by Jon Sharpe
“Bear Claw was as good as his word. The white buffalo is with a herd about half a day’s ride west of here.”
“You’re sure you can find it?”
“Easy as pie. Lichen and I will take the first watch. As soon as the others are asleep, we can slip away. You’ll have your trophy by tomorrow night. I guarantee.”
Keever beamed. “I couldn’t be more pleased. You have done excellent work, and you’ll be properly rewarded.”
“All of you are unspeakably vile,” Rebecca said.
The senator sighed. “Mr. Lichen, would you be so good as to bind my darling wife? No need to be gentle with her. In fact, I insist you tie her so tight, it cuts off her circulation.”
“My pleasure.”
Rebecca bolted, or tried to. She shoved Lichen and was almost past the senator when Gerty flung out a foot and tripped her, spilling her hard onto her hands and knees. Owen’s revolver arced, and at the thud of metal on her head, Rebecca collapsed.
Fargo swore through his gag.
Smiling, Keever placed his hand on Gerty’s head. “You did fine just then, my dear.”
“Anything for you, Father.” Gerty looked at Rebecca and then at Fargo. “Anything that gets these two dead.”
19
Skye Fargo was a keg of black powder set to explode. He had been tricked, used, and beaten. He had been lied to and led around like a bull with a ring through its nose. Worst of all, he was being set up to take the blame for a heinous act that would see the prairie run red with blood.
Lichen bound and gagged Rebecca and dragged her to the back of the tent. Drawing a knife, he cut a long slit, hooked his hands under her arms, and hauled her out, wriggling to squeeze through the canvas.
Senator Keever was acting extremely pleased with him self. “I’d leave my darling wife here with you, you understand, but I can’t run the risk of the Sioux not killing her. Some buck might take it into his fool head to take her for his woman, and the next thing, word would get out and the army or someone else would barter to get her back. So we dispose of her now.”
“How?” Fargo asked through his gag.
“What’s that? Did you ask how? I’ve left that up to Mr. Lichen. Just so he does it quick and gets back before I leave to go shoot the white buffalo.” Keever smoothed his jacket. “Come along, Gerty. We’ll go sit by the fire. We must do as we normally would until all the rest are asleep.”
“Yes, Father.”
Owen went to follow them and paused at the flap. “You won’t believe this, hoss, but I’m sorry it has to be like this. You and me, we’re a rare breed. We’re one of a kind.”
If not for the gag, Fargo would have said that there was a big difference between them. He had a few scruples; Owen didn’t have any.
“And in case you’re wondering, I’m doing this for the money. The senator is paying me ten thousand dollars. I lead him to the buff, I get him out of the Black Hills safe and healthy, and I have more money than I’ve ever seen at one time in all my born days.”
All Fargo could do was glare.
“For what it’s worth, I argued with him over having the Sioux kill you. I’d as soon do it myself. Quick and clean. Not because I like you but because no white man deserves to die as you’re going to die.”
The flap closed, and Fargo was alone. He wasted no time. With a heave of his shoulders he was up on his knees. He slid his fingers under his pant leg and down his boot. A tug, and the Arkansas toothpick was out of its sheath. Carefully reversing his grip, he cut at the rope binding his wrist. The rope was thick but the toothpick was razor sharp. The instant the rope parted, he sliced the loops around his legs.
Quickly, Fargo dashed to the back of the tent and squeezed through the slit. The woods were quiet save for the sounds from their camp. Staying low, he worked around toward the horse string. All the horses were there. Which meant Lichen had dragged Rebecca off on foot. They couldn’t be that far.
Fargo turned into the woods. It could be Lichen was going to kill her close to camp so that later, if anyone came to investigate and found her remains near the site of the massacre, they’d assume the Sioux had killed her, too.
Yes, the more Fargo thought about it, it sounded like something Senator Keever would do. The man was as crafty a bastard as ever drew breath.
Every sense alert, Fargo wound through the trees. He was afraid that in the dark he would miss them. He went fifty feet, a hundred, a hundred and fifty. A rustling noise to his left gave him hope. He slowed. On cat’s feet he stalked around a blue spruce. For a few seconds he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. There appeared to be someone lying on the ground. But it wasn’t one person, it was two.
