Mountain Manhunt Page 6

  The other two tables were for the help, and since there wasn’t enough room for all of them to eat at the same time, they had to take turns.

  “Now then,” Teague said, clearing his throat, “with that little unpleasantness out of the way, suppose we enjoy ourselves?”

  “I’m afraid it’s spoiled my appetite,” Melantha said glumly. “I couldn’t eat if I tried.”

  “Regard it as you would killing a mouse or a rat,” Teague said. “Vermin are the same, whether two-legged or four-legged.”

  “That’s rather harsh,” Leslie said. “He was a human being, after all.”

  “You make it sound as if that’s something to be proud of,” Teague responded. “As if being human somehow makes us better than the rest of the creatures that share this planet.”

  Sam Beckman stirred to say, “In case you ain’t heard, sonny, we are better. We were put here to be the lords of all creation, just like in the Garden of Eden.”

  Teague Synnet grinned. “I stopped believing in fairy tales when I was seven. That was the year one of my friends succumbed to smallpox and my dog was run over by a carriage. It taught me the most important truth life has to teach.”

  “Which is?” Beckman prompted.

  “We’re born, we live, we die. There are no grand distinctions to be made between the animal kingdom and our own because we are all animals. Only we rely on our brains more to survive.”

  Sam Beckman shook his head. “I’ll never buy that in a million years. You don’t see buffalo building cities, do you? You don’t see grizzlies living in log cabins? Or eagles teaching their young to read and write.”

  “All of which proves absolutely nothing,” Teague argued, “except that we need more protection from the elements than most animals, and that eagles don’t waste their time teaching their young anything that won’t make them better hunters.”

  “You really believe that silliness?” Beckman marveled. “So what does that make us, exactly?”

  “We’re predators, pure and simple. The only difference between grizzlies or tigers or lions and us is one of degree. We’re better at killing because we’re more clever than they are.”

  “I pity you,” Beckman said.

  Teague’s icy features became icier and he was about to say more when Fargo commented, “You wanted to ask me something?”

  It was a few seconds before Teague answered. “Yes. Yes I did. But it can wait until after we eat.”

  Hesperos had returned with two underlings in white aprons bearing trays of food. It was just as Hesperos had promised: roast venison smothered in onions, fresh bread layered with butter, lima beans, of all things, carrots, too, brought from the States, as well as various pastries, Saratoga chips and more.

  Fargo was famished. He had two helpings of everything except the lima beans and was washing it down with his second cup of steaming hot coffee when Teague Synnet pushed his plate back.

  “Now then, suppose we talk business? As you’ve noticed, our guide, Mr. Beckman, suffered an injury which has proven a major inconvenience. He can’t walk without that crutch and he can’t ride all that well without suffering great pain.”

  “Stupid prairie dogs,” Beckman muttered.

  Teague barely paused. “Which leaves us without someone to guide us on the next leg of our hunt. We want to go up into the high country, as it’s called. High up in the mountains where the elk are plentiful.” He pointed at the Gros Ventre Range. “We want to go where few whites have ever gone before.”

  Fargo swallowed more coffee.

  “So I would like to hire you as a guide for the duration,” Teague revealed. “You will receive the same pay as Mr. Beckman, two hundred dollars a week, with a hundred dollar bonus if you get us back to civilization alive and well.” He paused. “What do you say?”

  “No,” Fargo said.

  Teague Synnet blinked in surprise. Beckman sat straighter, Leslie frowned, and Shelly’s lower lip quivered.

  “Might I ask why?” Teague inquired.

  “Those mountains aren’t for amateurs,” Fargo said. Which was the absolute truth. So far the Easterners had been lucky. They hadn’t encountered a hostile war party. But if they went up into the Gros Ventre Range, they pushed their luck to the breaking point, and then some.

