by Jon Sharpe
“Why?” Fargo asked. It was normal for the bands to pay the hills a visit but not for all of them to converge at the same time. “Are the Lakota making great medicine? Is there a council of war?” For some time there had been rumors that the bands were going to gather together in a concerted push to drive the white man out. Fargo didn’t doubt that if it ever came to pass, blood would flow in rivers.
“You have not heard?”
“I have been in the white man’s lands far to the south. I have not heard anything about my Lakota brothers.”
Four Horns smiled happily. “It is glorious, my friend. A white buffalo has been born.”
Fargo’s interest was piqued. To many tribes, white buffalo were special. They were living symbols of hope and unity. The Indians held them in the same high regard as the white man held, say, his church or his Bible. “Where is this animal?”
“Here.” Four Horns gestured at the hills. “Exactly where, I will not say. We kept it a secret. I hope I do not hurt your feelings by not telling you.”
“I understand.”
“It has been many winters since a white buffalo was among us. It is why the bands gather. Not one or two or three but all seven. All the warriors, all the leaders.”
That meant thousands of Sioux, Fargo realized.
“The Arapaho have asked to see the white buffalo. The Cheyenne, as well. It will bring many of the tribes together.”
“It is good fortune for you,” Fargo told him.
“Little Face said the same words.”
Fargo frowned. Little Face was what whites would call a medicine man, or shaman. Fargo had met him a few times and didn’t like him for the simple reason Little Face was a bigot. Just as there were whites who hated the red man because the red man wasn’t white, so were there red men who hated the white man because the white man wasn’t red. “I am glad you are sitting there and not Little Face.”
Four Horns’ eyes sparkled with humor. “He is still mad at you over the white woman.”
Fargo remembered. The Sioux had attacked a wagon train. They killed a score of whites and took a white woman hostage. Little Face wanted her for himself but Fargo persuaded the council to let her go back to her own kind. “He sure does hold a hate.”
“Little Face hates you with all he is. Were you his prisoner he would stake you out and skin you.”
Fargo glanced at the other warriors. One Feather was fingering his knife. “I ask only to go my way in peace.”
“If I help you, you must agree to leave our land.”
Fargo had no objections and he doubted Senator Keever would, either, when Keever learned about the gathering of the bands. “You have my word.”
Four Horns smiled and put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “I have missed you, my brother. You are one of the few whites who looks at me and sees a man and not the color of my skin.”
“Cola,” Fargo said warmly.
Four Horns grunted, and stood. Fargo followed his example and they walked over to where the other warriors waited.
One Feather pointed at Fargo. “I still want to kill this one. He should not be in the Paha Sapa.”
“Heyah,” Four Horns said. He gripped the Ovaro’s reins and placed them in Fargo’s hand. “Go now, He Who Walks Many Trails. And may it be many moons before we see each other again.”
Fargo didn’t linger. One Feather and some of the others were too outright eager to kill him. They were under no obligation to do as Four Horns wanted, and might change their minds at any moment. “Pila mita.”
“Go,” Four Horns urged. Fargo touched his hat brim and got the hell out of there. But he had gone only a short way when a war whoop warned him he was far from safe.
One Feather and two other young warriors were after him.
Once again Fargo resorted to his spurs. He deliberately rode to the southwest; the camp was to the southeast.
One Feather was yipping up a storm.
Fargo had met young warriors like him before. Eager to prove themselves, they counted coup every chance they got. He could hardly blame them, since counting coup was considered not only a test of a warrior’s courage but a mark of leadership.
The three Sioux came on fast but the Ovaro was faster. Bit by bit the stallion pulled ahead until it was apparent to the three that they stood no chance whatsoever of catching him. Howling their fury and exasperation, they drew rein.
Fargo looked back, smiled, and waved. “That should rub it in.”
One Feather howled and shook his fist.
Chuckling, Fargo kept on to the southwest. Half an hour later he brought the sweat-caked stallion to a stop. Taking off his hat, he wearily mopped his brow with his sleeve.
Fargo reckoned he could safely swing to the east toward camp, but stick figures on the horizon changed his mind. Four Horns hadn’t been kidding when he said there were Lakota everywhere.
Bending low, Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He figured it would take him two to three hours to get back. Longer, if he ran into a lot of Sioux.
Fate was in a fickle mood. Again and again he spotted riders in the distance and had to seek cover or veer in a direction he didn’t want to go to avoid being spotted.
It began to look as if it would be sunset before Fargo rejoined Keever’s party.
He grew weary of the cat and mouse. His nerves were stretched to where a light patter brought him around with his Colt out and level, but it was only a coyote he had spooked, now slinking off.
By mere chance Fargo came on a spring. Nestled in the lee of a thickly wooded hill, it was an ideal spot to rest.
Fargo dismounted and let the Ovaro drink. Dropping onto his belly, he took off his hat and dipped his face in the wonderfully cool water. He had been sweltering, but in no time he was cool and refreshed and content.
Rolling onto his back, Fargo closed his eyes. A nap would do him good but he needed to warn the senator. He would lie there a few minutes and be on his way.
The Ovaro stamped a hoof.
