Black Hills Badman Read Online Free Page B

to flush that bear with just the two of you,” Owen objected.
    “An excellent point,” Senator Keever agreed. “You may tag along. But remember what I said about behaving.”
    Fargo shucked his Henry from the saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber.
    Owen had a .58 caliber rifle made by Parker, Snow and Company. They were supposedly accurate as could be but were single-shot.
    The senator was wiping dust from his Whitworth. “Shall we bait the beast, gentlemen?” He grinned and made for the trees.
    “We should stick together,” Fargo proposed. For two reasons. First, he wanted Owen where he could see him; rumor had it that Owen wasn’t above shooting people he disliked in the back. Second, he had yet to take the senator’s measure as a hunter. Keever might have nerves of iron—or he might be prone to panic if the bear charged.
    “Whatever for?” was the senator’s reply. “We’re all of us armed, and good shots. We can cover more ground by separating.” As he spoke he bore to the right. “Good luck.”
    Owen bore to the left.
    Leaving Fargo to stop and stare after them in mild frustration. Since arguing was pointless, he shrugged and made for the bluff.
    That was the thing with guide work. Sometimes those he guided had enough sense to listen. Others were jackasses and did as they pleased, and often as not paid a high price for their folly.
    The woods were alive with wildlife. A robin warbled high in an oak. Sparrows flitted gaily. A ribbon snake crawled off at his approach, and shortly thereafter a wasp buzzed his ear. Tracks showed there were deer to be had. Larger prints were courtesy of elk.
    Above the forest canopy reared the bluff. Long ago part of the near side had broken away, creating a slope littered with boulders. It went almost to the top. From up there a man would have a good view of the entire woods.
    Fargo had lost sight of the senator and Owen. The skin between his shoulder blades prickling, he moved silently, alert for sign of them, especially Lem Owen. A twig crunched off to his left.
    Instantly, Fargo crouched and tucked the Henry to his shoulder. It could be anything but he wasn’t taking chances. He waited with the patience of an Apache for what or who to show it—or him—self, but nothing appeared. Warily, he stalked on.
    Fargo wasn’t too worried about the bear. Black bears usually avoided people. Likely as not, it would run when it saw them. But there was that one time in ten when black bears proved they could be as ferocious as grizzlies.
    Close up, the bluff was gigantic. Fargo stepped from the trees and craned his neck. It was a two-hundred-foot climb, at least. He started up, glancing over his shoulder every few yards, just in case. At one point he thought he glimpsed someone off among the trees to the right; that would be the senator.
    Gusts of wind stirred the whangs on Fargo’s buckskins. He came to a flat boulder about waist high and climbed up for a look-see. He was higher than the tops of the trees and could see Lichen and the horses. But of Keever and Owen, there was no sign.
    Hopping down, Fargo resumed climbing. The higher he went, the steeper it became. Loose dirt dribbled from under his boots. Dislodged stones rattled. He skirted several boulders and was within a pebble’s toss of the top when a crow took wing from the woods below, cawing loudly. He looked, but whatever startled it into flight was well hidden.
    The slope ended five feet below the rim. Raising both arms, Fargo slid the Henry over, then jumped, hooked his elbows, and with a lithe swing, gained the summit. He picked up the Henry as he rose. The top of the bluff was as flat as a flapjack and dotted with slabs of rock the size of covered wagons.
    The view was spectacular. Prairie surrounded the hub of woodland for as far as the eye could see to the east, west, and south. To the north were the Black Hills.
    Fargo walked along the rim, scouring the vegetation below. He saw Keever moving through