by Jon Sharpe
“You’ve been in them for a day and a half now,” Fargo enlightened him.
“Finally!” Keever grinned and excitedly rubbed his hands. “I can see that trophy on my wall now.”
Fargo didn’t ask him which one. Then the Ovaro nickered, and he looked up to behold the object of their quest in the form of an old bull not fifty yards away. Head high, it sniffed the air to get their scent.
“I’ll be switched,” Owen blurted.
Senator Keever had been gazing to the south but now he looked in the direction they were looking and exclaimed, “I knew it! I knew God wouldn’t let me down.” He bent and yanked his rifle from the saddle scabbard. “Move aside, gentlemen. I’m not about to let an opportunity like this pass by.”
“Senator, wait,” Fargo said, but Keever did no such thing. He spurred his horse toward the bull.
“That jackass sure is trying to get himself killed,” Owen remarked.
Fargo used his spurs. But the Ovaro couldn’t overtake the senator’s mount, not in the short distance they had to cover. He saw Keever jerk the rifle up and shouted, “Don’t do it!”
The rifle boomed.
The buffalo whirled. Raising puffs of dust, it raced into a wash and was out of sight.
“After him, men!” Keever bellowed, giving chase. “I’m sure I wounded it. We can’t let it get away!”
“Damn you.” Fargo galloped after him.
Owen and Lichen came on quickly, Owen bellowing, “That’s not the one you want, Senator! That’s not the one you want!”
Which made no sense to Fargo. Keever was out to shoot a buffalo.
What difference did it make which one? Now the fool was charging into the wash with no thought to his safety or that of his mount.
Fargo cursed all idiots, and Easterners. The smart thing to do was to let the bull run off and track it at their leisure. But no. All Keever could think of was how the head would look on his wall.
“My trophy room is the envy of Washington,” the senator had confided a few days ago. “Two presidents have come to see it. So has nearly everyone of influence. You should hear how many say they wish they had trophies of their own. But they say their wives would object. Or their constituents would be offended. Or they’re just too cowardly to stalk and face a wild beast.”
Fargo had pointed out that it wasn’t yellow to fight shy of grizzlies and buffalo.
“I say different. I say a man is measured by his deeds.”
Now the great huntsman, as Keever liked to call himself, was winding along the serpentine bottom of the wash, whooping and waving his Whitworth like a damned lunatic.
Fargo would as soon shoot him.
A bend appeared, and Senator Keever went around it on the fly.
A piercing squeal told Fargo that which he dreaded had happened. He lashed the Ovaro. The senator’s life span could be measured in seconds unless he got to him quickly.
The buffalo had run as far as it was going to, and turned at bay. When the senator came galloping around the bend, the bull lowered its head and slammed broadside into his horse. The squeal Fargo heard was its cry of pain as the bull buried its horns deep. Now the horse was on its side, whinnying and kicking, while Keever sought to free his pinned leg and scamper to safety.
But the bull wasn’t done. It loomed over them, a shaggy juggernaut bent on ripping and rending.
Fargo drew rein and whipped the Henry to his shoulder. He fired, worked the lever, fired again. He went for the head because that was all he had to shoot at; the bull was facing him. But as every plainsman worth his buckskins already knew, shooting a buffalo in the head was a waste of lead. It was like shooting a wall or a boulder. Slugs had no more effect than gnats, except to make the bull mad.
With a tremendous bellow of pure rage, the buffalo bounded around the thrashing horse and came after Fargo and the Ovaro. Wheeling the stallion, Fargo used his spurs once more. He was barely a buckboard’s length ahead of the bull as he raced around the bend—and almost collided with Owen and Lichen, who were coming the other way. They both jerked on their reins and brought their mounts to a sliding stop. Which suited the bull just fine. Snorting, it veered at Owen’s dun but the dun was halfway up the wash in a few bounds.
Fargo had slowed to see if either of them went down, and now the bull was almost on top of him. He reined aside with inches to spare. The bull kept on going and was lost to view around the next bend.
