by Jon Sharpe
“Sorry?” from Small Badger.
“You both heard me right. I hate Indians. And no, it’s not because my father or my grandfather or my cousin was butchered and scalped. That’s the usual reason.” Bell smiled. “I hate Indians because they are Indians. Or to be more exact, I hate them because they have red skin.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
“While I’m being so honest, I’ll admit I also hate blacks and Mexicans and the Chinese and anyone else who isn’t white.”
“You’re one of those.”
“A bigot, you mean? Yes, I suppose that would be your word for it. Personally, I call it pride in my own race. Pride in being white. An Indian can have pride in being an Indian, can’t he? A black can have pride in being black? So why is it wrong for a white man to have pride in being white?”
“Pride is one thing,” Fargo said. “Hate is another.”
“You’re splitting hairs,” Bell replied. “If a person has true pride in their race, it stands to reason they won’t think highly of any other. It’s a matter of breeding. Much like with the Nez Perce and their Appaloosas.”
“I not understand,” Small Badger said.
“Of course you don’t. You’re red. Permit me to explain.” Bell placed his elbow on his leg and gestured expansively. “People breed just like animals. Some breeds have good traits. Some breeds don’t. Your Appaloosas, for example, are famous for being some of the best horses anywhere. And just as there are good and bad breeds of horses, there are good and bad breeds of people.”
“All this is leading up to something,” Fargo suspected, and moved his hand so it was at the edge of the table above his Colt.
“Assuredly. Be patient. I’ll get to the point shortly.” Bell sipped coffee. “I mention all this so you will understand what is to follow. You see, not only do I take pride in my race but I act on that pride. How, you wonder. I act on it by killing every redskin, nigger and greaser I catch on the Circle B.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Now, now. Hold your temper, Mr. Fargo. I’m not done yet and you will want to hear the rest.” Bell paused. “Would you like more coffee? The pot is empty and I know I would.”
Fargo didn’t answer. Small Badger appeared bewildered.
“This will only take a moment.” Bell raised his hand and snapped his fingers as he had done earlier in the meal. The last time, the cook had brought out the pie and set it on the table. But when Bell snapped his finger this time, Griff Jackson and the three punchers who had jumped Small Badger down at the corral entered, each with his revolver out. The foreman pointed his at Fargo. The hammer was already thumbed back.
Fargo started to lower his hand to his Colt the instant he saw them but stopped. He would be dead before he touched it.
“A precaution on my part,” Clarence Bell said smugly. “What I am about to say will upset you even more.” He motioned. “Mr. Jackson, if you would, kindly relieve Mr. Fargo of his six-shooter and the Indian of his knife.”
The three punchers were studies in pure hate. They covered Fargo and Small Badger while Jackson took their weapons, walked around the table, and set them next to Bell.
Bell practically split his face with his smirk. “Now then. Where was I? Oh, yes. I was telling you how much I hate Indians and everyone else in this world who isn’t white.”
“If you hate them so much,” Fargo brought up, “why in hell did you send me to the Nez Perce for Appaloosas?”
“I hate them, not their horses.” Bell leaned toward him. “I need that breeding pair. I need them more than you can imagine. You see, I’m not as wealthy as I claimed. In fact, I am barely making ends meet. It cost much more than I anticipated to get my ranch up and running and the cost of getting my beef to market reduces my profit to next to nothing.”
“Starting a ranch this far out was pretty stupid,” Fargo remarked to get his dander up.
“Not at all. It was brilliant. So is my solution to the problem. You see, I need something else to sell besides beef. Something that will bring in a lot of money and keep the Circle B afloat. A while back I happened to be at the trading post and saw several Nez Perce and their wonderful mounts. That’s when the idea hit me.”
There was the answer.
Fargo wanted to kick himself for letting himself be used. But then, how was he to know what Bell was really like?
“Coincidentally enough, that must have been when Speckled Wolf and his two friends overheard me making my plans.”
“You knew who they were all along?”
