Black Hills Badman tt-333

by Jon Sharpe

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Thousands of Lakotas will die and it will be your fault. Your hate will bring sadness to their hearts and an end to their ways.” Fargo could have yipped with glee when Long Forelock let his bow dip so that the arrow was pointing at the ground. Bear Loves, though, hadn’t lowered his.

  “You try to put fear in my heart. Fear for my people. But I do this for them. To keep them safe, and our land safe.”

  Fargo wondered. Little Face had always flattered himself that he was a man of great importance. “Is that all there is to it? Or is it so that you want to stand higher in their eyes?”

  “I will enjoy killing you more than I have enjoyed killing any enemy ever,” Little Face declared.

  “I am not an enemy of the Lakotas,” Fargo tried.

  “You are my enemy. You are my enemy because you are white. You are my enemy because you stopped me from taking that white woman. And now you are my enemy because you have been with my daughter.” Little Face’s features hardened. “I will stake you out and skin you. I will chop off your fingers and toes. I will dig out your eyes. When I tire of your screams, I will cut out your tongue. It will bring me much happiness.”

  Fargo almost gave a start. Bear Loves had started to lower his bow. Not much, only a few inches.

  “The whites have a word for man like you,” Fargo said. “I think you know what it means.” He bent toward Little Face and smiled to add salt to the verbal wound. “That word is bastard.”

  Little Face lost his temper. Snarling, he whipped a knife from under his buffalo robe, and lunged. In doing so, he threw himself between Fargo and Bear Loves, which was exactly what Fargo wanted. Grabbing Little Face’s wrists, Fargo heaved upward. He was buck naked but that hardly mattered when any moment he might be dead. He saw Bear Loves step to the right for a clear shot and he instantly stepped to the left, keeping Little Face between them.

  “Subdue him!” Little Face yelled at the others.

  Long Forelock flung down his bow, streaked out a knife, and started to come around him.

  Fargo’s intent was to reach the Ovaro. The Henry was still in the saddle scabbard. Once he got his hands on it, they would answer for their arrogance. Or if need be, he could escape and come back later. He had spare buckskins in his saddlebags, an older set that needed mending, but they would do.

  “Help me!” Little Face fumed.

  Bear Loves was gliding to the left.

  Fargo risked all on a desperate gamble. He swung Little Face at Bear Loves, and shoved. Little Face squawked and tripped and they both went down, tangled together. Long Forelock thrust with his knife but Fargo was ready. He side-stepped and landed a solid cross to the jaw that jolted Long Forelock back.

  The way to the Ovaro was clear.

  Fargo took a bound, only to have Bear Loves fling out a leg and hook his ankle. Fargo tried to stay on his feet but gravity took over and he landed hard on his hands and chest. He pushed up and was almost to his knees when the razor tip of a knife was jabbed against his neck.

  “Are you ready to die?”

  15

  Through a haze of pain Skye Fargo heard a chuckle. He opened his eyes and glared at his tormentor. “You son of a bitch,” he rasped in English.

  Little Face laughed. He wagged the knife he was holding, then jabbed Fargo hard in the side. Not deep, but it drew more blood. “I know those words. A blue coat I killed once used them many times while I was cutting on him.”

  Switching to Lakota, Fargo said, “You have no honor.”

  “You are my enemy. A warrior counts coup on his enemies. Whether the warrior does it slow or quickly is up to him. With you it will be slow.”

  Fargo was suspended between two trees. Rope dug into each wrist. His skin was rubbed raw and dry blood caked his forearms. It felt like his whole body was a mass of bruises and welts. Little Face had beat on him with a tree limb for a good quarter of an hour. He was cut in a dozen places. But none of the blows or the cuts were intended to kill him.

  “You will suffer greatly before I am done,” Little Face boasted. “You will weep and gnash your teeth and beg me to end your misery.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, bastard.”

  “Eh?” Little Face jabbed him again. “In the Lakota tongue, remember? Or should I cut yours out so you can not talk at all?”

  “It will be hard to beg without my tongue.”

  Little Face’s smile was vicious. “You can whimper.” He turned away.

  Fargo fought down a wave of fury. It would be pointless to lose his temper. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless, completely at the mercy of a bitter enemy.

  A rattle drew Fargo’s gaze to Long Forelock and Bear Loves. The pair had made a pile of his clothes and upended his saddlebags and were gambling for his effects with a pair of plum-stone dice. So far, Bear Loves had won the Arkansas toothpick and his shirt. Long Forelock had won the Colt and his pants. Neither had won the Henry yet.