“Son of a bitch,” Lichen fumed.
Owen had already reined back down. “Where did the senator get to? He nearly got me killed.”
Keever was still pinned by his horse, which had stopped thrashing and lay still in a spreading pool of scarlet. “Help me,” he requested, pushing in vain against the saddle.
“You damned jackass. That was a harebrained stunt you just pulled,” Fargo said bluntly. “The next time you do anything like this, you can find yourself another guide.” He went to dismount.
“Hold on,” Owen said. “It would serve the sorry cuss right if we left him there a while. Say, five or six hours.”
Propped on his elbows, Keever regarded them in disbelief. “What is this? I told you I want a buffalo head for my trophy room. What did you expect me to do? Let it get away?”
“I expect you to do what I tell you,” Fargo said. “There’s a safe way to hunt and there’s a dead way to hunt and you didn’t pick the safe way.”
“Honestly. You forget who you’re speaking to. I’ve shot as much game as either of you. So don’t treat me as if I’m still in diapers.”
“Then don’t act as if you are,” Owen said.
Fargo climbed down. He was still mad but he had cooled enough to say calmly, “You’ve cost us a good horse, Senator, and we don’t have many to spare.”
“It wasn’t as if I planned it. Good Lord, man. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill and get me out from under this thing.”
Fargo and Owen tried but they couldn’t lift the saddle high enough. They were forced to use a rope, just as they had with the black bear. Fargo climbed on the Ovaro, deftly tossed a loop over the bay’s saddle horn, then had the stallion slowly walk backward. Owen was ready, and the instant the saddle rose high enough, he pulled the senator out from under it and helped him to stand.
“At last,” Keever said gruffly. He brushed at his expensive clothes and picked pieces of grass from a sleeve. “Which one of you will let me ride his horse to camp?”
“You can ride double with me if you like,” Owen offered.
“What about my saddle?”
“Lichen will bring it back with him.” Owen chuckled and winked at Fargo. “Damn. Here I am, doing your work. I would make as good a top dog as you.”
“We’ve been all through that,” Fargo reminded him.
Owen rubbed his jaw. “That we have. Still, I should get a raise, all the extra work I do.”
The senator was smoothing his hair. “I can remedy that. From here on out I’ll pay you a third more than you have been getting.”
“You sure are generous,” Owen said sarcastically.
“You know what I’m after. You want generous? Find it for me.”
“Find what?” Fargo asked.
“How many times must I repeat myself? I want a buffalo and a grizzly to add to my trophies and make this trek worthwhile.”
They rode slowly. Owen was in a talkative mood and went on about the weather and how hard it was proving to find buffalo and how maybe they should save shooting a buff for last and instead penetrate deeper into the Black Hills after a griz.
“These hills are special to the Sioux,” Fargo brought up.
“Oh posh,” Senator Keever said. “We have only seen a few Indians since we crossed the Mississippi River. I was led to believe the plains are crawling with them.”
Owen pointed. “There’s some for you.”
Six warriors on horseback were far off to the northwest, heading north. Their backs were to them.
“Sioux, you think?” the sen
ator asked.
Fargo swung down and instructed them to do the same. Owen and Lichen quickly complied but Keever stayed on.
“Here you go again. Making a fuss when they don’t even see us.”
Owen grabbed the senator’s leg and yanked, nearly unhorsing him. “Get off, you simpleton.”
“I am growing severely weary of your insults,” Keever said. But he dismounted.
Fargo kept one hand on the Henry. It bothered him, the one warrior before and now these six. A village must be near, in which case they should pack everything up and get the hell out of there. He mentioned it to Keever.
“Give up because we’ve seen a few Indians? Why, I’d be the laughingstock of the Senate.”
“There are worse things,” Owen said. “Like being the laughingstock of the cemetery.”
Fargo began to wonder why Keever put up with Owen’s constant prodding. But he put it from his mind. He had something more important to think about: the Sioux. “I’m going to follow them,” he announced.
“You’re loco.”