“I was at a table talking with Mr. Jackson. We were near a window. At one point I heard footsteps and looked out and saw Speckled Wolf and the others running off. They must have heard every word I said and decided to stop me. You see, they were aware of how I feel about nonwhites. They had the gall to show up at the house one day asking for work. I explained to them that I would never hire them because they were half red, and that the only reason I would let them leave my ranch alive was because they were half white.”
Fargo bowed his head.
“They must have taken it on themselves to try and thwart me. That they were killed by warriors from the very tribe they were trying to help is yet another of life’s delightful ironies, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
“Sick how? In my head? Oh, please. To my way of thinking, a man like you is the sick one. You’ve lived with Indians. From what I understand, you’ve even slept with their women. It’s the same as sleeping with dogs. You have no pride in your own race, sir.”
Small Badger cleared his throat. “This mean I not get money to take to my people?”
“I couldn’t pay you the rest if I wanted to,” Clarence Bell said. “I used about all the money I have when I hired Mr. Fargo.”
“So you trick us?” Small Badger said.
“From the very start, yes,” Bell boasted. “I had to make it seem as if I was rolling in money so Mr. Fargo would be duped into believing I was good for the rest. It worked beautifully, if I do say so myself.”
Fargo simmered with fury. If not for the pistols trained on him, he would have been out of his chair and on Bell in a heartbeat.
The rancher stood and smoothed his jacket. “I’ve done you the courtesy of explaining so you will understand what comes next. You see, Mr. Fargo, I know you have friends in the army, and others. It’s conceivable that someone might come nosing around asking about you. Or the Nez Perce might show up in force looking for Small Badger here and the rest of their money. I’ll say that I paid you the money due and the two of you rode off and that was the last I ever saw of you. No one will suspect the truth.”
“You think of everything, boss,” Griff Jackson said.
“That I do. Which is why Mr. Fargo and his red friend must now disappear off the face of the earth.”
“Disappear?” Small Badger said.
“Why yes, boy. You’re both going to die.”
18
Fargo’s shoulders throbbed with pain. He had been hanging from a rafter in the stable for the better part of an hour. Twisting, he pried at the knots but they were too tight. He couldn’t loosen them.
Small Badger dangled a few feet away. He had not said much since they were hauled from the ranch house and trussed up like calves for the slaughter. Now he raised his head and asked, “Why they not kill us right away?”
“You’re complaining?” Fargo commenced to swing his legs back and forth. “Bell has something special planned. I don’t know what but we’re not sticking around to find out.” Fargo swung harder, his boots pressed together, his body rigid.
“What you do?”
“We’re getting the hell out of here.”
Outside, night had fallen. The puncher left to guard them had muttered something about needing a chaw and had gone out the double doors. He could be back any moment.
Fargo arced his legs at the beam. He couldn’t quite reach it. Firming every muscle in his body, he tried again. Y
et another swing, and he parted his legs wide and wrapped them around the timber.
“What good that do?” Small Badger wanted to know.
“Keep an eye out.” Fargo glanced at the double doors. No sign yet of the cowhand. Bunching his shoulders, he slid the rope, and his hands, toward his boots. It was slow going. He could slide the rope only a few inches at a time. It seemed to take forever but at last his fingers were there. Hiking at his pant leg, he slid his fingers inside his boot and gripped the Arkansas toothpick.
Small Badger grinned. “I forget about knife.”
Fargo reversed his grip to cut. The edge was razor sharp but the rope was thick. He had to press hard, which was difficult to do. He bent his wrists to where they hurt like hell.
“Hurry,” Small Badger urged.
“What do you think I am doing?” Fargo cut and cut until he felt the rope give slightly. His fingers were crucibles of agony.
“I hear someone,” Small Badger said.
Fargo heard it, too; whistling, from the direction of the bunkhouse, coming closer. It must be the guard on his way back. He slashed with all his strength. The rope parted and gravity took over. If not for his legs around the beam, he would have dropped headfirst.
