by Jon Sharpe
“The question is, which tribe?” Fargo said. Given where they were, it could be one of two, either the Blackfeet or the Bloods. Neither were fond of whites.
Rooster knew that, too. “This ain’t good. They won’t like us being here.”
The rest took the news uneasily except for Wendolyn.
“I say, why the long faces? These savages won’t bother us, will they? Not with all the guns we have.”
“Hell, English,” Rooster said. “That’s just it. They might attack us to get our guns.”
“Or our horses,” Fargo said. The Blackfeet, in particular, esteemed horse stealing highly, almost as high as counting coup on an enemy.
Wendy patted his elephant gun. “If they try they will regret it.”
“Ever fought Indians?” Rooster asked.
“I can’t say as I have, no.”
“Then don’t act like you know what you’re talking about. At short range their bows are as lethal as that cannon of yours. And they can loose arrows a damn sight faster than you can shoot.”
“I still say they’ll think twice. And if they attack we’ll give them bloody hell.”
Cecelia had her arms around her kids. “What about us? You men they’ll kill and scalp. But what do they do to women and children? Take them captive?”
“The kids they might,” Rooster said, and let it go at that.
“Oh,” Cecelia said.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” Moose said. “I’ll pick them up and break them over my knee like I done to a Sioux once.”
“As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with the bears,” Rooster muttered.
Fargo was sipping coffee. “I could try to talk to them. Find out what they’re up to.”
“How would you go about it?” Cecelia asked.
“By going off into the woods alone. If they’re still around, they might show themselves.”
“Or they could stick arrows in you from ambush and put your hair on display in a lodge,” Rooster said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Cecelia said. “It’s too dangerous.”
Moose scowled. “If he wants to we should let him. Why are you worrying about him, anyhow?”
“He’s one of us,” Cecelia said.
“Well, you shouldn’t so much. Your kids and me are who you should worry about.”
“What are you goin’ on about? Naturally I worry about you and my kids.”
“I’m just saying,” Moose said.
“Well, you’re bein’ silly. We can’t afford to lose Skye, not when we still have Brain Eater to kill.”
“Don’t forget that other bear,” Rooster said.
Wendy grinned and patted his rifle. “Bears and savages. I must say, this is more exciting than I dared hope it would be.”
Rooster squinted at him. “Tell me something, hoss.”
“Anything, my fine friend.”
“Are all Brits as loco as you?”
14
The forest was quiet save for the distant screech of a jay. Fargo glided from cover to cover, his ears pricked, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
Only a fool took the Blackfeet or their allies, the Bloods, lightly, and Fargo wasn’t a fool. They were fierce fighters.
He suspected they were somewhere near, spying on him and the others, which was why he had crawled from the back of the lean-to to the stream and quickly waded across into the woods while the others stayed at the fire to try and draw attention.
Something moved up ahead. Fargo crouched and brought the Sharps to his shoulder. A doe appeared, followed by a fawn with spots, and he lowered it again.
Fargo hoped to God he could avert bloodshed. He harbored no animosity toward the Blackfeet or Bloods, or any other tribe, for that matter. He’d as soon get along with all of them. But he was white and some tribes hated whites for the same reason some whites hated Indians: the color of their skin. It was a stupid reason to hate, but if there was one thing as common as air, it was stupidity.
Fargo frowned. He was letting himself be distracted. Moving on, he crept past a high pine and several oaks. Beyond rose a low knoll. He was about to climb it when he heard a thud from the other side.
Flattening, Fargo levered on his elbows and knees to the top. He removed his hat before he peeked over.
Three horses had been tied so they couldn’t wander off. None had saddles. Instead of leather bridles they had rope hackamores. On the hindquarters of one was the painted symbol of a knife.
That there were only three warriors was a mild relief. Three was better than twenty. Fargo scanned the woods but they weren’t anywhere near. Jamming his hat on, he slid back down and worked around to where he could see if anyone approached.
