by Jon Sharpe
“They will,” Fargo confirmed.
“Your chief, this Kee-ver, came to our lodge as the sun was setting. My father sent me away so I came to get you. You must save this Kee-ver. Tell him of my father’s trick, and see that he leaves our land.”
“Keever is still alive?” Fargo thought Little Face would have killed him by now.
“I do not know when Father plans to do it. I heard him invite Kee-ver to a feast tomorrow night in his honor, so maybe that is when.”
“But it could still be tonight,” Fargo mused out loud.
“Yes.”
Fargo began strapping on his gun belt. He winced each time he turned a wrist. “Thank you for helping me. It took great courage.”
“I am not my father. I do not hate whites because they are different. I do not think all whites are bad. You are white, and you are a good man.”
Fargo could think of a parson or three who would disagree. His fondness for women, booze, and cards qualified him as a sinner of the highest order, as a man of the cloth once told him. Not that he had any intention of changing his ways. He might be able to give up whiskey and poker, but women? He wasn’t born in a monastery.
“What will you do now?” Sweet Flower asked.
“Go to your village and get Senator Keever out.” Fargo couldn’t take the chance that Little Face would wait.
“Try that, and you will surely die.”
16
Fargo sat so he could pull his boots on.
“Did you hear me? You will never get near my father’s lodge. Not with all the people.”
Fargo had lived in a Sioux village. Except when special ceremonies were held, after dark it was usually quiet. Families ate, friends visited the lodges of friends, lovers went for walks under a blanket. It should be simple for him to slip in, and he said so.
“You forget. The bands have gathered to see the white buffalo. In our village are Miniconjou, Oglalas, Brules, Hunk-papas, Sans Arcs. There is much moving about and talking and singing.”
“I have to try.” Fargo had a thought. “How many know of your father’s plan to kill the senator?”
“They did,” Sweet Flower said with a nod at the bodies. “Perhaps two or three others. Most believe he is meeting with the white chief to make peace with the whites. A lot do not like it but they trust my father to do what is right.”
Fargo finished putting himself together. He adjusted his gun belt and then his bandanna, and pulled his hat brim low. “How close can we get on horseback?”
“As far as an arrow can fly twice. But if you are caught—”
“I will say I am with the senator.” Fargo forked leather, gritting his teeth against the pain. His wrists hurt like hell and his body was sore all over. He offered her his arm. “Swing up.”
Another moment, and they were under way, Sweet Flower with her arms around his waist.
“You do not listen very well. If you are killed, the one called Kee-ver dies, and there will be war with the whites.”
Fargo had to try. He picked his way through the forest with care, Sweet Flower pointing the way. They stopped whenever they heard sounds but twice it was only deer and once, at a distance, riders who faded into the night.
The village, as Fargo suspected, turned out to be the same village he saw before. He left the Ovaro in the trees and snaked to the top of the rise, Sweet Flower at his side.
Just as she had said, far more Lakotas than usual were moving about the circles. It was rare for all the bands to get together, and they were having a grand time.
“Which lodge belongs to your father?”
Sweet Flower pointed.
Fargo sighed. It figured. The lodge was clear across a circle. To reach it, he must get past dozens of Sioux.
“I warned you.”
“Stay here.” Fargo hurried to the Ovaro. Taking off his hat, he placed it on the saddle horn. Then he untied his bed-roll, draped a blanket over his head and shoulders, and jogged back to the rise.
Sweet Flower regarded him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “It will not fool them.”
“Why not?” Fargo wanted to know. It was common for warriors to go about with a blanket over them, and for young lovers to stand under blankets to have privacy.
“Your beard. They will take one look at you and know you are not Lakota.”
“Not if I keep my head down.”
“You are too tall. And you wear boots, not moccasins.”
“I will slouch, and I will go barefoot.” So saying, Fargo removed his spurs and his boots and laid them on the rise.