  “I see,” Teague said stiffly. “That could be construed as an insult but I’ll extend you the benefit of the doubt and point out that I and my associates are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. We have survived the darkest jungles of deepest Africa. We have penetrated into the steaming swampland of ancient India and emerged unscathed. A few savages with bows and arrows do not scare us.”

  “They should,” Fargo said. “Warriors can fire their bows as fast as you fire your rifle, and an arrow is every bit as deadly as a bullet.”

  “Even so—” Teague began, but Fargo did not let him finish.

  “Hostiles aren’t your only worry. Those mountains are home to some of the biggest grizzlies on the continent. Grizzlies that have no fear of man. And let’s not forget that your horses will attract every mountain lion and wolf within miles. And then there are the elements.”

  “We’re to worry about the weather too?” Teague said, and laughed.

  “If you have any brains.” Fargo did not mince words. “Up there it can change without warning, from warm to cold, from dry to wet. And it’s easy to become lost. Easier than you might imagine.”

  “Oh, please,” Teague said. “Haven’t you been listening? In Africa the jungles are so thick you can’t see the sky for the trees. I never once became lost. In India, there are tigers every bit as ferocious as your grizzlies, and snakes that can swallow a man whole. The very idea that we would be in greater danger up there than anywhere else is preposterous.”

  “My answer is still no.”

  Teague did not hide his disappointment. “Very well. But our minds are made up. We leave in the morning.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Leslie said. “Although I would like to take more clothes along. Three outfits isn’t anywhere near enough.”

  “We must travel light, sister mine,” Teague said, “as I’ve told you over and over. The fewer pack horses, the better.”

  Fargo looked across the table at Leslie. “You’re going too?”

  “All of us are,” Leslie said, motioning at her friends. She clasped her hands and gazed longingly toward the distant peaks. “Just think. We’ll be the first white women to set foot up there.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Shelly chimed in.

  Sam Beckman made a sound reminiscent of a chicken being strangled. “I’ve tried to tell them. I’ve warned them of what they’re in for but they don’t believe me. They think it will be like taking a stroll in a city park.”

  “I’ve made no such assertion,” Teague said. “We’re not the simpletons you make us out to be. We’re fully aware of the perils involved. We’re also supremely confident we can overcome them.”

  “Confidence won’t deflect a Blood lance,” Beckman said, “or turn aside a charging bear. The only thing confidence is good for is getting you killed.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” Teague Synnet said.

  And there the matter stood until after supper, when Fargo spotted Leslie and Melantha by a fire, chatting. He ambled over. “I’d like a word with you ladies, if you don’t mind.”

  “If it’s about our trip tomorrow, you can save your breath,” Leslie said. “We’re going and that’s final.”

  Fargo had said it before but he said it again. “You don’t know what you are letting yourselves in for.”

  “And you don’t know how tough we are,” Leslie said with a confidence born of ignorance.

  Melantha had her two bits to offer. “Beside, we’re not about to let the men have all the fun. We’ve been cooped up in camp for days while they’ve been exploring and becoming familiar with the terrain.”

  Fargo could have pointed out that becoming familiar with the countryside bordering
a mountain range did not prepare them for the mountains themselves, but he didn’t.

  “We’d like to do some hunting of our own,” Leslie disclosed. “I’m a pretty fair shot, if I say so myself. And Melantha here can drop a deer at fifty paces.”

  Melantha grinned. “Or a hostile if one dares show his painted face.”

  From across the way came Shelly and Susan, linked arm in arm. Whispering and giggling, they ignored the lecherous stares of a few of the helpers.

  “Skye!” Shelly exclaimed. “We’ve been looking all over for you. How would you like to join us for a moonlit walk?”

  Fargo glanced up. The moon was nowhere in the sky. “Another time,” he said. Under different circumstances he would have laughed at the disbelief on their faces. “I have something to do.”

  Teague Synnet and Garrick Whirtle were perched in chairs in front of Teague’s tent, sipping brandy in the glow of a lantern.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the man whose concern for our welfare is so touching,” Teague dryly remarked.