The whistler was almost to the stable. Fargo unwrapped his legs, and dropped, flipping in midair so he landed on his feet. Quickly, he ran to Small Badger and cut him down. The young warrior began to say something. Fargo put a finger to his lips and turned toward the entrance. He intended to duck behind one of the doors and stab the puncher when he came in. But the man was already in the doorway, rooted in surprise.
“Run,” Fargo said, and shoved Small Badger toward the back. He ran, too.
He dearly wished he could take the Ovaro from the stall and throw on his saddle but the cowboy was clawing for his six-shooter.
Small Badger slowed and glanced back.
Grabbing him by the shoulders, Fargo ducked and pulled Small Badger down just as the revolver went off. Lead sizzled the air above their heads. “Stay low!” he warned, and scuttled like a crab into the shadows.
“Get back here!” the cowhand bellowed.
Fargo slammed into the rear door with his shoulder even as his hand found the latch. He spilled out into the corral and nearly pitched to his knees. Another shot boomed as they ran toward the horses. Fargo figured to climb on one and escape bareback but the horses had been spooked by the ruckus and shied away.
“Him after us,” Small Badger warned.
The jingle of spurs was ominously loud.
Fargo pushed Small Badger toward the rails. “Climb over. I’ll be right behind you.” He looked around for a weapon. A rock, a whip, a rope, anything. There was none to be had.
Small Badger was clambering up. He gained the top and lowered his arm to help. “Grab me.”
“No need.” Taking two long strides, Fargo bounded high enough to catch hold of the top rail and pull himself up and over. Another shot cracked as he dropped to the other side.
“What now, Iron Will?”
“We run like hell.”
Fargo flew for all he was worth. He had always been fleet of foot and he proved it again now by springing ahead of his young friend. Together they fled into the dark with no goal in mind other than to save their hides.
The puncher was hollering up a storm.
“Him call others.”
“Keep running.”
A glance at the sky told Fargo they were running east. They were past the outhouses, on open ground. He tried not to think of what might happen should they step into a hole or a rain-worn rut.
Another shot split the night but the puncher was firing blind. Other men were shouting back and forth. From the house came an angry shout that sounded like Griff Jackson.
“My side hurt where man kick me,” Small Badger said between puffs.
“You’ll hurt a lot worse if they get their hands on you again,” Fargo said to coax him to greater speed. He glanced back.
The horses in the corral were prancing and whinnying. Men moved among them, seeking to throw saddles on. Other punchers were circling around the corral and giving chase on foot.
“They after us.”
“Keep running.”
They had covered several hundred yards when the first rider burst out of the corral gate and came galloping after them. A second and a third were hard on his hooves.
Grabbing Small Badger, Fargo veered toward a dark patch to their left. The patch broadened into a dry wash. Hurtling down, Fargo flattened and pulled the young warrior down beside him. Small Badger was breathing heavily and had a hand pressed to his ribs.
“I hurt worse.”
“Lie still. It will pass.” Fargo crawled to the top and risked a peek.
Four riders had spread out and were coming in their general direction.
The four began yelling back and forth.
“Any sign of them?”
“Not here.”
“Nothing this way.”
“The big sugar says that no matter what, we can’t let them get away.”
“Do we shoot to kill?”
“You damn sure do.”
Fargo slid down and plucked at Small Badger’s sleeve. “Stay close.” He bent and ran along the bottom and had gone a short way when he realized Small Badger hadn’t moved. Fargo hurried back. “What in blazes are you waiting for?”
Torment contorted Small Badger’s face. “Where man kick me is much hurt. I think maybe he break rib bone.”
“Stay put, then.” Fargo scrambled to the top again. One of the riders, standing tall in the stirrups and looking right and left, was nearing the wash. Fargo ducked down. His hand brushed an object that rolled and he clutched it before it could clatter and give him away. It was a rock about the size of a hen’s egg. Hefting it, he listened to the approaching thud of hooves and when the horse was right on top of him he reared up.