Sweet Flower had a litany of objections. “Your feet are too white, and you do not walk like an Indian. You walk with the swagger of a white man.”
“I can walk like a Lakota. As for my feet, no one will see I am barefoot if we stay in the dark shadows.”
“You do not smell like a Lakota. You smell white. If my people do not notice, the dogs will.”
“Let us find out.” Fargo took her arm and started down. He hunched at the waist enough to reduce his height by several inches, and held the blanket so it hung over his head and both sides of his face. “Walk close to me. Pretend we are lovers.”
“You are very brave. But you are not very smart.”
As they drew near the first circle, it dawned on Fargo that he had never seen the Sioux acting so out-and-out happy. He had witnessed victory celebrations and attended dances, but this was different. There was an air about them, as if they were caught up in great joy. The only thing he could compare it to was when whites attended a carnival and indulged in feasting and merrymaking.
As if she could read his thoughts, Sweet Flower said, “Look at my people. Their hearts are filled with gratitude for the great gift Wakan Tanka has given them. The white buffalo is a sign of the Great Spirit’s favor. We will be strong, and defeat our enemies.”
Fargo had never been a big believer in signs and wonders but he didn’t argue the point.
Sticking to the shadows, they came by a circuitous route to the circle that included Little Face’s lodge.
Hugging the deeper dark between tepees, Fargo averted his face whenever a Lakota came near them. For her part, Sweet Flower strode along calm and casual. No one would suspect she was sneaking a white man into their village.
“What will you do when we get there?”
Fargo hadn’t thought that far ahead. He spied three horses with saddles outside the lodge. One belonged to Owen, the second was the sorrel Lichen rode, the third mount must be the senator’s. At least Keever hadn’t brought Rebecca and Gerty along.
“Be careful,” Sweet Flower suddenly whispered.
Several Lakotas were coming toward them. Warriors, talking and smiling. When they were near, one of them raised a hand in greeting. “Was’te.”
Fargo knew it was Lakota for” greetings.” He was about to respond but Sweet Flower beat him to it.
“Hou.”
The same warrior looked at Fargo, apparently expecting a reply, so Fargo said, “Toniktuki hwo,” which was “How are you?”
“Nahan rei wayon heon,” the warrior said, and laughed.
That was Sioux for “I am still alive.” Fargo grunted and turned his head and walked on by.
Sweet Flower glanced over her should. “You can breathe easy. They did not catch on that you are not one of us.”
“Take me around to the back of your father’s lodge.”
“If we are seen some might wonder why we are there.”
“Not if you stand under the blanket with me.” Fargo averted his face again as an old man came around a lodge and shuffled past.
They reached her father’s tepee. Fargo raised the blanket and she did as he wanted, whispering, “They will banish me if they catch us.”
“Not if I say I forced you.” Fargo leaned toward the lodge and strained to hear. Muffled voices gave him no clue to what they were talking about. He recognized Little Face’s voice, and then Owen’s. “You should go in and hear what they
are saying.”
“My father told me not to come back until the whites leave. He will be mad if I go against his wishes.”
Fargo reckoned he should take some consolation in the fact the senator was still alive.
“Careful!” Sweet Flower whispered.
Fargo heard footsteps behind them.
Sweet Flower suddenly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. He responded, savoring the feel of her body. The footsteps faded and she stepped back.
“I have become as bold as you.”
“I like bold.” Fargo peered out to be sure the person had gone, then bent and put an ear to the lodge. He still couldn’t hear what was being said although he did catch a few words. Little Face talked, and then Owen, who was translating for Senator Keever.
Sweet Flower tapped him on the arm and he straightened. A group of warriors were going past. Again she kissed him, and from under the edge of the blanket he saw one of the warriors nudge another, and laugh.
“If we keep this up you will have to make love to me before you go,” she teased.
“Thank you for what you are doing.”
“I do it for my people.” Sweet Flower touched his chin and wistfully smiled. “And for me.”
