Mountain Manhunt Read online

  The brunette and the redhead arrived, out of breath and with large towels wrapped around their dripping bodies.

  “What on earth is going on, Leslie?” the redhead asked the woman in the stream.

  “I thought a savage had hold of you,” was the brunette’s comment.

  Leslie waded to shore and was helped out by her friends. All four then faced Fargo, and Leslie asked, “Well? Are you planning to stay in there all day?”

  “It might be safer,” Fargo said. Being soaked was a small price to pay for the chance to admire the four lovelies. He liked how their bodies glistened in the sun. Leslie had the fullest breasts, Shelly the longest legs. The redhead’s green eyes were dazzling up close. As for the brunette, everything about her was small—a small nose, small ears, small mouth, small breasts, yet each so finely sculpted, she would take a man’s breath away even when she was fully clothed.

  Shelly tilted her head. “I do believe he’s ogling us.”

  “I do believe you’re right,” Fargo confirmed, and laughed when she crossed her arms over her bosom.

  Leslie, though, made no attempt to cover herself. Brazenly placing her hands on her hips, she said, “Have you no decency, you lout?”

  “Look who’s talking,” Fargo countered. “Most women wear clothes when they’re outdoors.”

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Leslie was still mad. “For your information, we were in dire need of a bath. And all the men were told to stay away. We never expected a stranger to happen by and gawk to his heart’s delight.”

  Fargo climbed onto the bank. “What else would a man do when he sees four beautiful women? I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  It never failed. When it came to flattery, most women were as iron-willed as butter. All four grinned, and the redhead looked him up and down like a rancher sizing up a likely bull for stud.

  The brunette said, “We should get dressed before Teague and the others show up. They won’t be as forgiving as we are.”

  “I should say not, Susan,” Leslie said. “My older brother will want to stomp this buckskin-clad Lothario into the dirt.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Fargo said, and began wringing out his buckskins.

  “What makes you think we care what you do?” Leslie asked.

  “I’ve yet to meet a woman who wasn’t as curious as a cat,” Fargo answered. “Hurry back and we’ll get acquainted.”

  “Why, the nerve!” Shelly said. “To hear him bluster, you would think he knows women better than we know ourselves.”

  Chattering like chipmunks, they hastened along the stream to a boulder almost the size of a log cabin. When they reappeared minutes later, they were fully dressed, and with towels over their shoulders.

  By then Fargo had reclaimed the Ovaro and was leaning against a cottonwood. He greeted them with a smile and a wink. “I can’t say as clothes are an improvement.”

  Leslie marched right up to him and smacked him hard on the arm. “You’re just about the naughtiest man I’ve ever met. Suppose you tell us something about yourself.”

  “Ladies first.”

  Fargo was treated to an earful of information. It turned out Leslie was a Synnet; Teague was her older brother, Jerrold was two years younger. Shelly’s last name was Landers. Her brother Anson was another of Teague’s childhood chums. The brunette was Garrick Whirtle’s sister, Susan. A longtime friend of Leslie, the redhead was unrelated to anyone; her name was Melantha Courtland.

  In answer to a question from Fargo, Leslie said, “Yes, we usually go with my brother on his gallivants around the world. It’s exciting seeing new places and experiencing new cultures.”

  “It can also be dangerous,” Fargo noted.

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those who believes a woman’s place is chained to a stove?” Leslie responded. “We’ve survived India and Africa. We can certainly survive the Rocky Mountains.”

  Susan Whirtle nodded. “Primitives aren’t always as mean as they’re made out to be. We met a tribe of headhunters in Africa, and they were as nice as you please.”

  Fargo did not see what that had to do with anything other than the headhunters must not have been in the mood to take heads that day.

  “We also saw lions and rhinos and elephants. Oh my!” Shelly said excitedly. “It was simply a grand adventure.”

  “So spare us any silliness about Indians and grizzlies and whatnot,” Leslie advised. “We’ve heard it all already a hundred times from Mr. Beckman.”

  Fargo had almost forgotten about his friend. “You should listen to him. No one knows these mountains better.”