The cowboy swore in surprise and stabbed for his six-gun.
Fargo threw the rock. It caught the man full in the face and he caterwauled and reeled in the saddle. Fargo helped him along by springing, seizing a leg, and wrenching. The puncher fell hard on his shoulder and head and didn’t move.
From across the way came a shout. “Macky? Was that you? What’s going on over there?”
Fargo snagged the mount’s reins. He groped at the fallen puncher’s holster but it was empty. The revolver had fallen out. As much as Fargo wanted to look for it, there was no time. Vaulting up, he reined into the wash.
Small Badger was on his feet. He didn’t need to be told what to do; he raised an arm over his head.
Bending, Fargo gripped and swung Small Badger up behind him. A jab of his spurs and they were off, flying along the ravine as if their mount was lighter than air. From above and behind rose yells of alarm.
Fargo swept around a bend and then another—and the wash ended.
Without slowing, he galloped up the side and was out in the open. He lashed the reins as men clamored and guns boomed. Hornets buzzed dangerously near.
“Keep your head down,” he urged, and flew.
Riding in the dark was always a perilous proposition. It didn’t help that Fargo was unfamiliar with the terrain and wasn’t riding his own horse. He reined sharply to avoid a boulder, reined again to sweep around a mound that might be a prairie dog burrow.
“Stop them, damn it!”
That sounded like Griff Jackson. Fargo shifted and noticed something jutting from the saddle scabbard. He jerked it free, and grinned. Fate had granted him a Spencer rifle to fight back with. Jamming it to his shoulder, he yelled, “Duck!” to Small Badger, and twisted around. He couldn’t fix a bead for all the up-and-down movement of the horse but he fired anyway.
“He’s got a gun!” someone bawled.
To a man, his pursuers slowed.
Fargo resorted anew to his spurs. “Hang on tight.” He rode on, a long, hard, brutal ride, never once stopping until eventually he looked back and no one was th
ere. He slowed to a walk. The only hoofbeats he heard were those of his mount. “I think we did it.” Small Badger didn’t answer.
“Didn’t you hear me? We got away.” Fargo chuckled and slid the Spencer into the scabbard. “Small Badger?”
The young warrior groaned.
Fargo shifted. Small Badger’s chin was on his chest and his arms were starting to droop. Clutching him to keep him from sliding off, Fargo drew rein. His hand where it touched Small Badger’s shirt became wet.
“No,” Fargo said, and quickly dismounted. Carefully, he lowered Small Badger to the grass and placed him on his back. His other hand became wet.
Dreading what he would find, Fargo hiked his friend’s shirt. He couldn’t find a wound anywhere on the front, not on the chest or the belly or even the shoulder. Puzzled, Fargo rolled him partway over, and grimaced. A slug had caught Small Badger between the shoulder blades. It must still be in his body because there was no exit wound.
Fargo gently eased Small Badger down. He was about to stand and see if there was a canteen on the horse when Small Badger’s eyes fluttered open and he sucked in a long breath.
“Iron Will?”
“I’m here.” Fargo grasped his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you were shot?”
“You would stop. Maybe be shot too.”
“You kept quiet for my sake?” Fargo coughed to get rid of a constriction in his throat. “Damn it. You shouldn’t have.”
“You be mad at me?”
“No,” Fargo said more gruffly than he intended.
“Then why you sound mad?”
Fargo changed the subject. “The lead is still inside you. I’ll get a fire going and try to dig it out.”
“Badmen will see fire.”
“Let them.” Fargo started to rise but Small Badger grasped his wrist.
“No. Please. No need.”
“I might be able to save you,” Fargo tried to pull loose but Small Badger held firm. “Let go, damn it.”
“I sorry,” Small Badger said.
“For what?”
“I not can help you fight. They are many and you are one. Do smart thing and ride far away.” Small Badger coughed and dark stains appeared at the corners of his mouth.