“I don’t see the point,” the senator asked. “Let them go their way and we’ll go ours.”
“I’ll shadow them and find out if their village is nearby,” Fargo explained. “If it is, we’re lighting a shuck whether you like it or not.” He forked leather. The six warriors were almost out of sight. “Take Keever back,” he directed Owen, “and keep your eyes skinned.”
Owen grinned. “Says the gent out to part company with his hair.”
The senator cleared his throat. “I really must protest. You’re taking a rash risk. We’ve avoided them so far and we can keep on doing so if we use our heads.”
“I am using mine.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He stayed at a walk. The warriors were in no hurry and he wasn’t anxious to get any closer than he already was. Half an hour crawled by, then an hour. The six were barely visible. The terrain became hillier and more broken, typical of the Black Hills, or Paha Sapa, as the Sioux called them. To the Sioux they were sacred.
Fargo had lived with the Sioux once. They referred to themselves as the Lakotas, and were, in fact, made up of seven bands, among them the Hunkpapa, Miniconjou, and the Oglala.
Unlike the Shoshones and Flatheads, who were friendly to whites, the Lakotas resented white intrusion into their lands and killed most every white they came across.
Fargo had been an exception.
He didn’t blame them for protecting their land. Hell, he hated the advance of civilization as much as they did. To him it meant the loss of the open prairie and the high country he loved to roam.
The warriors were out of sight.
A tap of his spurs and Fargo brought the stallion to a canter. He expected to spot them almost immediately. But he covered a quarter of a mile, and no Sioux. Puzzled, he flicked his reins and had the Ovaro trot for half a mile, with the same result.
Something wasn’t right. Fargo slowed to a walk. He didn’t think they had seen him, but then again, all it would take was one warrior with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s to look back at just the right moment.
His skin prickling, Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. He would go on a little ways yet, and if he didn’t spot them, turn back.
The last Fargo saw of the six, they were winding between a pair of wooded hills. Both hills were about the same size and shape, and reminded him of a woman’s breasts. He grinned at the notion, and thought of Rebecca Keever, of her full bosom and winsome figure.
The next moment Fargo lost his grin when the trees to his right and the trees to his left disgorged shrieking warriors brandishing lances and notching arrows to sinew strings.
He had ridden into a trap.
7
The Ovaro burst into motion at a jab of Fargo’s spurs. The warriors were on both sides and slightly behind him; if he tried to go back the way he came, they would cut him off. So he headed deeper into the hills, the Lakota hard in pursuit.
Fargo could have shot a few. He could have jerked the Henry from the scabbard and banged away before they came within arrow range. But it would cost him precious seconds.
There was also the fact that while the Sioux, on rare occasion, would let a white man live, they killed anyone, white or red, who killed a Sioux.
Fargo rode for his life. The ground between the hills was open and he could hold to a gallop. But soon he came to thick woods where the slightest mistake on his part or a misstep by the Ovaro would reap calamity. Fortunately, the Ovaro was sure-footed and quick-hoofed, and avoided obstacles like downed logs and boulders with an alacrity few horses could match.
It was partly why Fargo never lacked for confidence in the stallion. It had saved his hide countless times. He expected that this time would be no different, that the Ovaro’s exceptional stamina would enable him to widen his lead to where the warriors had no chance of catching him. He glanced back, and smiled. He was gaining.
Fargo faced around. Too late, he saw a low limb. He ducked, or tried to, but the limb struck him full across the chest. Pain ripped through him as he was swept bodily from the saddle and crashed to earth. He landed on his back, his head swimming. The breath had been knocked out of him, and it was all he could do to rise on his elbows in a vain bid to get up. He got his hands under him but he couldn’t muster the strength to stand.
Then Fargo’s head cleared and he saw the Ovaro twenty yards away, looking back at him. “Here, boy,” he croaked. Again he tried to stand. This time he made it to his knees but his chest was hurting so bad, he had to grit his teeth against the agony.
Hooves drummed, approaching swiftly.