With a start, Fargo sat up. He had dozed off. A glance at the sun assured him it had only been for a few minutes. Nevertheless, it was the sort of blunder a greenhorn made.
“Damn me for a yack,” Fargo said out loud, and jammed his hat back on. He sighed and went to stand. Only then did he notice that the Ovaro was looking at something behind him.
It occurred to Fargo that he had made two blunders, not one. He started to turn but froze when the sharp tip of a knife jabbed him between the shoulder blades.
“Move and I kill you.”
8
Fargo moved anyway; he turned his head in surprise. First, that someone had snuck up on him without him hearing. Second, that the “someone” holding a knife to his back was female.
She had raven hair and ink for eyes, fine full lips, and a bosom that strained against a doeskin dress. Her hourglass figure would be the envy of any woman, white or red. She was as gorgeous a female as Fargo ever set eyes on, and that was saying a lot. She was also Sioux.
There was nothing gorgeous about the steel blade she had gouged against Fargo’s back. Just as there was nothing friendly about the hard glint in her dark eyes.
“Your name must be Sweet Flower.”
The woman jerked back as if he had slapped her. She saw his smile and those full lips started to curl but she caught herself and jabbed him with the knife, harder than before.
“You speak the Lakota tongue.”
“I am a friend to your people. My heart is one with Four Horns. He sits high in the councils of the Miniconjou.”
“I am an Oglala,” the young woman said, and frowned. “I do not want you to talk. I must decide what to do with you.”
Fargo kept on smiling. “I know what I would like to do.” To make sure she got the point, he roved his gaze from the crown of her lustrous hair to the tips of her moccasin-clad feet, with pauses where needed.
“You are too bold.”
“How should I call you?” Fargo asked.
“Sweet Flower
will do.”
Fargo chuckled and started to turn but the knife convinced him not to. “You can take that away. I would never hurt anyone so lovely.”
“You are much too bold. I should call for help. Warriors would come and then we would see how bold you are.”
Fargo noticed that she didn’t holler. “Your village is near?”
“Yes.”
Something told Fargo she was lying. “I will let you go back, pretty Sweet Flower, and I will be on my way.”
“You will let me?” she said, and raised the knife a few inches. “You are my captive. I am not yours.”
“You are a beautiful dove and a dove should never be in a cage.” Fargo winked, and moved. A twist of his body, a flick of his hand, and the deed was done; he held the knife and her hand was empty.
Sweet Flower gasped and poised for flight.
“Here.” Fargo reversed his grip and placed the hilt in her palm. “I told you I would never harm you.”
Her confusion was obvious. She looked at the knife and she looked at him and then she moved a few yards away and squatted. “I do not know what to think about you.”
“I am your friend if you want me to be.” Fargo knelt, cupped water, and sipped. He deliberately ignored her. When he was done drinking he took off his hat and splashed water on his neck and face.
“Does your hair itch?”
Fargo reached up and scratched his head. “No. Does yours?”
Lilting laughter rippled from her silken throat. “Not there,” Sweet Flower said, and rubbed her chin. “The hair on your face. My people do not have hair there. Our warriors are not as hairy as you whites.”
“Not all white men have a lot of hair,” Fargo enlightened her.
“Do white women like those who do? I do not know if I would like it.”
“For some white women, hair is all they think about,” Fargo said with a straight face. “Others like their men as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
Sweet Flower laughed again. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“What? Growing hair?”
“You should be a Heyoka. You are funny.”
Fargo was familiar with the contraries, who did everything backward. To whites it seemed silly if not downright stupid. But to the Lakotas, the Heyokas were their clowns, men and women who brought laughter and delight into their lives. “I thank you for the compliment.”
“Tell me about yourself.” Fargo kept it short. His Indian name, some of the places he had been, some of the tribes he had lived with or fought against.
“You have been to the land of the Comanches? I have heard of them from my grandfather. He says that when they ride a horse, the horse and the Comanche are one.”
“He speaks with a straight tongue.”
“Tell me. Of all the tribes you have known, who are the best fighters?”
Fargo didn’t hesitate. Nearly every tribe took pride in the fighting prowess of its warriors. But there was one that, in his estimation, was head and shoulders above the rest when it came to killing their enemies. “The Apaches.”
“I have heard of them too. The People of the Woods, they call themselves. Are they truly so fierce?”
“To kill without being killed is the law they live by. Were there ten thousand of them, they would have all the land from the Muddy River to the western sea.”
“Are they handsome?”
“They are short and heavy and as hairy as bears,” Fargo exaggerated. “They itch a lot and are always scratching.” He was rewarded with more merriment.
“You talk with two tongues now. I have been told Apache men are handsome. Not as handsome as Lakota men. But a woman would not complain if she were taken by them.”
“Only a female would say a thing like that.” Fargo leaned back. He should be on his way to warn the senator. But it would help to know exactly how near her people were.
“You are fond of women. I can tell. I see the hunger in your eyes when you look at me.”
“Any man would look at you with hunger,” Fargo piled on the praise. “You must have a husband. Lakota men would not let such beauty be wasted.”