  “His concern isn’t for us,” Garrick said, swirling the brandy in his glass, “so much as it is for the ladies. One lady in particular.”

  “Do tell.” Teague waited for Fargo to say something, and when he didn’t, Teague asked, “What may we do for you?”

  “A week’s ride to the south are more mountains,” Fargo informed them, “with plenty of elk and bear and other game. It’s in Shoshone country, and the Shoshones are friendly.”

  “So we would be in less danger? Is that it?” Teague leaned back. “I appreciate the sentiment but you’re missing the whole point of our expeditions.”

  “Which is?”

  “We like danger, Mr. Fargo. You could say we thrive on it. We don’t travel all over the world for the hunting alone. Hell, we can hunt anywhere. It’s the added dangers that appeal to us. Headhunters, cannibals, hostile red savages, that sort of thing. Do you understand now?”

  Fargo slowly nodded. “I understand that one day you’ll get yourselves killed.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Teague shrugged. “But we’ll die knowing we’ve lived our lives to the fullest. So I’m afraid I must decline your offer. It’s the Gros Ventre Range for us. With or without your help.”

  “With,” Fargo heard himself say.

  “Oh?” Teague’s smile was a barb in itself. “Changed your mind, have you? Very well. I’m not the kind to hold a grudge. Be ready to lead us out at dawn.”

  “Just one condition,” Fargo said. “What I say goes. I don’t want to take more risks than we have to.”

  “You’re the scout,” Teague Synnet said, and both he and Garrick Whirtle laughed.

  8

  From the start there were problems. When Teague Synnet picked ten men to accompany the hunters into the high country, several balked out of fear for their lives. As one put it, “Here in camp we have enough guns to hold off most any war party. But once we’re up in those mountains, with so few of us along, we’re liable to have our hair lifted.”

  Teague solved the situation by offering an extra one hundred dollars to each man who agreed to go along.

  Then there was the packhorse issue. Fargo thought they were overburdened. In addition to ammunition, the animals carried enough food to last a month, plus two tents. “We can eat game we shoot,” he said to Teague, “and sleep out under the stars.” Which would free up the packhorses to tote more elk meat down.

  “Be serious,” Teague responded. “The women have never slept on the ground in their lives and they are not about to start now. As for the food, it’s always prudent to have too much rather than too little. The packhorses stay as they are.”

  Once underway, Fargo had to repeatedly ride back along the line and tell the women not to bunch up. He wanted everyone to ride in single file, spaced at ten-yard intervals to make it harder for hostiles to successfully ambush them, but the women would forget after a while and bunch up again.

  The fourth time Fargo rode back, Leslie looked him in the eyes and said, “You’re a regular nag, do you know that? How can we talk if we’re spaced so far apart? Part of the fun is gabbing our little hearts out, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  Like brother, like sister, Fargo thought, and got in a parting volley. “Talking to some people is like talking to a tree stump. If we’re attacked, you’ll wish you had listened.”

  “If we’re attacked, the last thing the savages will do is shoot four women,” Leslie said. “They’ll want to drag us off to their lodges and have their way with us. Or so everybody says.”

  At that Melantha giggled. “I wonder what it’s like to do it with an Indian? I bet they like it rough and hard.”

  “Melantha!” Susan exclaimed.

  “Oh, please,” the redhead said. “You can’t say you haven’t thought about it. In India you were the one who got all excited over that guy who could bend himself into a knot. You spent two whole days in bed with him, as I recall.”

  Susan Whirtle glanced toward the front of the line. “Hush, damn you! Do you want my brother to find out? He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

  Fargo tried one last time. “About bunching up, ladies—”

  “Oh, not that again,” Leslie said, and fluttered her fingers. “Go annoy someone else.”

