Black Hills Badman (16 page)

“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.

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 his 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.

“What happened to your face?” Rebecca asked. “You look as if you suffered a terrible beating.”

Gerty squealed in delight and clapped her hands. “Oh, I hope he did! It would serve him right for being so mean to me.”

“Hush,” Rebecca snapped. “That was rude.”

“Did you hear her, Father?” Gerty squealed. “Did you hear the tone she used with me?”

“I’m your mother,” Rebecca said. “I can use whatever tone I like.”

“You’re not my
real
mother. My
real
mother wouldn’t treat me the way you do. My
real
mother would be nice.”

Fargo shocked them by growling, “Shut the hell up, you little brat.”

Owen slapped his leg and cackled. “That’s telling her! Better yet, take her over your knee and whale the living daylights out of the hellion.”

“Enough!” Senator Keever declared. “I won’t have you or anyone else show such blatant disrespect for my family.”

“We have something more important to talk about,” Fargo enlightened him. “Whether you want to leave now or wait until first light?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Fargo took another sip. “You’re being played for a jackass, Senator. Little Face isn’t interested in a peace treaty. I’ve just come from his village. I was outside his lodge when you were inside talking to him.”

Keever gave a start as if he had been pricked with a pin. “You were? What did you hear?”

“Not much. But that doesn’t matter. What does is that he has no interest in peace. He wants to count coup on a chief of the whites. Guess who that is?”

“Preposterous. This meeting was his idea. He got word to Mr. Owen and Mr. Owen got word to me. Little Face wouldn’t go to all this bother just to kill me.”

“A Sioux warrior lives to count coup. The more coup he counts, the more brave deeds he does, the more he is looked up to, and respected. If Little Face counts coup on you, a great white chief, he will stand high in Lakota councils.”

The senator waved his hand as if dismissing the very idea. “If he wanted to kill me he could easily have done it tonight when I paid him a visit.”

“Get it through your head. He’s the cat and you’re the mouse.” Fargo forgot how stubborn Keever could be. “And he asked you to bring your wife and daughter with you tomorrow, didn’t he?”

“What?” Rebecca said.

Keever bobbed his chin. “As a show of good faith. For his part, he’s invited leaders of all the bands. It’s most fortuitous they have gathered to celebrate the white buffalo.”

“What is this about taking Gerty and me?” Rebecca demanded. “You never said anything to me.”

“Come now, my dear. It’s no different than a dinner engagement back in Washington. Only we will be dining with uncouth red savages and not the elite of society.”

Fargo said, “You’re not dining with anyone.”

“I’m afraid that’s not your decision to make. You are in my employ, not the other way around. And there’s another factor to be considered.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Senator Keever smiled. “You needn’t concern yourself about it. I have matters well in hand.”

Fargo was fast losing his temper. There was just no reasoning with some people. “Like hell you do. I can’t let you go. I can’t let your own stupidity get your wife and the brat killed, too.”

Gerty snapped, “Take that back.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said.

Keever looked bored. “How considerate. But when I say I have matters in hand, I truly do. That pathetic heathen only thinks he’s outwitted me, when the truth is, I’ve outwitted him.”

“I’ll ask you one more time,” Fargo said harshly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Owen cleared his throat. “You know, Senator, maybe now is the time. I know we haven’t heard yet, but why run the risk of him spoiling things after you’ve gone to so much bother?”

“An excellent point,” Senator Keever said. “Very well. Do what must be done.”

To Fargo, none of this was making any sense. It made even less sense when Owen drew his six-shooter and pointed it at him. A second later Lichen did the same. “What the hell?”

Keever chuckled. “I’m afraid you must undo your gun belt and hand it over or these gentlemen have my permission to—what is the quaint expression? Ah, yes. They have my permission to fill you with lead.”

Rebecca put a hand to her throat. “Fulton! What on earth has gotten into you?”

“All in good time, my dear,” Keever said airily. He jabbed a finger at Fargo. “Well? What will it be? Hand over your Colt, or die. The decision is yours.”

Lichen took deliberate aim. “I hope he gives us an excuse. I’ve wanted to buck this son of a bitch out for weeks now. Always acting better than us and bossing us around.”

Owen didn’t say anything. He just stood there and smirked.

Fargo undid his belt buckle. It wasn’t as if he had a choice with them covering him.

The other men looked on in amazement. Clymer found his voice first and asked, “What’s going on, Senator? We didn’t sign on for anything like this.”

“Everything will be explained to you shortly,” Keever assured him. “For now it is enough that you know I was sent by the government to work out a peace treaty with the Sioux and this man intends to stop me.”

Clymer scratched his head. “Why would Fargo do a thing like that?”

“Ask him yourself after we’ve cut his claws.” Keever held out his hand. “The Colt, sir, and don’t try my patience.”

Boiling with anger, Fargo handed his gun belt over.

“Thank you.” Keever stepped back. “Now, Mr. Owen, if you please, would you and Mr. Lichen escort Mr. Fargo to my tent and see to it that he can’t interfere with my plans?”

Lichen slipped around behind Fargo and jabbed him in the back. “You heard the man. Keep your hands where I can see them or I’ll blow a hole clean through you.”

The confusion on the faces of Clymer and Harris and some of the others was mirrored by Fargo’s own. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what Senator Keever was up to.