fargo couldn't help it; he chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Fargo said.

“Take off your gun belt, senor.”

“I'll explain this to you just once. I had nothing to do with this. I'm on my way to Dallas. I heard a wolf last night . . .” Fargo paused. “At least, I think it was a wolf. And later I heard a scream that must have been Ramon. I just found his body, and that's all there is to it.”

“I don't believe you,” Delicia said.

“What reason would I have to lie?”

“You are one of them.”

“One of who, damn it?”

“You know.” Delicia put her cheek to the rifle again. “I will not say it again, senor. Unbuckle your
pistola
or I will shoot you.” Her jaw tightened and her eyes grew hard with determination.

Fargo had no doubt she would. He could kill her, or he could go along for the time being. Slowly lowering his right hand, he pried at his belt buckle. “You're making a mistake.”

“No, gringo,” Delicia said. “You are the one who has made a mistake, and before this day is over, you will pay for it with your miserable life.”

At the north end of the valley was a spring. Ten wagons, varying in length from twelve to sixteen feet, were parked in a half circle around it. The sides and the backs were wood, the tops were canvas curved tight over hoops. The back wheels were slightly larger than the front, and the tongues lay on the ground.

The teams were in a string near the spring.

Fargo had seen similar wagons before. Sheepherders throughout the West used them. From the number, he gathered that more than one family shared the graze in the Hermanos Valley.

Fargo slowly approached, leading the Ovaro with the body of Ramon over the saddle, Delicia trailing after him with her rifle pointed at his back.

Beyond the crescent of wagons, the sheepherders were going about their daily routines. Most were simply dressed in the cotton clothes they favored. Some of the women had colorful shawls and belts. Some of men wore serapes and ponchos. White hats were much in evidence, although a few wore black.

There looked to be thirty females or more, running in age from about seventy down to small children, and about the same number of men. Several campfires were crackling, and the aroma of food and coffee was tantalizing.

Fargo went around a wagon tongue into the camp.

At a yell from a youth, the sheepherders stopped what they were doing and converged. A considerable commotion ensued. Ramon was examined amid gasps of dismay. A middle-aged woman burst into tears. Voices were raised in anger, and two brawny men turned on Fargo and seized him by the arms and a third man drew a knife from under a poncho and advanced with it held low to thrust.

“Now wait a minute,” Fargo said.

“
Te matare
, gringo,” the man with the knife said.

“Parar!”
a voice shouted, and from out of the throng came an old man. Slightly stooped from age, he nonetheless had a powerful build and a commanding presence. He wore a red cap and sported a bushy mustache as white as his hair. The others parted to make way. He came to the Ovaro and gripped Ramon's hair and raised the head to see the wound. Sorrow etched his seamed features when he faced Fargo.
“Habla usted español?”

“
Si,
” Fargo answered. “But I'm better at English.”

“English it will be, then,” the old man said with no trace of an accent. “I am Porfiro, the leader here.”

“Skye Fargo.”

Porfiro motioned at Ramon. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

“No.”

“He lies,” Delicia said angrily.

“You have proof he lies?” Porfiro asked.

“I went up to take food to Ramon,” Delicia said. “Instead I found his body, as you see it. Then I heard a horse coming down the mountain. I hid, and this man came out of the trees and went to the body.”

“That is your proof?”

“He is one of them, I tell you,” Delicia declared, her rifle still trained on Fargo.

“One of who?” Fargo said.

Porfiro appraised him from hat to boots. “I think not,” he said. “Look at how he dresses.”

“
Excusa?
” Delicia said.

Raising his voice, Porfiro said in Spanish, “Look at him, all of you. Look at what he wears. Buckskins. These are the clothes of a hunter or a scout. They are not the clothes of our enemies.”

“You can not judge by that,” the man with the knife said.

Porfiro turned to Fargo. “Do you understand what I told them? Am I right?”

“I've done a lot of scouting for the army,” Fargo said. He worked at other jobs, too, from time to time, but a scout described him as well as anything.

“See?” Porfiro addressed the others.

“And you are willing to take his word?” demanded a woman almost as old as he was.

“If he is one of them, he would lie to save himself,” a man in a poncho said.

“One of who?” Fargo again asked.

It was the old woman who answered him. “The invaders.”

She gazed off down the Hermanos Valley. “For hundreds of years our people have grazed our sheep here, from when these mountains and this valley were part of the Imperial Spanish Viceroyalty of New Spain. We graze them and shear them and take our wool to market, and we are happy and content.” Her gaze became a glare. “But now
they
have come. From the south, from Texas. With their cows and their guns. And they say that they are going to graze their cattle and we must leave.” She raised a gnarled fist and shook it. “Us! Leave! When my father and mother grazed their sheep here, and their father and mother before them, and theirs before them.”

Her outburst caused a ripple of muttering and hard looks cast at Fargo.

“I don't care what Porfiro says,” said the man with the knife. “We should kill this one and send him back to his friends as a warning.” And with that, he reached for Fargo's throat.

Porfiro swatted the knife aside, stepped between them, and folded his arms across his chest. “To hurt him you must first hurt me. Are you willing to do that, my grandson?”

“Carlos, no!” the old woman exclaimed.

Two other men, advanced in years but robust and vigorous, moved protectively to either side of Porfiro, and the one on the right said, “Listen to your grandmother, boy.”

“Porfiro is our leader,” said the other. “Harm him and you will be an outcast.”

Carlos glanced from one to the other and then at his grandmother. “You old ones always stick together, eh?”

“We have our laws, boy, and they will be obeyed,” said the man on the right.

“Quit calling me that,” Carlos snapped. He took a step back and held his hands up, palms out. “And I would never hurt my grandfather, were he our
líder
or not. I am of his blood, and blood is always to be honored.”

The sheepherder in the poncho impatiently waved a hand. “All this petty bickering is bad enough, but we still have to decide what to do with this Buckskin.”

“My name is Fargo,” Fargo said.

“I will have a talk with him,” Porfiro said, and gestured at the men who had hold of Fargo's arms. They reluctantly let go.

“I'm obliged,” Fargo said.

“Ven conmigo,”
Porfiro replied, and ushered him to the rear of a wagon. Opening a small door, he motioned for Fargo to precede him.

Fargo had never been in a sheepherder's wagon before. He'd figured there would be seats, like in a stagecoach, or maybe it would be littered with personal effects, like in a Conestoga. But it was nothing like either.

The wagon was a home on wheels. There was a small stove. There were cupboards and shelves. There was a table. There was even a bed big enough for two, with a flowered quilt. Along one side was a bench, built as part of the wall. The interior smelled of pipe smoke and food.

“My humble home,” Porfiro said. He indicated the bench.

Fargo sat and placed his hands on his knees. “The girl took my Colt,” he mentioned. “I'd like it back.”

“First things first.” Porfiro sank down and thoughtfully studied him. “Were you telling the truth about not harming Ramon?”

“Like I told Delicia, what reason would I have?” Fargo countered.

“Our enemies don't need a reason other than we tend sheep and they tend cattle,” Porfiro said. “Ramon is not the first one of us to have his throat torn out by their dog. He is the third.”

“It wasn't a dog,” Fargo said.

Porfiro sat up. “You have seen it?”

“I saw its eyes,” Fargo said.

“We have heard it howl at night, as a dog does.”

Fargo was going to point out that wolves howled, too. Instead he said, “And you say the cowboys are using this dog to try and drive your people off?”