Nevada Nemesis Page 6

  Peter Sloane had pushed through to the front. “How do you know the girl was abducted? Did you see her abductor?”

  “I found tracks,” Fargo said.

  “Then why are you just squatting there?” Sloane demanded. “Shouldn’t you be out after them?”

  “It’s best if I wait until dawn,” Fargo explained. He started to rise but Sarah clutched at his sleeve and leaned against him.

  Most of the others were too stunned by the news to say anything. But not their leader.

  “You were on guard, weren’t you, Mr. Flint? How is it the child was taken right under your nose?”

  Fargo had no answer.

  “Your carelessness is beyond belief,” Sloane would not let it drop. “You’ve gone on and on about the dangers we face in the wilds, and how we must always be vigilant, and now look.”

  “Indians are like ghosts,” Jared came to Fargo’s defense. “We can’t blame Mr. Flint.”

  “On the contrary,” Sloane said. “As he keeps reminding us, he’s the one with all the experience. He should never have let this occur. If anything happens to that little girl, it will be on his shoulders.”

  For once Sloane was right. Fargo laid the fault at his own feet. Had he been doing what he was supposed to be doing, Mandy would be safe in dreamland. His neglect made it possible for the Paiute to waltz in and snatch her.

  “Did you fall asleep, Mr. Flint?” Jurgensen inquired. “Is that how this terrible deed came to pass?”

  “I just don’t understand,” someone else commented.

  Fargo noticed Cathy Fox. She had not said a word.

  “Maybe Peter had been right in wanting to run you off,” Brickman said. “Maybe we should do it now and be done with you.”

  Sloane was quick to capitalize. “This is what comes of not listening to me! I’ve always had our best interests at heart, which is more than can be said of this killer. Let’s throw him on his horse and rid ourselves of him once and for all.”

  “But what about Mandy?” a woman asked.

  Tension crackled. Some of the men edged toward Fargo. Then Sarah cleared her throat and said so softly they could barely hear her, “It wasn’t Mr. Flint’s fault. It was mine.”

  “What’s that you say, Mrs. Yager?” Sloane said. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

  A portrait of motherly misery, Sarah looked up. “Mr. Flint isn’t to blame. I am. I should never have left Mandy alone. If you must point the finger of blame, point it at me.”

  “Where were you?” Mrs. Shaw demanded.

  “How could you leave your daughter alone?” accused another. “What on earth were you thinking?”

  Sarah broke into sobs of agony and buried her face against Fargo’s chest. He would like to let her cry herself out but some of the emigrants were muttering among themselves. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he lowered her back down, slowly rose, and turned. “Proud of yourselves?”

  Something in his tone prompted Peter Sloane and several of the others to back up a step.

  “What did we do?” Sloane said. “You’re the one who let the child be stolen.”

  “And you’re the one who keeps rubbing her nose in it.” Fargo pointed at Sarah. “Her daughter has been taken and all some of you can do is carp at her for letting it happen?”

  A woman whose name Fargo didn’t know sniffed in indignation. “She deserves to be chastised. We would never let it happen to our children.”

  “You’re just lucky the Paiute didn’t pick your wagon,” Fargo said. Although now that he thought about it, he suspected the warrior had not struck at random. Odds were, the Paiute had been spying on them for some time and saw when Sarah went off with him. It might be the same renegade he saw earlier. Maybe the warrior had shadowed him back to the wagon train.

  “You’re sure there’s only one savage involved?” Peter Sloane asked.

  “No,” Fargo had to admit. The one who took Mandy might be part of the band the army was after.

  Cathy Fox finally had something to say. “What will they do to her, Mr. Flint? Surely they wouldn’t—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “They’ll probably take her back to their village and adopt her,” Fargo said. They might do something a lot worse, something unthinkable, but for Sarah’s sake, he held his tongue.

  “So what now?” Peter Sloane asked. “Should several of us go after her once the sun is up?”

  “I’m going alone,” Fargo informed him.

