Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page A

early afternoon the foothills were behind and below him.
    Twisting in the saddle, Fargo saw the ranch buildings in the distance and the spread of prairie to the east.
    He went on climbing.
    There was plenty of animal sign. Deer were numerous, and he saw a few elk. Smaller game were everywhere.
    It was the middle of the afternoon when he stopped at a stream to let the Ovaro drink and knelt to take a sip himself.
    Not inches away was the day-old track of a bear. By its size and the pads and the claws, he knew it was a black bear print and not a griz. Black bears were usually harmless. They’d run at the sight of a man on horseback where a griz might decide it was hungry.
    For half a mile or so he had a feathered companion. A jay flew from tree to tree and squawked at him as if it shared the Blackfoot dislike for white invaders. Finally it wearied of insulting him and winged off.
    At one point a squirrel set up a considerable racket.
    If the Blackfeet heard it, they’d likely investigate. But they didn’t appear.
    Shortly after, he came on horse tracks.
    The horse was shod so the rider must be white. One of the bull hunters, Fargo reckoned. The prints were larger than most, and he recollected that the farmer, Humphries, had been riding an oversized plow horse.
    Fargo hadn’t gone fifty more yards when cap rock spread before him.
    And there, at its edge, lay a body.

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    Fargo drew rein.
    The bib overalls confirmed his hunch. There was no sign of the plow horse.
    Palming his Colt, Fargo dismounted. He warily advanced until he was behind a tree near the dead farmer.
    Humphries was sprawled belly-down, his head twisted to one side, his eyes wide open. He didn’t wear a pistol but he’d had a rifle in a scabbard on the plow horse. Evidently, he’d been killed before he could grab it.
    Fargo eased from concealment. When nothing happened, he hunkered and rolled the body over. He had to use both hands, the man was so heavy.
    The cause of death was obvious: a knife wound to the heart.
    Since Humphries would never let the Blackfeet get that close—and he still had his hair—it ruled out the war party. Whoever stuck the knife in him had been white. Someone Humphries let come right up to him. Someone he wouldn’t have suspected.
    Based on how warm the body was, Fargo guessed that the farmer hadn’t been dead half an hour, if that. The killer couldn’t have gone far.
    He straightened and saw two people standing and staring down at him from a little higher up and off to the right. They had the reins to their mounts in their hands, and when he set eyes on them, the woman gave a friendly wave.
    Glyn and Aramone Richmond led their horses down. Glyn also held a lead rope to their pack animal. Both acted surprised when they saw Humphries.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Glyn said.
    â€œWe stopped to rest and saw you come out of the trees,” Aramone said.
    â€œYou didn’t notice the body?” Fargo asked.
    â€œFrom up where we were you can’t see it,” Glyn said, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you kill him?”
    â€œWhy the hell would I?”
    â€œHow would I know?” Glyn said. “I don’t know a thing about you. Or him, for that matter.”
    â€œThat works both ways,” Fargo said.
    â€œPlease, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Aramone interjected, glancing at her brother. “It could have been anyone who killed this poor man.”
    Even you, Fargo thought, but he kept that to himself.
    â€œWell, this is just dandy,” Glyn said. “We must have a murderer among us.”
    â€œWe should bury him,” Aramone said.
    â€œWithout a shovel or a pick?” Glyn responded. “We’d waste an hour or more, as hard as the ground is.”
    â€œIt’s wrong to just leave him there like that,” Aramone said.
    â€œHow so? We don’t know him. We don’t owe him anything.”
    Aramone appealed to