  “Oh, please,” Leslie scoffed. “He’s tried to scare us with awful tales of horrible atrocities. Bear attacks, cougar attacks, Indian depredations. He’s tried to make it sound as if we take our lives into our hands every time we enter the woods. But these mountains aren’t any scarier than the jungles of Africa.”

  “Less so, in fact,” Shelly said, tossing her blond mane. “In the jungle I saw a snake twenty feet long. I saw hippos that could break a canoe in half with one bite. I saw spiders as big as my hand. What do you have here that can begin to compare?” She and the others laughed at the preposterous notion.

  Fargo turned to the Ovaro and hooked his boot in the stirrup. It was his day for meeting hardheaded people.

  “Where are you going?” Leslie asked.

  “Aw, we hurt his feelings,” Susan said.

  Touching his hat brim, Fargo rode toward their camp, saying, “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later, ladies.” A chorus of titters followed him.

  The site was ideal, situated as it was in a wide curve of the stream and far enough from the forest that hostiles could not sneak up unseen. Fargo counted eleven tents in orderly rows, four slightly apart from the rest, no doubt to afford the women some privacy. The horses were picketed in two strings, close-in so they couldn’t be stolen. Men were busy with various chores—chopping wood, fetching water, cleaning weapons, tending to the animals.

  Fargo had to admit he was impressed. The camp was being run with near-military precision. Only one thing was missing: sentries. He passed a tent with its flap down, passed a man mending a cinch on a saddle. Others glanced in his direction, wondering who he was.

  “As I live and breathe! The Trailsman himself!” Around a tent had hobbled a gray-haired frontiersman in well-worn buckskins. His lively brown eyes lit with warmth, and a mouth framed by dark gray stubble split in a welcoming smile. “What in tarnation are you doing in this neck of creation, hoss?”

  “Sam Beckman.” Dismounting, Fargo shook his friend’s hand, then nodded at the makeshift crutch Beckman was using, fashioned from a forked tree branch. “Did you stub a toe?”

  Beckman cackled and clapped him on the back. “Tarnation, it’s good to see you! Whenever I hear tell about your escapades, I tell everyone I taught you everything you know.”

  “You didn’t answer me about your leg.”

  “It’s nothing,” Beckman said. “My danged mare stepped in a prairie dog hole and threw me. Broke my leg bone above the ankle, and I’ve had to wear this damned uncomfortable splint ever since.” He balanced on the crutch to grip Fargo’s shoulder. “Did I tell you how glad I am to see you?”

  Something in the way the old mountain man said it spiked Fargo’s interest. “Is everything all right?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?” Beckman rejoined, but he did not sound sincere. Tugging at Fargo’s sleeve, he urged, “Come over to my tent and share a cup of coffee. Or if you ask real nice, I might break out a bottle and treat you to some first-rate coffin varnish.”

  “You have your own tent?” As far back as Fargo could recollect, his friend always slept out under the stars. Even when they were at Fort Laramie or some other post, Beckman always preferred to sleep outside. Walls were too confining, he always said, and a roof was downright unnatural.

  “It’s Mr. Synnet’s doing. Teague Synnet, that is, not the pup, Jerrold. Teague is fo
nd of his creature comforts and takes it for granted everyone else is.” Beckman grinned. “Not that I mind. On chill nights my joints tend to stiffen up to where it’s an effort to get out and about in the morning.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re a hundred years old.”

  Beckman laughed and thrust a bony finger at him. “Show more respect for your elders, boy. I’m only seventy-four. It’ll be a good ten years yet before I’m ready to be put out to pasture.”

  They came to the tent and Beckman opened the flap so Fargo could enter. “How long have you been on the trail? Got any word about the Blackfeet acting up? Or that fracas the army was in with some Sioux?”

  “I’d rather talk about these folks you’ve hooked up with,” Fargo said.

  Beckman shambled to a cot and sank down with a sigh. “They pay good. That’s all that matters.”

  Again, something in his friend’s tone suggested things were amiss. “What’s this Teague Synnet like?”