Rebecca was on her back. She was still bound and gagged.
Stretched out next to her, freely running his hand over her body, was Lichen.
“Stop it, damn you. Try to knee me one more time and so help me God, I’ll slit your damn throat and be done with it.”
Rebecca tried to shout through her gag but all she managed were throaty gurgles.
“And stop that, too. They can’t hear. It’s just you and me. Your husband gave me permission to do whatever I please, and it pleases me to have some pleasure before I feed you to the worms.”
Fargo edged forward. He was in the open but Lichen’s back was to him.
“I’ve got to hand it to that husband of yours. He doesn’t miss a trick. It must come from all the conniving and fina gling he does for a living.” Lichen placed a hand on her breast. “Mmm. Nice and full, like cantaloupes. I like that. I like cantaloupes better than apples any day.” He chortled at his joke.
Fargo had only a yard to go. Lichen had taken his Colt but he didn’t see it anywhere.
“If you’re smart you’ll let me have my way. The more I’m enjoying myself, the longer I’ll let you live.”
The pale starlight glistened off tears on Rebecca’s cheeks.
“Oh, hell. Don’t start that. If there’s anything I hate worse than a bawling female, I’ve yet to come across it.”
Rebecca uttered a soft sob.
“Damn you. It’s not as if I’m about to do something you haven’t done with a hundred other men, if what the senator says is true. He told us you feed them a lie about not having made love for five or ten years so they’ll take pity on you. Is that how it goes?”
Fargo was close enough. He slowly bent, his arm that held the toothpick as rigid as iron.
Lichen drew his knife. “I’m going to cut your legs free so you can spread them wide. But act up, do anything, anything at all, and I’ll kill you where you lie.” He bent and slashed the rope cleanly with one stroke, then pressed the tip of his blade against her ribs. “I’d like to undo that gag so we can swap kisses but all it would take is a shout from you and those other lunkheads would come on the run.” He kissed her ear, her neck, and squeezed her breast. “You are one mighty fine woman, if I say so myself. It’s too bad your husband won’t let me keep you for my own.” Lichen pushed her dress up above her knees, placed a hand on her leg, and taunted. “Do you know what happens next?”
“You die,” Fargo said.
Lichen glanced up in surprise.
Quick as thought, Fargo struck. He buried the toothpick to the hilt in Lichen’s left eye socket. At the same time, Fargo rammed a knee into Lichen’s mouth and then his throat to stifle any outcry.
Lichen lurched up off the ground. He was only halfway to his feet when he let out a long, slow breath, and deflated. He twitched, gurgled, and died.
Fargo tried to pull the toothpick out but it wouldn’t budge. Bracing his boot on Lichen’s chest, he wrenched with both hands. Not only did the blade come out, the eyeball came with it.
Rebecca rolled onto her side and made noises while thrusting her wrists at him.
“Hold your horses.” Fargo shook the toothpick to dislodge the eyeball but it clung fast. He tried again, harder, and this time the eyeball went flying—onto Rebecca’s cheek. She squawked like a strangl
ed chicken and tossed her head to shake the eyeball off. Instead, it oozed toward her mouth.
“Stay still.”
Rebecca looked fit to faint.
Fargo plucked it from her and tossed it into the dark. Li chen’s shirt was as good a place as any to wipe his fingers. Then he cut her loose.
Pushing to her feet, Rebecca was female wrath incarnate. “That son of a bitch husband of mine! Where is he?”
“Not so loud. We don’t want him to hear us.”
“I don’t care if he does or he doesn’t. He’s dead. Do you hear me? Dead, dead, dead!”
Fargo clamped a hand over her mouth but the harm had already been done. He heard footsteps fading rapidly and spied a dim figure racing toward camp. He had a good idea who it was: Owen, come to see what was taking Lichen so long. “Come on.” He started to give chase but he took only a few steps when Rebecca called his name.
“Don’t leave me! Please.”
