Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page B

proof it wasn’t the Blackfeet. He rigged a lead rope and slipped it over each.
    They would slow him down. But his only recourse was to point them down the mountain and smack them on the rump, and they might die untended.
    By noon he was close to where the trappers must have seen Thunderhead. He scoured for sign, and it wasn’t ten minutes later that he sat staring down at week-old tracks.
    â€œGod in heaven,” he breathed.
    They were huge. The largest hoofprints he’d ever come across. Thunderhead wasn’t just a bull. He was a monster.
    When Fargo squatted and held his hand to one of the tracks, his fingers weren’t long enough to reach the other side.
    Straightening, he scanned the timber above. He didn’t spot the bull.
    But he did see the Blackfeet.

24
    There were seven. They were descending an open slope in single file. Even at that distance, Fargo saw their war paint.
    Quickly, Fargo pulled the Ovaro and the mule and the packhorse into cover. He prayed the Blackfeet hadn’t caught sight of him. He would rather avoid them than fight. This was their land, not his. He was just another invader.
    When the mule and the packhorse were swallowed by forest, he climbed on the Ovaro and rode due north. His aim was to swing wide of the war party. But he hadn’t gone half a mile when he looked back and there they were.
    They’d seen him, all right.
    And they were after him.
    â€œHell,” Fargo growled.
    Since he couldn’t outrun them leading the extras, he reluctantly let go of the lead rope and used his spurs. He needn’t worry that the mule and the packhorse would be eaten. The Blackfeet weren’t like the Apaches, to whom a roasted horse, or mule, was delicious.
    Too, Fargo figured the war party would stop to claim their prizes, buying him time to increase his lead. But the Blackfeet left only one warrior to handle them and the rest came on at a gallop.
    Fargo was careful not to push the Ovaro too hard. Its stamina was second to none, and if he did this smart, he could outlast them.
    The thought of “smart” make him think of the three freckled kids. They were lucky the Blackfeet saw him and not them. Could be that the Blackfeet would take them prisoner, rather than kill them, and possibly adopt them into the tribe.
    The next time Fargo looked back, he couldn’t see the war party. He expected them to appear out of the trees but they didn’t.
    He stopped to give the Ovaro a brief breather, and that was when he spotted them again.
    The wily warriors had split. Three had borne to the west and three to the east, and now they were coming on fast. Their intent was clear. To catch him between them.
    Fargo pushed on to a broad ridge. Deadfall covered the next slope. Firs, hundreds of them, lay as if flattened by a tempest. He skirted them and came to the top and stopped.
    He needed to discourage the war party and this was as good a spot as any. Shucking the Henry from his saddle scabbard, he roosted on a convenient stump.
    It wasn’t long before the warriors to the east broke into the open, followed shortly after by the warriors to the west. They signaled one another and met up at the bottom of the deadfall.
    They weren’t quite in range yet but Fargo brought the Henry to his shoulder. Two warriors appeared to be arguing over something. Maybe whether to keep on after him.
    The argument ended and they moved to come around the tangle as he’d done.
    Fargo sat motionless except for thumbing back the Henry’s hammer. When he was sure, he held his breath to steady the rifle and stroked the trigger.
    The lead warrior jerked at the impact and clutched his shoulder but wasn’t unhorsed. The whole war party immediately turned and streaked to the bottom.
    Fargo smiled. That should discourage them. Hopping off the stump, he shoved the Henry into the scabbard, forked leather, and rode like a bat out of Hades for pretty near half an hour. The next time he