  “I don’t know as that’s very wise,” Sloane said stiffly. “You’ve proven we can’t depend on you. Why should we compound our mistake by leaving the girl’s fate in your untrustworthy hands?”

  The farmer would never know how close he came to being punched in the mouth. “Can any of you track?” Fargo countered.

  No one could.

  “Then you’ll only slow me down. While I’m gone, the rest of you keep going. Follow the wagon tracks to the trading post. If you haven’t found it in two days, make camp and wait for me.”

  “I insist at least one of us go with you,” Sloane said. “For the mother’s peace of mind, if nothing else.”

  Fargo glanced at Sarah but she was too devastated to comment. She was on her side, curled into a ball, her hands over her eyes, sobbing in great heaves.

  “I’ll go,” Jared Fox unexpectedly volunteered. “If Mr. Flint will have me, that is. I’m the only man without a wife, and my sister can handle our wagon as well as I can.”

  Sloane frowned. “I suppose you are the logical choice. But I warn you to be on your guard. I’m aware that you hold Mr. Flint in high esteem. Just don’t let your misguided respect result in an early grave.” He raised his arms. “As for the rest of you, try to get some sleep. I will take the next watch to ensure we do not see a repeat of this horror.”

  They drifted toward their wagons. Some of the children were so upset they were weeping and sniffling.

  Cathy Fox knelt on Fargo’s blanket. “Sarah? You’re welcome to spend the night with me if you want. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  Sarah raised her head. “Who?” she said. Then, “Oh. Miss Fox. I would be grateful.” She limply raised an arm and Cathy helped her to her feet and had her lean on her.

  “Jared, you stay with Mr. Flint,” Cathy told her brother.

  Jared glanced at Fargo as if to ask, “Is it all right?,” and Fargo nodded.

  It was some time before the camp quieted. Peter Sloane marched around the perimeter, his rifle resting on his shoulder, military style. To the south a coyote yipped and was answered by another.

  “Are they real coyotes or Indians?” Jared asked. He was still standing and seemed ill at ease.

  “Real.” Fargo stretched out on his back and tried not to dwell on Mandy. She must be scared to death. He remembered a girl taken by Apaches a few years ago. Although her father and friends rescued her, she was never the same. All the vitality, the life, had gone out of her, and all she ever did was sit in a rocking chair and stare at the walls. “Have a seat.”

  “These Paiutes who took her. They won’t let us have her back without a fight, will they?”

  “It depends on how much they want her,” Fargo said. “Don’t worry. We’ll have surprise in our favor.”

  “I don’t see how it’s possible to sneak up on Indians. Their senses are so much sharper than ours.”

  “Yours, maybe,” Fargo said.

  “I wish I had your confidence. To be frank, the notion of hunting hostiles terrifies me. I’ve never fought Indians. I’ve never fought anyone. And I’ve certainly never killed anyone. I might not be much use to you.”

  “Then why did you offer to tag along?”

  “Someone had to. Mr. Sloane wouldn’t let it rest otherwise.” Jared smiled. “On the bright side, I’m the one person you can count on not to give you a hard time. He was right about my respecting you highly.”

  Fargo responded, “There’s not much to respect.”

  “You sell yourself too short, Mr. Flint
. I would give anything to be as you are, to live as you do. To be free to wander where the wind blew me. To never be beholden to anyone.”

  “Is that important?”

  “My pa always said that a man who crawls through life isn’t much of a man. He never backed down to anyone, just like you. I’ve tried to follow in his footsteps but I’m not half as tough as he was.”

  “Get some sleep.” Fargo pulled his hat low and closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was a pup lapping at his heels. He couldn’t watch his back and Jared’s both. “We have a hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  And there was no guarantee either of them would make it through alive.

  8

  Only two emigrants had spare horses and both were more used to the yoke of a plow than a saddle. Jared did his best to keep up but he had to constantly goad his mount, and he was not the best of riders.

  The sun was an hour high. They were miles from the wagon train, the tracks so plain, Fargo could ride as rapidly as the heat allowed.