Fargo pushed up off the ground. He swayed. He took a faltering step. His body wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. Concentrating, he started to walk, but oh-so-slow.
The hooves became thunder.
Fargo turned and dropped a hand to his Colt. He figured the warriors would turn him into a porcupine but not until after he took more than a few with him. One was already in midair. A shoulder slammed into his chest, into the same spot the limb had caught him. He was bowled over and wound up on his back with the warrior on top, the warrior’s legs pinning his arms. He tried to rise but couldn’t. He was helpless, completely, totally helpless.
The warrior grinned and raised a gleaming knife on high.
Fargo tensed. He had always known it would end like this someday. He’d tempted the jaws of fate again and again, and now those jaws were closing. He held no regrets, though. He’d lived a good life. Maybe not good by the standards of some, but good by his own reckoning. All the women, the whiskey, the cards, had been the spice that gave his life taste.
The knife gleamed in the sunlight.
That was when a swarthy arm flicked out and a swarthy hand gripped the wrist of the knife-wielder.
“Heyah.” It was Lakota for “No.”
The warrior with the knife wasn’t happy. “Why not?” he demanded, adding, “Anapo.” He wanted to count coup.
“I know this white-eye.”
Fargo found his breath and said quietly, “Unshimalam ye oyate.”
The warrior about to stab him showed surprise at hearing his own tongue from white lips. He had lived maybe twenty winters, and wore his long hair loose. “Why should I spare you? You are my enemy.”
“I have lived with the Lakotas. I have shared their lodges.” Fargo glanced at the other warrior, the one who had stopped the knife from being buried in his body. “My heart is happy to see you again, Four Horns.”
“It should be.” Four Horns grinned. He was in his forties, his features typical of his people: a high forehead, high cheekbones, a long nose, and square jaw. He wore his hair in braids.
The warrior on Fargo’s chest still hadn’t lowered the knife.
“What will it be, One Feather?” Four Horns demanded. “Kill him or get off him. But if you kill him we are no longer friends.”
One Feather frowned. He glared at Fargo, then slid the knife into a fringed sheath. “I spare you, white-eye. But not because I
want to. But for Four Horns.” He stood and stepped back.
The rest of the warriors were still on their mounts, some staring at Fargo in open hostility.
Four Horns offered his hand. “It has been almost five winters since I saw you last, He Who Walks Many Trails.”
“Pila mita.” Fargo let himself be pulled to his feet. He still had the Colt but if he so much as touched it, he would be dead before he got off a shot.
“Why are you in the land of the Lakotas?”
“Hunting,” Fargo answered honestly. He touched a hand to his chest, and winced.
Four Horns cocked his head. “Why come here to hunt when there is so much game elsewhere? Is it worth risking your hair for meat?”
“I happened to be passing through,” Fargo lied. He didn’t dare tell them the truth. They would go after the senator’s party.
Four Horns turned to the warriors on horseback. He spoke so fast that Fargo had trouble following what he said but it was something to the effect that Fargo was his friend and he would be grateful if they didn’t kill him.
“It is wrong to spare a white-eye,” One Feather said. “They always bring trouble.”
“I think highly of the Lakotas,” Fargo said in his own defense. “I want to be their friend.”
“You lie. Whites want us dead.”
Four Horns said, “I tell you I have shared meat with him. He always speaks with a straight tongue.”
That was about as high a compliment a Sioux warrior could pay someone. Fargo was grateful. Even more so when One Feather grunted in disgust and walked over to his horse.
“One Feather is young yet,” Four Horns said with a tinge of sadness. “All he thinks of is counting coup.”
“Too many on both sides think only of killing,” Fargo agreed.
“Let us sit and talk.”
Four Horns moved a stone’s throw from his friends and sank down cross-legged in the grass. Folding his arms, he smiled warmly. “If I had my pipe we could smoke.”
“Cola,” Fargo said.
“Yes, I am your friend. As your friend I warn you to get on your horse and leave the Black Hills. There are Lakota everywhere and more are coming.”