Reluctantly, Fargo stopped. She was limping and held a hand out for him to help her. “What’s wrong?”
“I came to when that worm was dragging me from the tent. I tried to fight him and he kicked me in the knee. I can barely walk.”
Fargo slipped an arm around her and she leaned against him. “We have to hurry. Hop with your good leg.” He moved as fast as she could bear to go without falling on her face. But it wasn’t anywhere near fast enough. He was sure the senator and Owen would be gone by the time he reached the camp, and sure enough, three horses were missing from the string.
All the men were sound asleep, their snores loud enough to wake a hibernating bear.
Fargo let go of her. “As soon as I leave, wake them up. Tell Harris he’s in charge. He’s to pack everything and get the hell out of here. Head south. I’ll catch up later.”
“Wait.” Rebecca clutched his arm. “You’re going after them alone?”
“I can make better time.” And, Fargo reflected, one rider was less likely to be spotted by the Sioux.
“What will you do when you catch them?”
“What do you think?” Again Fargo tried to leave but she held on to him.
“Fulton is a United States senator. He has many powerful friends in Washington. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out?” Rebecca answered her own question. “They’ll crucify you.”
“Only if they find out.”
“Oh.” Rebecca nodded, then rose onto the toes of her good foot and kissed him on the cheek. “For luck.”
His spurs jangling, Fargo sprinted to the Ovaro. Vaulting onto the saddle, he reined to the west. Half a day’s ride, Owen had said. Or half a night. The problem was that “west” included a lot of countryside.
Fargo rode hard for the first fifteen minutes. He kept hoping he would catch a glimpse of Owen and Keever, or hear them. But he didn’t, so he slowed to spare the Ovaro. It wouldn’t do to exhaust the stallion so soon. He had a feeling he would need to rely on its speed and stamina before too long.
It was then that Fargo thought he heard another horse. Drawing rein, he listened, but the sound wasn’t repeated. His imagination, he reckoned, and gigged the Ovaro on.
At night the Black Hills truly were. Mounds of ink, framed by a myriad of stars. From all points rose the howls and shrieks and roars and wails of the wild things, the cries of the meat-eaters and the plant-eaters the meat-eaters preyed on.
Fargo decided to climb a hill. From the summit he might spot them. He was halfway up when, once again, he thought he heard horses—behind him. Drawing rein, he waited for the sounds to be repeated but when a minute went by and they weren’t, he clucked to the Ovaro.
In broad daylight it would have been easy to spot riders at a distance. But at night all Fargo saw was an unending vista of black and more black. He swore and started down the other side. Then, as clear as could be, he heard the chink of a hoof on stone. This time there was no mistake. It wasn’t his imagination.
He was being followed.
Fargo drew rein and slid down. He left the Henry in the saddle scabbard. At close range in the dark the Colt was just as effective. Drawing it, he crept to the top of the hill.
Riders were climbing toward him.
Fargo counted five but it was hard to be sure. One of them whispered—in the Lakota tongue.
“Go slow and stay quiet. He cannot be far ahead.”
The whisperer was Little Face.
Fargo smiled a cold smile. He crouched, and waited, and when they were almost to the top he centered the Colt on a darkling figure. The revolver spurted flame and lead and the figure let out a sharp cry. Quickly, Fargo shot two more, blasting them from their mounts in the time it took to blink.
That left Little Face and one other, both of whom gave voice to war whoops, and charged.
Fargo slammed off a shot from the hip. The other warrior threw up his hands and tumbled to the dirt.
Little Face kept coming, his arm cocked to hurl a lance.
Diving to the right, Fargo rolled. He’d only had five pills in the wheel, which meant he had only one left. He must make it count.
The lance thudded into the earth next to him.
Fargo looked up. Little Face loomed large against the night sky, seeking to trample him under the driving hooves of his mount. Fargo pointed the Colt, and shot. He swore he heard the smack of the lead that knocked Little Face headfirst to the ground.
The horse didn’t stop.
