and to the rear. Flankers moved off to either side. And then, at a shout from Victor Gore, the covered wagons lumbered northward, heading deeper into the dark heart of the wild.
Gore asked Fargo to ride with him.
Fargo didn’t mind. He had been looking for an excuse to pump the man for more information about the Payette River Valley, and maybe glean a hint as to what Gore was really up to. But to Fargo’s surprise, by the middle of the morning he was convinced the former trapper truly did come west again for one last glimpse of his old haunts.
Gore was quite the talker. He went on and on about his trapping days, about the streams he had worked and the plews he had raised. He mentioned how much he missed the annual rendezvous the trappers held.
“Yes, sir. Those were the days,” Gore said fondly. “We were paid hundreds if not thousands for our peltries, and then spent most of it drinking and gambling and outfitting for the next season.”
“You sound as if you would gladly live those times all over again,” Fargo remarked.
“Would I ever! I was young. I was carefree. I lived on the raw edge.” Gore beamed. “Those were some of the best years of my life.”
The heyday of the trappers was a little before Fargo’s time. He had trapped on a few occasions, though, and sold a few mink and ermine pelts, among others.
“I remember it all so clearly,” Gore went on in a dreamy tone. “How cold the water was when I set my traps. How heavy the beaver were when I pulled them out. What it was like skinning and curing the hides so they were just right and would earn top dollar. I remember everything.”
“Did you regret having to give all that up?”
“I hated it so much, I was in a funk for half a year after I went back East. But a man has to make a living and beaver wasn’t in fashion anymore. Damn silk all to hell, anyway.”
Fargo chuckled. Silk hats had replaced beaver. But only until people switched yet again. The public was fickle that way. They were like butterflies flitting from flower to flower. Nothing held their interest for long.
“I envy you, sir,” Gore unexpectedly said.
“In what way?”
“The life you live. I often wish I had bit the bullet and stayed. I might now be as you are. A scout. A frontiersman. Going where I please and doing what I will. Most men would give anything to live as you do.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Isn’t that always how it is? We never appreciate the good things right in front of our faces. We’re always looking at the next pasture and thinking it’s greener than our own.”
“I could never go back East to live,” Fargo mentioned. “It would be like living in a cage. Always abiding by laws and rules.” He never had liked being told what to do.
“You have more grit than I, sir. I freely admit it. I gave up the good life too easily.”
After that Gore lapsed into silence.
Fargo thought about all he had learned. The important thing was that Gore’s interest in the Payette River Valley seemed sincere, and his mention of it to the settlers at Fort Bridger appeared to be no more than happenstance.
Fargo let some time go by before he gnawed at the truth anew. “Rinson and his men,” he said to strike up a new conversation. “I’m surprised a man like you would ride with them.”
“They are a bit too zealous, aren’t they?” Gore said. “But that’s only because they take their job seriously. They don’t want anything to happen to Mr. Winston and his people.”
“You say that you never set eyes on any of them before you met them at Fort Bridger?”
Gore nodded. “Coincidence. Or the hand of providence, if you were to ask Mrs. Winston. I needed men and they were available.”
“Lucky for you,” Fargo said.
“If it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone else.”
Fargo shifted in the saddle. Rinson and Slag were off to one side. Both met his gaze with glares. “I’m not one of their favorite gents at the
Gore asked Fargo to ride with him.
Fargo didn’t mind. He had been looking for an excuse to pump the man for more information about the Payette River Valley, and maybe glean a hint as to what Gore was really up to. But to Fargo’s surprise, by the middle of the morning he was convinced the former trapper truly did come west again for one last glimpse of his old haunts.
Gore was quite the talker. He went on and on about his trapping days, about the streams he had worked and the plews he had raised. He mentioned how much he missed the annual rendezvous the trappers held.
“Yes, sir. Those were the days,” Gore said fondly. “We were paid hundreds if not thousands for our peltries, and then spent most of it drinking and gambling and outfitting for the next season.”
“You sound as if you would gladly live those times all over again,” Fargo remarked.
“Would I ever! I was young. I was carefree. I lived on the raw edge.” Gore beamed. “Those were some of the best years of my life.”
The heyday of the trappers was a little before Fargo’s time. He had trapped on a few occasions, though, and sold a few mink and ermine pelts, among others.
“I remember it all so clearly,” Gore went on in a dreamy tone. “How cold the water was when I set my traps. How heavy the beaver were when I pulled them out. What it was like skinning and curing the hides so they were just right and would earn top dollar. I remember everything.”
“Did you regret having to give all that up?”
“I hated it so much, I was in a funk for half a year after I went back East. But a man has to make a living and beaver wasn’t in fashion anymore. Damn silk all to hell, anyway.”
Fargo chuckled. Silk hats had replaced beaver. But only until people switched yet again. The public was fickle that way. They were like butterflies flitting from flower to flower. Nothing held their interest for long.
“I envy you, sir,” Gore unexpectedly said.
“In what way?”
“The life you live. I often wish I had bit the bullet and stayed. I might now be as you are. A scout. A frontiersman. Going where I please and doing what I will. Most men would give anything to live as you do.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Isn’t that always how it is? We never appreciate the good things right in front of our faces. We’re always looking at the next pasture and thinking it’s greener than our own.”
“I could never go back East to live,” Fargo mentioned. “It would be like living in a cage. Always abiding by laws and rules.” He never had liked being told what to do.
“You have more grit than I, sir. I freely admit it. I gave up the good life too easily.”
After that Gore lapsed into silence.
Fargo thought about all he had learned. The important thing was that Gore’s interest in the Payette River Valley seemed sincere, and his mention of it to the settlers at Fort Bridger appeared to be no more than happenstance.
Fargo let some time go by before he gnawed at the truth anew. “Rinson and his men,” he said to strike up a new conversation. “I’m surprised a man like you would ride with them.”
“They are a bit too zealous, aren’t they?” Gore said. “But that’s only because they take their job seriously. They don’t want anything to happen to Mr. Winston and his people.”
“You say that you never set eyes on any of them before you met them at Fort Bridger?”
Gore nodded. “Coincidence. Or the hand of providence, if you were to ask Mrs. Winston. I needed men and they were available.”
“Lucky for you,” Fargo said.
“If it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone else.”
Fargo shifted in the saddle. Rinson and Slag were off to one side. Both met his gaze with glares. “I’m not one of their favorite gents at the
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