  Fargo was not in the best of moods when he called a halt at noon to rest and water the horses. They had gone only five miles, and the worst terrain was still ahead. He moved apart from the rest, dismounted, and lay flat on his stomach to drink from a rapidly flowing stream. Beside him the Ovaro noisily slaked its own thirst. As a result, he did not hear the foot-steps of someone coming up behind him until they were close enough to reach out and touch him. Instinctively, he jumped and whirled. “Oh. It’s only you.”

  “Is that any way to greet someone?” Melantha Courtland asked. Clasping her hands, she swivelled her hips and scanned the forest. “My goodness, aren’t these woods thick? They could hide a thousand primitives and we wouldn’t know it.”

  “Indians aren’t primitive,” Fargo said more gruffly than he intended.

  “They’re not? What else do you call it when people wear animal hides and live in hide tents? Why, I hear the women use bear fat in their hair.”

  “Indian women take as much pride in their hair as you do in yours,” Fargo said. “They like pretty dresses and nice moccasins and whatnot.”

  Grinning mischievously, Melantha ran a hand down the front of her dress and along her right thigh. “My dress is the latest fashion in Paris and New York. Not the smelly, sweaty skin off a deer.”

  Fargo considered picking her up and tossing her into the stream. “Indian women keep themselves and their clothes as clean as you do.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Melantha stubbornly insisted. “I buy scented soap and the most expensive perfumes.” She held her left wrist toward his nose. “Here. Take a sniff and tell me what you think.”

  The scent was tantalizing but Fargo refused to give her the satisfaction. “I’ve smelled better.”

  Melantha jerked her arm down. “Where? On an Indian maiden, I assume?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Fargo recollected one Flathead woman, in particular, whose skin was as fragrant as a bed of flowers.

  “Oh really? And I suppose you would rather lay with a red woman than a white woman?”

  Fargo shrugged. “Breasts are breasts.” He meant to defuse her anger but he misjudged the depth of her bigotry.

  “Sleeping with squaws is no better than sleeping with sheep,” Melantha snapped. “Any white man who would stoop that low isn’t much of a man at all in my estimation. Why, I suppose you’ve slept with Mexican women, too?”

  “And loved every minute of it,” Fargo confirmed.

  Melantha’s mouth curled in disgust. “Here I thought you were something special. But you’re no better than an alley cat.”

  Fargo snagged the Ovaro’s reins and turned to go. “Don’t let it bother you
.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last woman alive. Not even if you begged me.”

  Her nostrils flaring, Melantha cocked her hand to smack his face. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

  In a twinkling Fargo had seized her wrist and twisted, causing her to gasp in pain. She tried to draw back but he didn’t let go. “I wouldn’t try that again, if I were you.”

  “You would strike a woman?” Melantha was aghast.

  “As a general rule, no,” Fargo said. “But there have been exceptions, and I wouldn’t mind making one in your case.” He shoved her from him and walked off, leaving her red-faced and shaking with barely suppressed anger. He had been harsh with her but she deserved it. He never could abide folks who thought the color of their skin made them better than those of a different color.

  Suddenly Garrick Whirtle was there, jabbing a finger into his chest. “What was that all about? Melantha looks terribly upset.”

  “None of your business.” Fargo started to shoulder past him but Garrick grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  “I’m not through, mister. We still haven’t settled the little matter of you fooling around with Shelly.”

  “Then I should do that now,” Fargo said, and slugged him. He landed a solid punch to the side of the jaw that crumpled Whirtle in his tracks, unconscious. Without a backward glance Fargo moved across the glade to where the rest of the horses were grazing.

  Teague Synnet and Anson Landers had witnessed the whole thing. Anson was mad but Teague was grinning. “Our first day out and already things have become interesting. Garrick and Melantha will never forgive you, you know.”

  “Think I care?” Fargo regretted agreeing to lead them. He remembered Sam Beckman’s final words of advice right before they rode out at daybreak: “Watch your back, hoss. The desert ain’t the only place where you find sidewinders.”

  “I don’t like your attitude, Fargo,” Anson Landers remarked. “If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t be here.”