  The Paiute had headed south at a trot, probably in the mistaken notion he would be pursued. When it became apparent no one was after him, he had slowed to a walk and held to that until he came to the foothills. Beyond, like stone ramparts, reared the mountains. Once among them, the Paiute bore to the southwest. Broken by ravines and canyons, they were a bewildering maze to anyone unfamiliar with their twists and turns.

  “I sure am thirsty,” Jared mentioned, wiping a sleeve across his profusely perspiring brow.

  “Try not to think about it,” Fargo said. Until they found water, their throats would stay parched.

  “I don’t see how anyone can live in this godforsaken country,” Jared commented. “I wouldn’t last a week on my own.”

  “It’s not for greenhorns,” Fargo said. In the wilds only the strongest survived. The land was a harsh mistress, and nature exacted a fatal price for mistakes.

  Jared squinted up at the blazing sun. “I never realized how good I had it back in Ohio. There’s a lot to be said for civilization and its many creature comforts.”

  “So long as you don’t mind living under someone else’s thumb,” Fargo said. They were rounding a crag. Suddenly they came on ruts scoured into the soil by the wheels of many wagons.

  “What are these?” Jared asked.

  “The wagon trains that came this way before yours.” And not one, Fargo reflected, was ever seen again. He was watching the high lines for the telltale gleam of the sun off a gun barrel and didn’t notice a new set of hoof prints until he was on top of them.

  Four riders on unshod horses had come from the west and linked up with Mandy’s abductor. They had talked a while, then headed deeper into the range.

  Jared leaned from his saddle to study them. “How far ahead of us would you say they are?”

  “Four to five hours.”

  “Then they could be anywhere by now,” Jared said. “That poor girl must be beside herself with fear.”

  Fargo did not care to be reminded. He gigged the Ovaro on. Presently they reached the broad mouth of a boulder-strewn canyon hemmed by sheer rock walls hundreds of feet high.

  “They went in there?” Jared apprehensively eyed the shadows. “We could ride right into an ambush.”

  Of more interest to Fargo was the flaring of the Ovaro’s nostrils and the bobbing of its head. He sniffed the air himself but all he smelled was dust. Shucking the Henry, he levered a round into the chamber and entered the canyon. Ahead was a sharp bend. He was almost to it when he, too, caught the unmistakable scent of water.

  At that instant, high on the west canyon wall, a shadow moved. Fargo snapped the Henry to his shoulder and took a hasty bead but either it had been a trick of his eyes or whoever or whatever was up there had ducked from sight. He lowered his rifle and rounded the bend, and all else was forgotten.

  A veritable paradise unfolded before them. Sarah had mentioned a spring that never went dry, and abundant grass. The spring was the size of a pond, the grass covered four to five acres. Trees also flourished, as did wildflowers.

  “It’s the Garden of Eden!” Jared exclaimed.

  Fargo tore his eyes from the water and concentrated on the three log buildings: a shed, an outhouse, and the trading post. All were well built. A white sign with large black letters read: BARNES TRADING POST. Under it, in smaller print, was WEARY WAYFARERS WELCOME.

  But the biggest surprise was the woman in a rocking chair on the porch. She had white hair done up in a bun and wore a freshly cleaned and ironed homespun dress. Spectacles were perched on the end of her nose. She was busily knitting and humming “Rock of Ages” to herself, and did not look up until they drew rein at the hitch rail. “How do you do?” she greeted them, her round, kindly, wrinkled face splitting in a warm smile. “Light and rest a spell.”

  Fargo saw that the Paiute tracks led right up to the same hitch rail, then the hoofprints went off up the canyon. “We’re looking for someone,” he brusquely announced.

  “Heavens to Betsy,” the old woman said, her hazel eyes twinkling. “You look fit to pin my ears back.”

  Jared started to dismount but Fargo glanced at him and shook his head, then pointed at the tracks. “A few Paiute ears will do. They stole a girl from a wagon train I’m guiding.”

  “Would she be a precious little eight-year-old bundle of joy who goes by the name of Mandy Yager?”

  “You’ve talked to her?” Fargo said.