He lay on his belly in the high grass. He figured it would be a while before they showed but it was less than five minutes later that a warrior came out of the woods. He took a few steps and abruptly stopped.
The warrior tilted his head from side to side as if he sensed or suspected that something wasn’t quite right. He was armed with a lance. His features, his hair, his leggings and moccasins were those of the Blackfeet.
Fargo stayed still. Two of the horses were dozing. The third had raised its head and was staring at the warrior, its tail lazily swishing.
The Blackfoot slowly advanced. He scoured the knoll and the woods. He came to the horse nearest Fargo and reached for the hackamore.
Three swift bounds and Fargo had the Sharps’ muzzle pressed hard against the nape of the man’s neck. The warrior heard him and started to turn but Fargo was too quick for him. “Not so much as twitch,” he warned in English. In the man’s own tongue he said, “Not move.” He was a lot more fluent in the Lakota language and a few others but he knew enough Blackfoot to get by.
The warrior was surprisingly calm. He stayed still as Fargo sidled around and took a few steps back.
“Do you speak the white tongue?”
The warrior stared. He was in his middle years, thirty to forty, his eyes dark and penetrating.
“Do you speak the white tongue?” Fargo asked again.
“Little some,” the warrior said.
“Drop the lance,” Fargo directed, and motioned with the Sharps.
The warrior let it fall.
“Back away from the horse.”
Again the warrior complied.
“Why are you and your friends spying on me and my friends?” Fargo asked.
“What be spying?”
“Watching us,” Fargo said.
The warrior grunted.
“We have come in peace to your country,” Fargo said. “We are not your enemy.”
“Many guns.”
“All whites carry guns,” Fargo exaggerated. “Just as all warriors have a bow or a tomahawk or some other weapon. If we were here to make war we wouldn’t have brought the woman and her children.”
“Why come?” the warrior said, still with that surprising calm.
Fargo was about to explain when swift steps pattered behind him. He whirled but he was too late. The other two warriors were on him. He had no time to shoot. A shoulder caught him in the gut and he was lifted off his feet and slammed to the ground. Iron hands clamped on each wrist and the rifle was torn from his grasp. Bucking, he drove a knee into the back of the warrior on his right and the man cried out and his grip loosened. Fargo pulled free, twisted, and delivered an uppercut to the chin of the other. Heaving up, Fargo gained room to move. He swooped his hand to his Colt but he had forgotten about the first warrior. A blow to his back pitched him flat on his face and filled him with excruciating pain.
Fargo rolled, or tried to. The warrior was on top of him, seeking to pin his arms. With a powerful wrench Fargo made it to his knees. Pivoting, he flicked a right cross and a left jab.
Blackfeet weren’t accustomed to fisticuffs. The warrior was more startled than hurt and fell back with an expression of surprise.
Again Fargo clawed for his revolver. He almost had it out when the other
two pounced. An arm clamped around his throat from behind and a knee gouged his spine. The other warrior grabbed hold of his wrist to keep him from raising the Colt any higher. Fargo tensed to throw them off.
Suddenly the first warrior was in front of him, holding a knife. The warrior pressed the tip to Fargo’s throat and said simply, “Stop.”
Fargo stopped.
“Let go little gun.”
Fargo raised his hand from the Colt. He considered himself as good as dead. He was girding to lunge at the one holding the knife when the warrior drew the blade away from his throat.
“How you called?”
“To the Lakota I am He Who Follows Many Trails,” Fargo said. “To the whites I am Fargo. Who are you?”
“Bird Rattler.”
Fargo recollected hearing the name before. “You are an important man in the councils of your people.” Which was as high a praise as a warrior could get.
“Why you here, white man?”
Fargo saw no reason to lie. “We are on a hunt.”
“For elk?”
“For bear,” Fargo said. “We are after a man-killer. The whites call her Brain Eater. She likes to bite open heads and eat out the brains.”