Fargo quickly reloaded. None of the warriors were moving except Little Face, who was on his side, thrashing and gurgling. Fargo walked over. With his boot he flipped Little Face onto his back. The shot had caught him in the chest and a fine mist was spraying from the bullet hole. “Can you talk?”
“Finish me.”
Fargo bent over him. “How did you get on my trail?”
Little Face sucked in a deep breath. “There was a commotion in our village. A white man was seen. I went to where I had left you with Long Forelock and Bear Loves and found them dead.”
“And?” Fargo prompted when he didn’t go on.,
Little Face sucked in another breath. “I knew you would try to warn the sen-a-tor that I wanted to count coup on him. So I gathered some friends who hate whites as much as I do, and we came to your camp. Just as we rode up, we saw you leave.”
“And you came after me to kill me.” Fargo straightened. He aimed at the center of Little Face’s forehead and thumbed back the hammer. “Any last words?”
“I hate you.”
The boom of the Colt rolled off across the hills. Fargo replaced the spent cartridge, twirled the revolver into his holster, and strode to the Ovaro. “Three to go,” he said.
20
The Black Hills covered a lot of territory. Thousands of square miles, Fargo had heard. Even narrowing down the area where the white buffalo might be to the western half left a lot of ground to cover.
Fortunately, the Black Hills were not all hills. There was rolling grassland where buffalo grazed and wallowed, and Fargo was willing to bet every dollar in his poke that that was where he would find the white buff.
The problem, though, was that the grassy tracts were widely scattered. He couldn’t check all of them in one night. Or seven nights. His best bet was to cover as much ground as he could and hope for a stroke of luck.
Fargo was a big believer in Fair Lady Chance. She often favored him at cards, and she certainly liked to toss ladies in his lap. A friend of his once said that he was born under a lucky star. Fargo wouldn’t go that far, but he would admit that nine times out of ten, luck worked in his favor. As any gambler would confirm, those were uncommonly high odds.
Still, Fargo couldn’t stop worrying. If he didn’t find Keever in time, open warfare would break out. The Lakotas and other tribes would be incensed. To them a white buff was a symbol of all that was good. When they found out a white man was to blame for the calf’s death, they would join forces and rise up in a wave of slaughter the likes of which the West had never seen. Hundreds wo
uld die.
Unless Fargo stopped Keever.
So Fargo rode. He rode hard. He pushed the Ovaro as if their lives depended on it. He was alert for sounds or the telltale glow of a campfire. But on the one night he most needed Lady Chance to smile on him, she was over at a corner table playing roulette with someone else.
The notion brought a weary chuckle to Fargo’s lips. He still had his sense of humor.
The minutes added up into hours and the hours crawled toward dawn. A pink blush decorated the eastern horizon when Fargo drew rein on a flattop hill and gazed in all directions. Disappointment left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had tried and he had failed. Soon it would be daylight, and Senator Fulton Keever would add another trophy to his wall.
Fargo swore. He considered going to his friend Four Horns and asking his help. The only thing was, he had no idea where to find Four Horns’ village.
It seemed like everything was against him.
Then a thin golden crown framed the rim of the world, and the gloom of night was relieved by the gray of dawn. Fargo arched his stiff back, and yawned. He was all set to ride on when, far in the distance, he saw four-legged sticks. His pulse quickening, he rose in the stirrups. There were three of them. They were too far off to tell much but it had to be Keever and the brat and Owen.
Fargo fought down a burst of elation. They were miles away. Overtaking them before they shot the buff was asking for a miracle.
“Sorry, big fella,” Fargo said as he pricked the Ovaro with his spurs. “I know you’re tuckered out.”
The golden crown became a ring and the ring became a yellow plate. All around, the shadows of night were dispelled by the spreading light of the new day.
Fargo came out of the woods to the belt of grass where he had seen the riders. He slowed and twisted in the saddle, desperate for some sign. But there was nothing, nothing at all.
A rifle boomed and a leaden bee buzzed his ear. Another inch over, and the grass would have been spattered with his brains.
Fargo reined around and streaked toward the woods. He wasn’t worried so much for his own hide as for the Ovaro’s; the smart thing for the shooter to do was to bring the stallion down.