  Little Face wasn’t taking part; he was interested in only one thing.

  Fargo tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Beads of sweat dribbled down his brow. One got into his eye and stung like hell.

  Little Face conversed with the other two in low tones, then came back. “They have agreed to watch you while I am gone.”

  “You are going somewhere?”

  “Have you forgotten?” Little Face pointed to the west with his blood-tipped knife.

  The sun was an hour from setting.

  “I must prepare for the sen-a-tor.”

  Fargo had almost forgotten. And there he hung, powerless to do anything. “It will be your fault when the soldiers come and wipe out your people.”

  “The blue coats are no match for the Lakotas. Their horses are slow. They do not shoot straight. Many are boys. They huddle around their campfires at night, in fear we will take their hair.” Little Face sneered. “Them wipe us out?”

  Fargo grasped at a straw. “Senator Keever wanted me at the meeting to translate for him.”

  “The one called Owen knows enough of our tongue. If the sen-a-tor asks, I will tell him I have not seen you, and say how sad I am that you are not there since you and I are good friends.” Little Face sneered in sadistic delight and raised the knife.

  Fargo braced for another cut but all his tormentor did was prick his arm, and chortle.

  “I leave you now. My friends will watch over you. I have told them that if you try to slip free they are to cut out one of your eyes.” Little Face pricked him again. “If you yell they are to sew your mouth shut.” He smacked Fargo on the jaw, wheeled, and hiked off.

  Fargo sagged. It would be easy to give in to despair. But it wasn’t his way. He had never given up his whole life and he would be damned if he would start now.

  Long Forelock and Bear Loves were so engrossed in their gambling, they were paying him no mind.

  Gritting his teeth, Fargo twisted his wrists. The pain was awful. But if he could get his wrists to bleed again, it would make the rope slick enough for him to work a hand loose. The threat of losing an eye was nothing compared to the threat of losing his life.

  The shadows in the woods lengthened. The breeze picked up. Somewhere a robin was warbling.

  Fargo kept on twisting. He didn’t want to die like this. He’d always figured his end would be quick, a bullet to the brain or an arrow to the heart. Or better yet, to die in bed with a woman, to keel over while making love. Rough for the woman, but the man would go out with a smile on his face. The thought made him chuckle.

  Long Forelock glanced at him and said something to Bear Loves, who got up and came over.

  Fargo stood perfectly still.

  Bear Loves was suspicious. He looked at the ropes and then looked Fargo up and down. “Why did you laugh?”

  “I am happy.”

  “Your head must be in a whirl. You have nothing to be happy about, stupid one. By the rising of the sun tomorrow you will be dead.”

  Fargo grasped
at another straw. “Has Little Face told you about the white man called Keever? About what he plans to do?”

  Bear Loves grunted.

  “You do not care that it will cause war to break out? Not war as you are used to it. Not war where you raid an enemy’s village and the enemy raids yours. In this war, the blue coats will come again and again. They will kill and kill until the Lakotas are no more.”

  “You try to make me fear for my people so I will free you. But Little Face warned us you would try that.” Bear Loves poked Fargo in the chest. “Do not make noise and do not bother us. The next time, I will cut off one of your fingers or maybe a toe.”

  As soon as the pair resumed their dice game, Fargo set to work on his wrists. Trickles of blood held promise.

  Time crawled, dragged by anchors of worry. Fargo stopped twisting whenever one of the warriors looked in his direction, which wasn’t often. Like many Indians—and whites—the Sioux were inveterate gamblers. They would bet on anything—dice, horse races, contests of skill, you name it.

  The sun sank. Fargo figured the pair would light a fire but they went on rolling by the light of the moon, bending close over the dice after each toss. He wondered why, and then it hit him. They didn’t want a fire for the same reason Little Face hadn’t taken him back to the village. A fire might bring other warriors to investigate, and some might be friends of his.

  Fargo rested. The way things were going, he’d rub clear down to the bone before he got loose. The pain was awful. Despair nipped at him but he fought it off.

  Then a hand touched his shoulder from behind.

  Fargo nearly gave a start. He felt fingers slide down his back, and a warm body pressed against his. Breath fanned his ear and a familiar voice whispered, “I will cut the ropes. Do not let on.”

  It was the last person Fargo expected. He held his arms still in case the warriors glanced his way. In moments it was done, and lips brushed his other ear.

  “We will sneak away. I will go first and you follow.”

  “No,” Fargo whispered. He wasn’t leaving without his clothes and his weapons.

  “They will kill you.”

  “They will try.” Fargo glanced over his shoulder. “Give me your knife.”

