Northwoods Nightmare by Jon Sharpe

man said something, and the man in the middle raised an arm and waved.
    â€œHell,” Fargo said.
    They moved toward the stand.
    Fargo started to curse.
    The first prospector and his mule entered the pines. Then the second, and the third. Fargo couldn’t see any of them. He listened for war whoops and shots but the canyon was quiet, save for the river and the wind.
    Fargo dropped into a crouch. “Where the hell are you?”
    A mule came out of the other side of the stand. Then the second animal. But not the third. Both were trotting.
    Then a prospector staggered out, his hands over his belly. Ropy coils of intestines were spilling out. The prospector weaved. He cried off. He looked up at Fargo, and stepped off the trail into space. He screamed all the way down.
    Fargo swore some more. Something brushed the back of his head. A fly, he thought, and swatted at it.
    But it wasn’t a fly.
    It was a gun barrel.

11
    If the Knife warrior had simply snuck up on him, put the muzzle of the rifle to the back of Fargo’s head, and pulled the trigger without saying anything, Fargo would have died then and there. But Fargo was in luck; the warrior wanted to take him alive. Instead of shooting, he commanded, “Not move, white dog.”
    But even as the warrior spoke, Fargo sidestepped and whirled. He moved so fast that although the warrior instantly fired, the slug tore through empty space instead of Fargo’s head.
    Fargo dropped the Henry but only so he could grab the barrel of the warrior’s rifle and wrench it from the surprised man’s grasp.
    The Knife sprang back and resorted to his blade.
    Reversing his grip, Fargo swung the rifle like a club. It was an old single-shot flintlock, heavy and long. The warrior ducked, or tried to; the stock clipped him across the temple. Stunned, he staggered back, gave his head a few hard shakes, and recovered.
    A vicious snarl twisted his features.
    â€œI’m not your enemy,” Fargo said, doubting it would do any good. He was right.
    The Knife hissed and attacked, coming in swift and low, his blade spearing at Fargo’s groin. Fargo swung at the man’s wrist to knock the knife from his hand, but the warrior sprang to one side and circled.
    Fargo did some swift thinking. The warrior must be with those below. Maybe he was their lookout. Or maybe they had horses hidden for a getaway and this one was watching the horses.
    Fargo did the unexpected. He threw the rifle at him. The man skipped aside and the rifle missed, as Fargo knew it would. But throwing it bought him the split second he needed to draw his Colt and thumb back the hammer. He almost fired. But then he remembered Teit saying that one of the young warriors was her brother, and how sad she would be if anything happened to him. The odds were slim that this was the one. But Fargo had learned the hard way that life had a habit of springing unwanted surprises. “Are you Teit’s brother?”
    The young warrior had turned to stone when the Colt materialized in Fargo’s hand. He glanced from the six-shooter to Fargo’s face and his dark eyes glittered hate. But he didn’t attack. “You know Teit?”
    â€œI met her and her grandfather, Chelahit. They’re coming back from visiting his brother.”
    Uncertainty replaced some of the hate. “I not her brother.” He began to back toward the trees.
    â€œI can’t let you leave,” Fargo said. “Your friends killed white men down in the canyon.”
    â€œWe kill all whites!” the warrior boasted. “This land ours. We not want whites here. Leave!”
    Fargo extended his arm. “Not another step.”
    With supreme contempt, the warrior turned. “You want kill, shoot me in back.” And with that, he jogged into the woods.
    Against his better judgment Fargo let him go. He had a feeling he would regret it. Unhappy with himself, he let down the hammer and twirled the Colt into his