The Trailsman 317 Read Online Free PDF

her arm to make her drop it, but instead she held fast to the hilt and tried to knee him. Sidestepping, he let go of the Henry and grabbed her other wrist. “Calm down! I am not out to hurt you!”
    The Untilla woman was short, no more than five feet tall, and slight of stature, which Fargo had heard was a trait of the tribe. But she was a wildcat. Hissing, she struggled fiercely to break free.
    â€œDamn it! Do you speak the white man’s tongue?”
    Her response was to suddenly open her mouth wide and attempt to sink her teeth into his arm.
    â€œSimmer down!”
    Fargo was wasting his breath. It was plain she did not know English. Since the Utes controlled a large territory to the south of the Untilla, he tried the Ute tongue, “I am not your enemy!” But again he saw no sign that she understood.
    Then a shout came from up ahead. “Skye! Where are you? I need you over here!”
    Reluctantly, Fargo released the Untilla woman and she bolted like a frightened doe. Scooping up the Henry, he ran in the direction of Mabel’s voice. “Keep yelling so I can find you!”
    Mabel did not respond. The woods were silent again. Fuming, Fargo bawled, “Mabel! Where the hell are you?” He kept running and casting about for some trace of her while shouting her name over and over. Just when he again thought the Untillas might have carried her off or killed her, there she was, standing stock still with her head tilted to one side. She motioned for him to stop, and put a finger to her lips.
    Fargo raised the Henry but there was no one to shoot. He waited over a minute, then growled, “Damn it. What is going on?”
    â€œI am trying to listen,” Mabel said. “I heard one of them going through the brush a bit ago.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œThose devils stole it!” Mabel exclaimed. “I was sitting there doing my hair and a hand came from behind me and snatched it from my grasp. Can you believe the gall?”
    â€œStole what?” Fargo said.
    â€œMy hairbrush. I yelled for you and chased them but they were too fast for me.”
    â€œThem?” Fargo said. “How many were there? And how many were warriors?”
    â€œNone,” Mabel said. “All three were women. Not much bigger than fifteen-year-olds but they were full-grown women. I could tell.”
    â€œWe have to get out of here.”
    Mabel angrily shook her head. “I am not leaving without my hairbrush. It is the only one I have with me.”
    â€œYou don’t get it,” Fargo said. “There must be a village nearby. When those women tell the others, we will have the whole tribe after us.”
    â€œWhat tribe are they?”
    Fargo told her what he knew about them while scouring the vegetation. The Untilla were partial to the bow and arrow, the men accounted to be skilled archers. Since he did not care to be turned into a porcupine, he plucked at Mabel’s sleeve. “Let’s go while we still can.”
    â€œBut my hairbrush!”
    â€œIt can’t do you any good if you are dead.” Fargo turned and hurried toward the clearing. He glanced back to see if she was following. She wasn’t. “Do I have to drag you or will you come of your own accord?”
    â€œWithout my hairbrush my hair will become a tangle,” Mabel objected.
    â€œIf the Untillas slit your throat, your hair will be the least of your worries.”
    â€œOh, all right!” Mabel snapped, and stomped a foot.
    Fargo broke into a jog and she paced him.
    â€œThese Untillas. How come I have never heard of them?”
    â€œThey are a small tribe, and they keep to themselves,” Fargo answered. Even he knew little about them. Some tribes wanted nothing to do with whites, or as little as possible, and were as secretive as could be. They shunned contact. When whites strayed into their territory, the Untillas made sure the whites did not stray out. Yet another