Bird Rattler lowered his knife all the way. He said something in his own tongue to the other two, too fast for Fargo to follow, and they let go of him and looked at him with interest.
“How you know bear she?”
“I’ve seen her,” Fargo said. “Her and another bear that is following her around.”
“Kiaayo kitsiakkomimm,” Bird Rattler said.
“The other bear is her lover?” Fargo translated. It made sense. Normally, male and female grizzlies had little to do with one another. But for about four months each year, April through July, the males sought the females out to mate. If the female was in heat, a male might linger in her vicinity for weeks.
Bird Rattler grunted. “We call female”—he paused as if trying to find the right white word—“Breaks Heads. We call male Little Penis.”
Fargo laughed. Then it hit him what the other was saying. “She’s attacked your people too?”
“Yes.”
Fargo could have slapped himself. It had never occurred to him—and it should have—that if the grizzly was attacking whites, it must also be attacking Indians. “How many has she killed?”
Bird Rattler slid his knife into his beaded sheath. He held up all the fingers and thumb on one hand and four fingers on the others.
“Nine?” Fargo said. “Damn. White and red together puts her tally at over twenty that we know of.” Another insight dawned. “Are you after her too?”
Bird Rattler grunted. “Me,” he said, and pointed at the other two in turn. “Red Mink. Lazy Husband. Others afraid. Say Breaks Heads bad medicine.”
“She sure as hell is,” Fargo agreed, and was struck by an inspiration. “I have an idea. How about if we join forces?”
“Forces?” Bird Rattler said.
“You’re after her. We’re after her. Why not work together and increase our chances?”
“You white,” Bird Rattler said. “White men not like red man.”
“Not all are that way. I’m not.”
“Me must talk,” Bird Rattler said, and led his companions out of earshot.
Fargo brushed himself off. His gut was sore but otherwise he was unhurt. He stared toward the Sharps. None of the warriors objected when he picked it up although Red Mink watched his every move.
The Blackfeet were arguing. Red Mink gestured sharply and Bird Rattler looked at Fargo and used a hand sign that signified, “No.”
Fargo was sure the Blackfeet would have killed him if the subject of the bear hadn’t come up. Lone whites who ventured into their territory were often never heard from again. He held the Sharps in the crook of his elbow as he normally would, and curled his thumb around the hammer, just in case.
The dispute ended. The three warriors came back. Red Mink didn’t appear happy.
Bird Rattler, though, placed his hand on Fargo’s shoulder and looked Fargo in the eye. “We help you, other whites not try kill us?”
“They do and they’ll answer to me,” Fargo promised.
“When kill Breaks Heads, who have hide?”
“You can keep it if it’s you who kills it,” Fargo said. “But the whites will need to show it down in town first. Then you can have it.”
“Deal,” Bird Rattler said, and held out his hand, white-fashion.
Fargo smiled and shook. “With us working together we have a good chance at killing her.”
“Maybe she kill us,” Bird Rattler said.
15
When Fargo rode out of the trees with the Blackfeet behind him, Cecelia was the first to spot them. She let out a holler and Rooster, Moose and Wendolyn grabbed their rifles and came on the run, Rooster going so far as to take aim and cock his Sharps.
“No!” Fargo commanded, drawing rein.
“What the hell? Those are Blackfeet, hoss.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Cecelia had her own rifle and was by the lean-to, her fearstruck brood peeking past her dress. “Are there more of the savages? Do they plan to take us captive? I’ll be damned if they’ll lay a finger on me.”
“Simmer down, both of you,” Fargo said. “They’re after Brain Eater, the same as us.”
“The devil you say?” Wendy said. “I’ve heard a lot about these blighters. Can we trust them?”
“In this we can.”
“Like hell,” Rooster said. “I lost two good friends to the Blackfeet. I don’t trust them any further than I can throw a buffalo.”