  “Land sakes, yes. She about jabbered my ears off before she fell asleep.” The old woman wagged her knitting needles. “Those ornery Paiutes should be strung up by their thumbs for what they did. But I settled for telling them to make themselves scarce or I would blow out their wicks.” From under the half-done shawl in her lap she produced an old Walker Colt. “They knew I meant business.”

  “Then Mandy is here!” Jared declared.

  “Isn’t that what I just said, son?” the woman rejoined. “Use your head for something more than a hat rack.”

  Fargo was off the stallion and onto the porch in a lithe bound. He had his hand on the latch when the click of the Walker’s hammer rooted him in place.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me either,” the woman said. “She’s sleeping right now, and I would hate for her to be disturbed after all she’s been through.”

  “I just want to make sure she’s all right,” Fargo assured her. “She knows me. We’re friends.”

  “Says you. But I don’t know you from Adam. So why don’t we sit and have a nice chat while we wait for her to wake up?” The old woman trained the cumbersome Walker on Jared Fox. “The invite includes you, too. It’s been a coon’s age since I had company, and I do so love to hear the latest news.”

  “It hasn’t been that long,” Fargo said. “The Paiutes paid you a visit not long ago.”

  The woman’s hazel eyes lit with amusement. “Your point being, I gather, that I must be a Paiute myself?”

  Despite himself, Fargo laughed. “Not many settlers are friendly with renegades. I find it peculiar.”

  “Do you now?” the woman chortled. “Imagine those pesky Paiutes stopping at the only trading post to be found for hundreds of miles!”

  Jared said accusingly, “You do business with them?”

  “Sonny, I do business with anyone so long as they mind their elders.” She placed the big Colt in her lap. “Now where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself.” She bestowed another of those kindly smiles. “I’m Ethel Barnes. Grandma Barnes, my kin call me. Which I guess is why most folks have taken to calling me Granny Barnes.” Granny smiled sweetly. “Who might you be?”

  “I’m Jared Fox,” Jared introduced himself, “and this is Flint.”

  Granny stared at Fargo. “Would that be your last name or your first name, tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome?”

  Again Fargo laughed. “Both.”

  “How interesting. Your parents must have suffered from a deplorable lack of imagination or else they were powerful lazy.”

>   Jared stepped onto the porch, leaned his rifle against a post, and sat in a chair. “I can’t get over it, Granny Barnes. Meeting a nice lady like you in the middle of this awful land.”

  “Call me Granny, son. Everyone else does.” Granny gazed out over her oasis of life. “I fell in love with this spot the day we stumbled on it. We were out of water, out of food. Our horses were skin and bones. Another day and we’d have given up the ghost.”

  “ ‘We’?” Fargo said.

  “My husband, George, and I. We were bound for California and had heard from an old mountain man about a shortcut. This was, oh, about five years ago. We made it to California, sure enough, but then George up and died on me.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Granny,” Jared said. “I know what you went through. My sister and I lost our parents not long ago.”

  “Yes, well, it was George’s own fault,” Granny said. “He never did have much willpower, and his weakness killed him, you might say.” She began slowly rocking. “After I buried him, California didn’t appeal to me any more. So I came back here and set up my trading post.”

  “All by yourself?” Fargo asked.

  Granny twisted in the rocking chair and smacked the building. “Oh, sure. I chopped and trimmed and moved all these heavy logs by my lonesome.” She chuckled. “I hired some men. Kept two of them on to pilot folks who might want to take the Barnes Trail.” She fixed her hazel eyes on him, the light of friendliness fading. “You killed one of them, Mr. Flint.”

  “Swink has been here,” Fargo said.

  “Been and gone. He told me Raskum was trifling with one of the women and you shot him. Is that how it went?”

  Fargo nodded.

  “Well then, good riddance to bad rubbish. I never much liked Raskum but it’s hard to get good help in these parts.” Granny sighed. “And now Swink has pulled up stakes, too. You had him plumb scared, Mr. Flint. He says you’re a natural-born killer.” She paused. “Is that true too?”