Beartooth Incident Read Free Page A

but couldn’t see above the cliff. He had to get up there. He had to find the stallion and make sure it was all right. He waded forward, the snow as high as his thighs, but he took only a few steps when he received another unwelcome shock.
    His Colt was gone.
    Fargo turned and cast about where he had landed. He kicked snow aside. He dug with his hands. But if the Colt was there, he wouldn’t find it until the snow melted. Or maybe, Fargo reflected, it was somewhere above the cliff. He slid far before going over the edge. Never once did he think to hold on to it so he wouldn’t lose it.
    “Damn me.”
    Fargo roved along the base of the cliff. He told himself there must be a way to the top, but if there was, he couldn’t find it. The rock face was sheer, save for a few fissures, and they were too narrow to be climbed.
    In a quarter of a mile, Fargo came to where the cliff ended. The slope beyond was deep with snow and so steep that when he started up, he took barely six steps before he slipped and fell and slid back down.
    Only then, as Fargo stood and brushed himself off, did the full gravity of his situation hit him. He was stranded in the heart of the Rockies. He had no horse. He had no gun. He had no hat. He had no food or water. All he had were the buckskins on his back, and his Arkansas toothpick.
    Or did he? The thought caused Fargo to squat and grope under his boot. He exhaled when he confirmed the knife was still snug in its ankle sheath.
    “At least I didn’t lose you.” But now what to do? Fargo asked himself. He wanted to look for the Ovaro but he had to be practical. He needed shelter as well as something to eat. Once he was sure his toes were all right and he was warm and fed, he could strike out after the stallion.
    Fargo gazed the length and breadth of the valley. Except for where a few stands of trees had taken root, it was open. The trees, like everything else, were covered with snow, some so heavy with white, they were bent nearly to the ground. He made for the nearest stand. If he could find dry wood, he could get a fire going and warm his feet.
    The glare blinded him. The sun was so bright that looking at the snow hurt his eyes. They kept watering. It got so bad, he kept his gaze down and his eyes narrowed to slits to spare them the misery.
    His were the only tracks. For as far as he could see, the snow was unbroken. Not a living thing had been abroad since the blizzard ended.
    A dry chuckle rattled from Fargo’s throat. The animals had more sense than he did. They were snug in their burrows and dens. He would gladly trade places with any of them.
    His boots made little noise. His toes had begun to hurt, and he hoped it wasn’t a sign the frostbite had worsened.
    The first stand proved to be mostly cottonwoods, which suggested water, but there was no spring. Fargo moved carefully among the pale trunks. He didn’t find a single downed limb; they were buried under the snow. And since the branches on the bent trees were covered with wet snow, as well, his prospects of starting a fire were slim.
    The next stand was almost a hundred yards away. Wishing he had his hat to ward off the sun, Fargo trudged toward it. He was thinking of his hat and not paying any attention to his surroundings, which was why he was all the more surprised when a low growl fell on his ears. He looked up. For a few seconds the glare prevented him from seeing anything.
    Fargo blinked a few times. Suddenly everything came into sharp, stark focus. Including the two wolves studying him much as they might a deer or elk they contemplated devouring. He drew up short.
    “Oh, hell.”
    Normally, wolves left humans alone. But these were lean with hunger, their ribs showing through their fur. Their age might have something to do with it. There was gray in their coats and muzzles.
    Sometimes the sound of a human voice scared wild animals off. Fargo tried it now. Waving his arms, he hollered, “Light a shuck, you four-legged