“They can be of help,” Fargo insisted. He turned to Moose, who was being unusually quiet again. “What do you say?”
“I say whatever Cecelia says.”
All of them looked at her.
“Well?” Fargo prompted.
Cecelia regarded the Blackfeet as she might three rattlesnakes about to bite her. “You really reckon it would be safe?”
“I do,” Fargo said. “And remember, they have more at stake than we do.”
“How so?”
“Most of us are in it for the money,” Fargo said. “They’re in it to protect their people.”
“They have no interest in the bounty?”
“None,” Fargo confirmed.
Cecelia pursed her lips. “In that case they’re welcome to stay. But only so long as they abide by my conditions.”
“Which are?”
“They do what we say when we say it. They cook for themselves. They’re not to go near my kids, ever. And at night they don’t sleep in the lean-to. Tell them.”
“No,” Fargo said.
“Why in blazes not?”
“Where to begin?” Fargo responded, half to himself. “They’re Blackfeet warriors. We can’t tell them what to do. We can ask but whether they do it or not is up to them. They’re here after Brain Eater, not your kids. They like sleeping under the stars so I doubt they’d want to sleep in the lean-to. And since they’re helping us, we share our food.”
“Sounds to me like you’re treatin’ them the same as you treat us.”
“Smart gal.”
“But they’re heathens.”
Fargo had met so many whites who had the same attitude that he supposed he shouldn’t be disappointed, but he was. “They’re people.”
“Pard, that is the stupidest thing you ever said,” Rooster spat.
“I say,” Wendolyn interjected. “All this arguing isn’t doing us any good. We need to work together.”
“I’ll work with anyone but the Blackfeet,” Rooster declared.
“Damn it, Rooster,” Fargo said.
“I’m sorry, pard. If they were Shoshones or Crows, I wouldn’t mind. You can call it wrong but I can’t help being me.”
“Will you at least not shoot them if we let them lend us a hand?”
Rooster glared at the three warriors, who were still on their horses.
“I reckon I can live and let live just this once. But only for you, you hear? Were it up to me they’d be dead already.”
“Cecelia?”
“If you vouch for them I’ll go along with it too,” she said with obvious reluctance. “But understand me. They do anythin’ I don’t like, anythin’ at all, they’ll be gone or they’ll be dead.”
Fargo sighed and walked over to the Blackfeet. “You heard?”
“Me hear,” Bird Rattler said.
“There’s a lot of hate going around,” Fargo said. “On both sides.”
Bird Rattler ran a hand over his mount’s mane. “When I young, I think hate good. More winters I live, not like hate so much.”
“Stay away from the old one,” Fargo advised. “He hates the most.”
“It not old man worry me,” Bird Rattler said. “It bear.”
The tension was thick enough to cut with a blunt knife.
Bird Rattler and his companions made camp near the stream. By coincidence it was at the spot where Fargo and his companions usually took their horses to drink. That afternoon, Rooster took them to a different spot.
In the evening Fargo called them all together. The whites sat on one side of the fire, the Blackfeet on the other.
“If we are going to make this work,” Fargo began, “we need a plan.” He explained to Bird Rattler that they had hoped to lure the she-bear in close enough to shoot but so far she had only come once, and at night, and they didn’t get the chance. He also mentioned that the male bear had been with her.
“Bears much hard kill.”
“What was your plan?” Fargo asked him.
“Find tracks. Follow tracks. Find bear. Kill bear.”
“Except bears don’t always leave tracks, do they, redskin?” Rooster said sarcastically.
“No, white skin,” Bird Rattler said. “They not.”
“Using ourselves as bait hasn’t worked either,” Fargo said. “We need something better.”
“Like what?” Rooster said. “Bears think with their stomachs. All they care about is food. If our horses and us ain’t enough, what else can we use?”
“How about a deer?” Moose said. “We can kill one and rig it over the fire. Maybe the smell of roast meat will bring Brain Eater in again.”
