Free Idaho Gold Fever by Jon Sharpe Page B

the Nez Perce know we’re here yet.”
    “But you can’t be sure,” someone remarked.
    “There’s one way to find out,” Gore said. “We must send someone to spy on them and learn what they are up to.”
    “It will be awful dangerous,” Lester said. “Who did you have in mind?”
    Victor Gore’s gaze drifted to Fargo, and everyone imitated him. “I was hoping for a volunteer.”
    “Hell,” Skye Fargo said.

9
    There were twenty-four, not eighteen.
    The hoof prints told Fargo that much. They also told him the Nez Perce hadn’t camped overnight at the clearing where Victor Gore told Fargo he had spotted them. The tracks led through the clearing and out the other side without stopping.
    It raised a couple of questions in Fargo’s mind. Why did Gore tell him the Nez Perce were camped there when they weren’t? And what were the Nez Perce doing there to begin with? If they were painted for war, as Gore claimed, they were either planning to raid an enemy or coming back from a raid.
    Either way, the tracks plainly pointed to the east. The wagon train was to the south. So the settlers were safe enough for the time being.
    But now Fargo had a decision to make. He could ride back and tell Gore and Winston all was well or he could make certain all was well by following the war party a short way to be sure they didn’t stay in the area.
    Fargo swore and gigged the Ovaro to the east.
    By then the sun was only a few degrees above the horizon. Sparrows chirped in the brush. Several deer watched him go by without showing any fear. A squirrel leaped from limb to limb high in the trees. All signs that the woods were peaceful. But Fargo wasn’t fooled. The wilds were a fickle mistress—peaceful one moment, erupting into violence the next. He rode with his hand on his Colt. Every so often he rose in the stirrups to scan the terrain ahead.
    The shadows lengthened. Soon the bright glare of day would give way to the spectral gray of twilight.
    Fargo pondered as he rode. It bothered him that he couldn’t figure out what Rinson and the other so-called protectors were up to, or how, exactly, Victor Gore fit into the scheme of things. Gore had talked the farmers into hiring Rinson but he might have felt he was doing the farmers a favor.
    It bothered Fargo, too, that the farmers wouldn’t listen to his advice and get the hell out of Nez Perce country while they still could. No valley, no matter how ideal, was worth the price the farmers would pay when the Nez Perce found out they were there.
    Then there was Rachel. Fargo had taken a shine to the girl and didn’t want her harmed. He had half a mind to throw her over his saddle and take her away by force when he left.
    Engrossed in his musing, Fargo forgot to rise in the stirrups. He was jolted back into the real world when the Ovaro suddenly stopped of its own accord and pricked its ears.
    Fargo looked up, and wanted to kick himself. He had nearly blundered onto the Nez Perce. Quickly reining into cover, he bent low over the saddle horn.
    Mounted Nez Perce were winding through the woods. With a start, Fargo realized it wasn’t the entire war party but only six warriors, and they were coming toward him, not moving away.
    Fargo firmed his grip on the reins. He wondered if the six were looking for him, although he couldn’t see how that could be. He had been careful not to cross open areas. And his Henry, with its shiny brass receiver that could flash in the sun and give him away, was snug in his saddle scabbard.
    Gore had been right about one thing. The warriors, and their mounts, were painted for war. One horse bore the stick figure of a man to show its owner had ridden an enemy down in combat. Another had a crescent high on its front leg and the symbol for a bow on a rear leg to show that the warrior had fought in a battle at night.
    The Nez Perce were casting about for sign, and four had arrows nocked to the sinew strings of their bows.
    They were hunting, Fargo guessed. War