  “Rich,” Beckman said. “But he’s not one of those skeery types who pamper themselves with hair powder and spout foolishness. He fancies himself a hunter. Says he’s killed practically everything that walks or flies, and I tend to believe him.” Beckman scowled. “I’ve never met anyone so powerful fond of killing in all my born days.”

  “Has he given you trouble?”

  “Teague? No. Whatever makes you think that?”

  Fargo elected to change the subject. It was plain the old-timer wouldn’t talk until he was ready. “What can you tell me about Garrick Whirtle and the other one, Anson Landers?”

  Beckman had reached into saddlebags propped against the end of the cot. “Not much. Highfalutin, the pair of them, but Whirtle is the worst. When his dander is up he bears watching.”

  “I’m surprised you let them bring the women along,” Fargo mentioned.

  The old scout slapped his leg in irritation. “I tried to talk them out of it but they wouldn’t listen. They think our mountains are tame compared to Africa and India and such.”

  Beckman was going to say more but the drum of hooves silenced him. He glanced nervously at the flap, then said, “That must be Teague and Anson now. Let me introduce you.” Fargo went to help him up but Beckman swatted his hand away. “The day I can’t make do on my own is the day I blow my brains out.”

  Six riders had arrived. Two wore the same sort of fancy hunting outfits as Garrick Whirtle and Jerrold Synnet. One had sandy hair. The other’s was the same pitch-black as Jerrold’s and Leslie’s.

  Teague Synnet, Fargo figured. The leader of the pack had cold, haughty features, and eyes as quick as a hawk’s. Teague had spotted him, and on climbing down, came stalking toward him like a wolf defending its den. Evidently Teague Synnet was not fond of strangers. Leveling his hunting rifle, he demanded, “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

  4

  Skye Fargo bristled. He resented having a gun pointed at him. He was on the verge of doing something about it when old Sam Beckman hobbled between them and pushed the barrel aside.

  “Now, you just hold on! This hombre is a pard of mine, and I won’t have you acting so high and mighty.”

  Teague Synnet seemed astounded that anyone had the temerity to interfere. He glanced at his rifle, then at Beckman. “How dare you.”

  “I damn well dare, thank you very much,” Beckman said. “Out here you can’t go around lording it over folks like you do back East.”

  Teague’s cold countenance acquired a flinty cast. Here was a man accustomed to getting his way, and a man who would be perfectly willing to resort to violence when he didn’t. “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do? You’re in my employ, I’ll thank you to remember. Do not overstep yourself again or you will not like the consequences.”

  Sam Beckman snorted. “Was that a threat, sonny? Because if it was, you’re wasting your breath. I’ve tangled with the Bloods, been charged by buffalo, and set on by silvertips. Compared to them, you’re about as dangerous as a lump of clay.”

  Their angry voices drew others, among them Garrick Whirtle and Jerrold Synnet.

  “Old man,” Teague said harshly, “I’m not one to suffer fools, or insults, lightly. You will apologize this instant.”

  “Like hell,” Beckman said, shaking his crutch. “Do your worst, you danged pup. Old as I am and lame as I am, I’ll still whip you!”

  For a moment Fargo thought Teague Synnet would actually do it. Synnet started to hand his rifle to Anson Landers, but then a look of amused contempt came over him, and he smiled icily.

  “I’ve always admired your grit, as you would call it. But grit is no substitute for intellect. Suppose you introduce me to this friend you’re willing to take a beating for, and we’ll take it from there?”

  Garrick Whirtle was quick to jump in. “I can tell you all you need to know, Teague. Thanks to him, a grizzly that killed two of our men got away.” He proceeded to relate the attack, ending with, “I guess these frontier types aren’t the great hunters we were led to believe. Either that, or they’re yellows.”

  “Why, you—!” Beckman declared. “I have half a mind to beat some sense into that thick head of yours. If Fargo didn’t kill the bear, he had a damn good reason.”

  “No excuse justifies allowing a man-killer to live,” Teague Synnet said. “We’ll head out after it at dawn and by nightfall it will be dead.”