  Sweet Flower took a step back. “I cannot,” she whispered. “They are my people.” And with that, she turned and melted into the undergrowth.

  Fargo supposed he couldn’t blame her. She had gone against her own father in freeing him. Little Face would be furious if he found out, and punish her severely.

  Fargo turned toward Long Forelock and Bear Loves. They were rolling dice for the Henry. Both were tense with eagerness. Few Lakotas owned Henrys. It was a trophy any of them would give anything to possess. They were so intent on the dice that neither noticed when Fargo edged toward them. His gun belt lay to one side, where Long Forelock had placed it after winning it.

  Bear Loves was about to roll. He stared at the Henry as if by doing so he could will the rifle into his possession. Then his hand flicked and the dice tumbled onto the ground.

  Both warriors bent lower then ever, nearly bumping heads.

  Fargo sprang. His bare feet made little sound, and he had the gun belt in his left hand and was drawing the Colt with his right before either of them realized he was free. They whirled, Bear Loves grabbing the toothpick and Long Forelock swooping a hand to a knife at his hip.

  “I will kill you if you try,” Fargo warned. He had no hankering to put windows in their skulls. They hadn’t harmed him. The only thing they had done was bind him.

  The pair froze, but only for a few seconds. Then Long Forelock glanced at Bear Loves, and nodded, and simultaneously, Long Forelock’s other hand swept up off the ground holding a handful of dirt.

  Fargo ducked but some of the dirt got into his eyes. He backpedaled and blinked to clear them, and as he did iron fingers clamped onto his wrist and a foot hooked behind his ankle and tripped him.

  Long Forelock raised his knife high to stab.

  Flat on his back, Fargo pointed the Colt at the warrior’s chest, and fired. The blast would carry for a mile. With it came a flash and the smell of the powder.

  Long Forelock staggered. He looked down at himself in disbelief and tried to say something but all that came out was blood. Half turning, he reached out for Bear Loves, who was rigid with shock. His fingers clawed in appeal, he mewed like a kitten, and died.

  If Fargo had thought to spare Bear Loves, he had another think coming. The death of his friend filled the other warrior with blind rage. Uttering a sharp cry, he threw himself forward.

  The toothpick against the Colt was no contest. Fargo rolled, heaved onto a knee, and thumbed back the hammer. But as he went to squeeze the trigger, Bear Loves lashed out with a foot. It caught Fargo on his wrist. Sheer agony shot up his arm, and the Colt fell from fingers gone briefly numb.

  Fargo lunged to snatch it up but Bear Loves was quicker. The toothpick arced at his neck. He barely got a hand up in time to grab Bear Loves’ wrist; the tip of the blade came within an inch of his jugular.

  Bear Loves drove a knee at Fargo’s face but Fargo avoided it and drove his fist into the warrior’s gut, doubling him over. It put Bear Loves’ chin within easy reach of an uppercut that lifted him onto his toes.

  Bear Loves tottered. His ankle caught on Fargo’s saddlebags. He tried to right himself, and in flailing his arms, partly turned. He crashed down on his side and didn’t move.

  Fargo quickly reclaimed the Colt. He nudged Bear Loves with his toe but the warrior just lay there. Since Fargo hadn’t hit him hard enough to knock him out, he suspected the Lakota was playing possum. “Sit up. I will not shoot you unless you force me.”

  Bear Loves was as still as a log.

  Warily, Fargo rolled him over. The warrior’s eyes were open, and empty of life. The hilt of the toothpick, jutting between Bear Loves’ ribs, explained why; he had fallen on the blade.

  “I’ll be damned.” Fargo yanked it out and wiped it clean on Bear Loves’ leggings.

  The crunch of a twig brought him around in a blur. But he didn’t shoot. “You came back?”

  “I never left.” Sweet Flower sadly regarded the fallen warriors. “They were friends of mine.”

  “I did not want to kill them.”

  “I know. I saw.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I wish there had been another way.”

  “This is on your father’s shoulders, not mine or yours,” Fargo assured her. He began gathering up his clothes. “What is your real name?”

  “Sorry?” she asked absently, still gazing at the dead men.

  “Sweet Flower is the name I gave you. What is your real name. You never told me.”

  “I am called Lame Deer but I like Sweet Flower better.”

  Fargo tugged into his pants. “Then that is what I will call you.” He scooped up his shirt. “Why did you cut me free?”

  “It was a hard decision. I do not agree with what my father wants to do. I think that killing the white chief is bad medicine, and many of my people may die.”

  “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 f
ondness 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.”