Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe

want that. It’s our bull, after all.”
    â€œClementine,” Jim said.
    â€œHush. I have a right to do this and I will.” She stared at the retreating figure of Esther on a mule. “Mr. Fargo, I’d like for you to look after them.”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œYou heard right. I’m willing to pay you a hundred dollars of my own money if you’ll keep an eye on them so they don’t come to harm.”
    Fargo looked at Tyler.
    â€œIt wasn’t my idea.”
    â€œIt’s mine,” Clementine said. “A hundred dollars is no small amount. All you’d have to do is keep your eyes and ears peeled and if any of them get into trouble, you help them out.”
    Fargo didn’t know where to begin. He tried with, “Ma’am, there are twenty or more. I can’t keep watch over all of them.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to. I know you want to hunt for Thunderhead yourself. But as you’re hunting, do what you can.”
    Jim Tyler frowned. “You’re asking an awful lot of him, dear.”
    â€œI know.” Clementine squeezed Fargo’s hand and patted his arm. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She turned and stepped to the screen door and Jim opened it for her and they went in.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Fargo said.

15
    The range that Thunderhead had wandered off into didn’t have a name yet. Neither did many of the rivers and streams and lakes. Much of the territory was unexplored, let alone settled.
    Some would call it a subrange. The highest peaks, Fargo had heard, pushed two miles up, and seemed to brush the clouds.
    Granite slabs and stretches of flat rock were everywhere. The forests were mostly pine but there were firs and aspens, too.
    There were no towns and no settlements and, except for a few trappers and mountain men, no whites, either. The Blackfeet roamed it, as they had for who knew how long, and resented any and all intrusions.
    Fargo had passed through the range several times in his many wanderings but didn’t know it all that well.
    Now, as he climbed the foothills, he pondered the state of affairs and wondered if he wasn’t making a mistake.
    First off, while Thunderhead was supposed to be an exceptionally large bull, finding him, when he had the entire range to hide in, was like looking for that well-known needle in a haystack.
    Second, with over twenty bounty hunters searching, it would be luck more than anything for him to find it before anyone else. Granted, most were as green as grass and had no business being there, but greed always brought out the stupid in people.
    He had no intention of acting as their nursemaid, Clementine Tyler or no. Whatever calamities befell them were on their shoulders, not his.
    Then there was the war party. Once the Blackfeet became aware that a lot of whites had entered the range, they might take it into their heads to count as many coup as they could.
    Fargo rubbed his chin and raised his head. He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t been paying much attention to his surroundings. Now he focused on the next hill he had to cross before he reached the mountains and caught a flash of sunlight similar to the one he’d spotted back in town the day before.
    Instantly, Fargo reined to the left. The whizz of lead preceded the far-off boom of the shot by a full second and a half.
    Bending low over the saddle horn, Fargo used his spurs.
    He’d almost forgotten about the Hollisters, but they sure as hell hadn’t forgotten about him. Rance and that Sharps of his were becoming more than a nuisance.
    Fargo flew into some pines. He drew rein, half expecting Rance to fire into the trees to try to pick him off. But Rance didn’t waste the lead.
    After waiting a while, Fargo continued on into the mountains, using every scrap of cover there was. The thickest trees, bluffs and rises he could keep between him and higher up—those sorts of things.
    By