Voices rose from the front of the lodge. Fargo realized those inside were coming out. He wanted to move closer but if Little Face spotted him, all it would take was a shout to bring every warrior in the village down on his head. Saddles creaked, and words were exchanged, followed by the thud of hooves as the white men rode off.
Sweet Flower rose onto her toes to whisper, “Follow me but stay out of sight.” She moved around the lodge.
Fargo trailed after her and heard her address her father.
“May I go in now?”
“Yes. I am sorry if I offended you when I asked you to leave.”
“Did it go as you wanted, Father?”
Little Face laughed. “Better than I dared hope. Whites are stupid, daughter. Deceiving them is easy.”
“I am surprised you let them live.”
“You must learn patience. There is no enjoyment in killing an enemy quickly. I learned that as a boy. I would pluck the legs off grasshoppers and hold them in my hand while they wriggled and tried to jump. I would catch butterflies and pluck their wings. I would shoot animals in the leg with my arrows just to watch them roll in pain.”
“You never told me this.”
“There was no need. But if I had killed this Kee-ver tonight, I would deprive myself of greater enjoyment tomorrow. I have invited him to a feast. The fool has promised to bring his woman and their child. Owen will come, and that other one, Li-chen. I will invite some of my friends, and after we eat and drink, we will fall on the whites and kill the men. The woman will be mine.”
“What about the little girl?”
“She is too young to interest me. If no one else wants her, I will feed her to the coyotes.”
Sweet Flower was quiet a bit. “Father?”
“Yes, daughter?”
“I am not sure this is wise. I worry what the rest of the whites will do. Blue coats will come. Many of them.”
“Let them. A white buffalo has been born. That is a sign, Lame Deer. A sign that we will unite and drive the whites from our land for all time.”
“I hope you are right.”
“You doubt me?” Little Face sighed. “I should expect as much. You have always thought your own thoughts, even when those wiser than you think differently.”
Fargo put his hand on his Colt. He could end it, now. All it would take was one shot. He started around the lodge but stopped at the sight of warriors approaching. In the lead was an older warrior who greeted Little Face warmly, and they all went into the tepee.
Sweet Flower hurried around. “You heard?”
“I will explain to Keever and lead him and the others out of the Black Hills. Your father’s plotting will have been for nothing.”
“Then I will never see you again?” Sweet Flower asked, not hiding her disappointment.
“We are bound to cross paths.” Fargo kissed her on the cheek and said softly, “You are a fine woman. I am proud to call you my friend. If you ever need my help you have only to ask.”
“I will walk you from the village.”
“That is not necessary.” Fargo pulled the blanket around his shoulders. “Until we meet again.”
“Until we meet again, He Who Walks Many Trails.”
Fargo moved around the circle, staying in the shadow as before. None of the many Lakotas moving about noticed him, or if they did, thought anything of it. He was almost to the opposite side when a four-legged shape came out of a patch of ink and barred his path. He went to go past it.
The dog sniffed and growled.
“Good boy,” Fargo said quietly in the Lakota tongue. He made no sudden moves that might provoke it.
The dog sniffed louder, and growled louder. A big yellow mongrel, it had short, bristly hair, and a lot of muscle.
Just what Fargo needed. He held himself still, waiting for the dog to make up its mind.
Hooves drummed. Mounted warriors were crossing the circle. They were not coming Fargo’s way but they would pass within thirty feet of where he stood.
The dog took a step and bared its fangs.
Fargo started to hike his leg to get at the Arkansas toothpick. A silent kill was best.
The dog barked. A single bark would not attract much attention. But if the dog kept it up, the Lakotas would wonder why.
Fargo froze, hoping that if he stood completely still, the dog would stop.
It didn’t. Crouching, it barked in a frenzy.
Out in the circle, Lakotas were looking. The mounted warriors heard, too, and reined around.
