Free Beartooth Incident by Jon Sharpe Page B

was deep in the trees. He figured we were less likely to be visited by hostiles.”
    Fargo grunted. Yes, the cabin was well hidden, but the smoke from the chimney gave their presence away just as surely.
    The valley floor was mostly open. Again, Frank had liked it that way. “He had dreams of a big cattle ranch someday,” Mary related. “With hundreds of heads of cattle.”
    Again Fargo grunted. Even if Frank Harper’s dream had come true, it would have taken Harper weeks—no, months—to get his cattle to market, and by the time he got them there, the cows would be so worn-out, it was doubtful he would get top dollar.
    The more Fargo learned of Frank Harper, the more the man impressed him as one of those dreamers whose grand schemes seldom amounted to much.
    “Frank figured that one day there’ll be towns and settlements out here. We’d be well set by then, and live prosperous and happy.”
    Again Fargo grunted.
    “Why do you keep doing that? Didn’t my food agree with you?”
    “I’ve never tasted better.”
    “It’s my husband, isn’t it? You don’t agree with how he thought things would be.”
    Fargo shrugged and felt his shoulder blades rub her bosom. “There’s an old saying about not speaking ill of the dead.”
    “I’m a grown woman. I can take it.”
    Fargo turned his head to look at her. Her face was so close, his mouth almost brushed her cheek. “Your husband was a good man. He tried to do right by you and the kids.” He chose his next comment carefully. “But he wasn’t very practical.”
    “No, he wasn’t. He had his head in the clouds. I didn’t want to come here. I honestly didn’t. But he had his heart set on it. He believed we’d be happy and I let him convince me we would, even though I knew how hard we would have it.”
    “A lot of men would give anything to have a wife like you.”
    “What a nice thing to say.” Mary paused. “How about you? Any plans to ever get hitched?”
    Fargo suppressed the urge to grin. “No.”
    “Not ever in your entire life long?”
    “None whatsoever.”
    “Oh.”
    They rode in silence for a bit save for the clomp of the sorrel’s hooves and the swish of the snow. Ahead, a flurry of black wings rose from the first of the dead wolves.
    “How do they do that?” Mary wondered. “How do they find dead things to eat in all this vast emptiness?”
    Fargo shrugged again. He liked rubbing against her. “Buzzards have their ways.”
    A half dozen were feasting on the second wolf. They rose into the air as Fargo rode up.
    “Look at that. They’ve picked it down to the bone. Another week and you’d never know there had been a live animal.”
    Fargo couldn’t seem to stop grunting. He rode on, to near the bottom of the cliff, and gazed up in wonder, amazed he had survived the fall.
    “You slid over that ?” Mary asked.
    Fargo pointed at the hole in the snow where he had hit. The proximity of several boulders made him queasy.
    “You were awful lucky. Either that, or the Good Lord was watching over you.”
    “Don’t start with that miracle stuff.”
    “As you wish. But you’ve got to admit you’re lucky to be breathing.”
    “We all are,” Fargo said. He reined along the base of the mountain and presently came on horse tracks that came down the slope and pointed in the direction of the Harper place.
    “Tull’s,” Mary guessed.
    There were no others. Nor did Fargo find any in the circuit he made of the valley. Eventually they came back to the stream, and Fargo stopped to let the sorrel drink. They both climbed down. He stepped to the water and saw that it was frozen along the edges. All it would take was for the temperature to fall a few more degrees and the entire stream would freeze.
    Mary had her arms around herself and was stamping her feet. He could see her breath.
    “Mercy me, it’s cold. I can’t wait to sit next to the fire.”
    The cold didn’t bother Fargo as much. He was used to it. But it gave him second thoughts about a