“I lived in the lodge of Left Handed Buffalo for a winter but he was not nice to me. He tried to give me away but I went back to live with my mother and father.” Sweet Flower paused. “Do you have a woman?”
“Not in the past, not now, not ever,” Fargo declared. He caught movement off in the trees and stiffened but it was only her pony, tied to a tree and grazing. “What if your people come along? Will you get in trouble talking to me?”
She answered without thinking. “They do not know where I am. I wanted to go for a ride and my horse brought me here. She must have smelled the water.”
“So it is just the two of us.” Fargo pushed his hat back, and grinned.
“Much, much too bold.” Sweet Flower stood. “I must go. But if you were to be here tomorrow I would come and talk to you again.”
“I will try.” Fargo was half serious. He would very much like the pleasure of her company, but not just to talk. He watched her sway off and reflected that when it came to jiggling deliciously, women everywhere were the same. With a sigh he climbed on the Ovaro.
About two hours of daylight were left. Fargo rode hard but warily. He saw no Sioux, and it was with relief that he came within sight of camp, and a crackling fire.
“Where have you been?” Senator Keever demanded the moment Fargo came to a stop. “Mr. Owen about had me convinced the savages had caught you and scalped you.”
“They almost did,” Fargo acknowledged. Wearily dismounting, he began to strip the Ovaro.
Most of the others gathered around.
“I’m glad you’re back safe,” Rebecca said.
Gerty scrunched up her face. “I’m not. I wanted the Indians to get you and scalp you so you can’t be mean to me anymore.”
“Gertrude! That’s no way to talk.”
“Oh, hush,” Keever snapped at his wife. “She’s only speaking her mind. He’s a grown man. He can take it.”
Owen nudged Lichen with an elbow and said in mock delight, “We sure are glad you made it. I’ve been a bundle of worry. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. It was plumb awful.”
Lichen cackled.
They didn’t know how close they came to being pistol-whipped. Instead, Fargo said loud enough for all to hear, “I want everyone to gather around in about ten minutes.” That would give him time to strip the Ovaro and wet his throat. “I have something important to say.”
“You’re leaving us?” Gerty teased.
“No. I sold you to the Sioux.”
“Father!” she squealed. “Did you hear him? Did you hear how mean he is to me?”
“Yes, daughter, I did. That was uncalled for, sir. You should set a better example.”
“She’s your brat, not mine. The only things she’d learn from me is how to play poker, drink red-eye, and make the acquaintance of saloon doves.”
“That will be quite enough of that kind of talk,” Senator Keever said indignantly. “Need I remind you in whose employ you are? I told you at the outset that you and the other men must watch your tongues around my daughter and my wife.”
Fargo noticed that he put his daughter first. Hunkering, he poured coffee into his battered tin cup, sat back, and let the hot liquid trickle down his dry throat. Senator Keever and Gerty went to their tent. The other men milled idly about, talking and joking.
“Mind if I join you?” Rebecca squatted across from him, her forearms across her knees. “I meant what I said. I really am glad you made it back safe.”
Fargo sipped more coffee. She had something on her mind, he could tell, and she would get to it in her own good time.
“You’re the only one I can talk to. If that sounds strange, it’s only because my so-called husband doesn’t care what I think or how I feel about things. As for Gerty—” Rebecca shrugged.
“She would make fine bear bait.”
Rebecca snorted, then
covered her nose and mouth with her hand. “You can be awful at times.”
“Lady, you don’t know the half of it.”
“I wish I could be like you. I wish I had your courage. I’ve always been a mouse, myself. Too timid for my own good. I let myself be talked into things I shouldn’t.”
“Such as being here,” Fargo guessed.
“Such as being married.” Rebecca glanced at the tent and lowered her voice. “You see, our marriage isn’t quite what you think. Oh, I took the vows, and I go where he goes and do what he wants me to do. But only because he’s paying me.”
“I must have missed something.”
“You know that his first wife died in childbirth. He blames it on her consumption. She became so weak she didn’t want to live. But that’s only part of it. She wasn’t tired of living. She was tired of him!”
“How do you know?”
“I was one of the nurses who attended her. He didn’t tell you that, did he? Or that while his wife lay wasting away in her hospital bed, he was playing the satyr with every nurse on my floor.”
Fargo wondered why she was telling him this. “Including you?”
“No. Oh, he tried. He spouted the same honey-tongued lies about how beautiful I was and how he would love to take me out and wouldn’t it be grand if we went up to his house after?” Rebecca didn’t hide her disgust. “But I told him he should be ashamed. That what he was doing was despicable. And do you know what he did? He laughed and offered me money to be his new wife.”
“Maybe it was his way of getting up your dress.”
“No. He was serious. He offered to pay me two thousand dollars a year plus a thousand extra if I stick out the terms of the contract he had a lawyer draw up. I know, I know. You don’t understand. You’re going to say I’m crazy. But you haven’t heard the whole story yet.”
“My ears work fine.”
“Eh? Oh.” Rebecca nervously laughed. “The good senator is a pillar of Congress. All Fulton cares about is power. He wants to stay in office another twenty years. To do that, he has to be reelected, and to be reelected he has to convince the good folks back home that he’s a paragon of virtue and worthy of their support.”