“Damn.” Fargo was so close. He swung wide to go around and heard a Lakota shout. Something about “who are you and why is that dog making so much noise?”
Fargo didn’t answer. He took another step.
And the dog sprang.
17
Fargo shot it. He cleared leather and fanned the hammer when the dog was in midair. The blast kicked the Colt in his hand and the slug slammed the dog back. It fell on its side, howling stridently, and flopped about. Fargo had no lead to spare to finish it off, and no time if he wanted to. He ran.
Yipping and yelling, Lakotas converged on the rear of the tepee. The mounted warriors were first to get there. They saw the dog, and slowed. Then, at a bellow from one of their number, they jabbed their heels and galloped into the night, spreading out.
By then Fargo had raced a good forty yards. Stopping, he crouched low and pulled the blanket all the way over him. In the dark he might be mistaken for a boulder, or so he hoped. Warriors went by on either side, but none close.
Fargo stayed still. He heard more hooves, a slow clomp that seemed to be coming right toward him. Pivoting, he cast the blanket partly off. It was well he did. A warrior with a lance was almost on top of him, the lance cocked to throw.
Fargo fired twice, coring the man’s chest. The warrior started to pitch over the side of his mount, and Fargo helped him by grabbing an arm and yanking. Before the horse could collect its wits, Fargo was astride it and reining toward the rise.
Shouts from several quarters warned him other warriors were coming.
Fargo bent low. The blanket went flying from his shoulders, flapping like an oversized bat. He let it go. He could always get another. His hide was harder to replace.
A warrior hove out of the gloom. Apparently he mistook Fargo for a Lakota because he called out, asking if Fargo had seen an enemy. Fargo answered “No!” and kept on riding. He was relieved when the rise appeared. At the top he vaulted down to reclaim his boots. He spent precious seconds pulling them on, then flew to the Ovaro.
In the saddle, Fargo raced from the vicinity of the village. He thought he had gotten clean away, and smiled.
Then hooves hammered, and there was a banshee screech.
Fargo looked over hi
s shoulder. Three warriors had spotted him and given chase. He lashed the reins and the Ovaro went all out.
An arrow flashed over Fargo’s head. It didn’t miss by much. One of those warriors was an exceptional archer.
Fargo didn’t shoot. He had no hankering to kill more Lakotas. They were only protecting their village from an intruder. On he rode, the Ovaro gradually widening its lead until at last the warriors were so far behind, they gave up the chase.
Fargo drew rein. The night was silent save for the heavy breathing of the stallion and the distant cry of a wolf.
“We did it, big fella.”
Fargo patted the Ovaro’s neck, noted the position of the North Star, and reined to the southeast. He had a lot of time to think on the long ride back to camp. He wondered about Keever not telling him the real reason the senator wanted to come to the Black Hills. That business about it being a secret—did the government really distrust him that much? Fargo couldn’t see it being the case. He was friends with a fair number of high-ranking officers, including a general or two.
Fargo speculated that maybe it was something personal. But what it could be eluded him. It was puzzling. Even more so since the senator knew he spoke the Lakota tongue even better than Owen, and could help with the interpreting. The thought occurred to him that maybe Keever wanted to keep him out of it for that very reason, but that was ridiculous.
At last Fargo reached the valley. Two campfires were crackling, small fires, thank God. The senator, his wife and daughter, and Owen and Lichen were seated around one. Clymer and Harris and the rest of the men were at the other. All of them rose when Fargo rode into the circle of firelight and wearily dismounted.
Rebecca was the first to reach him. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.”
“I was a guest of the Sioux.”
Senator Keever was holding Gerty’s hand but he let go and shouldered through the others. “What’s that you just said? You’ve been where?” He glanced at Owen, who made an odd sort of motion with his hand.
“We have talking to do, Senator. But first I need something to drink.” Fargo slid his tin cup from his saddlebags, went over to the fire, and filled it with steaming black coffee. He sipped gratefully as they gathered around.