  “You’re awful sure of yourself,” Beckman said.

  “When it comes to killing I have every right to be,” Teague responded. To Fargo he said, “I have yet to hear you utter a word in your defense. Care to justify the mistake you made?”

  “The mistake was not bringing the buck back here to butcher it,” Fargo said. “If you need to blame someone, blame Garrick.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “He offered the men who were killed twenty-dollar gold pieces to butcher the buck in half the time it would take so he could beat you back here,” Fargo related.

  The color drained from Teague Synnet and he turned to Garrick Whirtle. “Am I to understand you broke the rules?”

  Garrick was looking pale himself. “I can explain.”

  “I thought I made myself sufficiently clear,” Teague said. “The first hunter to turn over his meat to the cook wins the hundred dollars. But the butchering is to be done in camp so as not to attract predators. I was quite explicit.”

  “I wanted to win for once,” Garrick defended himself.

  “So you cheated?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that.”

  “Rules are necessary to keep our contests fair,” Teague said. “By breaking them you have insulted Anson, Jerrold and me.”

  “I would never do—,” Garrick began, and stopped when Teague’s hand flicked out with the speed of a striking rattler and gripped the front of his shirt.

  “Don’t make it worse than it already is by compounding your lie with another. You will be punished for your breach of conduct. Exactly what that punishment will be remains to be seen.” With that, Teague Synnet wheeled and walked off but only went a few steps before he glanced over his shoulder at Fargo. “You may stay the night. In the morning you will leave and never grace our encampment with your presence again.”

  “Awful high on himself, ain’t he?” Beckman said, although not loud enough that Teague Synnet could hear.

  Garrick Whirtle glared, then stormed away with Anson Landers at his side. The camp helpers also drifted off. Soon only the younger Synnet was left.

  “I’m sorry about my brother,” Jerrold said. “He can be bossy at times but that’s just his nature.” He jogged to catch up with Teague.

  Beckman snickered. “Ever notice how it’s the ones with the most faults who make the most excuses?”

  “I couldn’t care less,” Fargo said, and meant it. He had seen enough to know he did not want anything to do with them. It meant he must forget about becoming better acquainted with the women, but it couldn’t be helped.


  Coincidentally, just then Leslie and her companions arrived. Melantha was running a brush through her red hair. Susan had tied hers in a ponytail. Shelly’s natural curls spared her from having to fuss with hers.

  “What was that all about?” Leslie asked. “My brother looked mad.”

  “He was, missy,” Sam Beckman confirmed. “He’s ordered my friend to be gone by first light, or else. The darned jackass.”

  “Enough of that.” Leslie showed her affection for her sibling. “My brother only does what he thinks is best. I won’t stand for hearing him called names.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I called him a blamed idiot instead?” Beckman held his own. “For days now he’s been upset because I can’t go with him into the high country. Now what does he do when another scout comes along? He treats him like dirt, that’s what he’s done.”

  “I’ll talk to him after we freshen up,” Leslie offered. “He listens to me. Sometimes.” To Fargo she said, “Don’t judge him on the basis of what just happened. Teague can be as kind as the next person when he puts his mind to it.”

  Like biddy hens crossing a farmyard, the four crossed to their respective tents and disappeared inside.

  “Women,” Sam Beckman said.

  Fargo sniffed the air. “Is that coffee I smell? I could use a cup or four.”

  “Follow me to the cook’s tent,” Beckman said, sliding the crutch under his arm. “He’s a foreign fella but he makes mighty fine vittles. The best I’ve ate since I left North Carolina.”

  “What was that about them going up into the high country?” Fargo asked. Not that he cared one whit if Teague Synnet were to be scalped or skinned alive and staked out to die.

  “Oh, Teague wants to do some elk hunting. I made the mistake of telling him how the Gros Ventre Range has more elk than he could shake a stick at, and now he wants to add them to his list.”

  “List?”

  “Of all the critters he’s killed. I’ve seen it. Page after page of every creature under the sun. Half I never heard of.” Beckman scratched his chin. “What’s a mandrill, anyhow? And a caracal?”