Black Hills Badman (11 page)

“Can’t say as I’ve heard there is, no.”

“Well, if the dog ain’t in there, it’s somewhere, and if there is a dog, then it won’t let ghosts come floating up here to spook us.”

“You have it all figured out.”

Harris nodded. “I’ve thought about where we go after we die, sure. Who doesn’t? I think on it most when I’m drunk because when I’m not drunk I don’t have a lot of thoughts in my head.”

“I wouldn’t mind being drunk right now,” Fargo said.

Clymer responded with, “Me either. It’s hard not being allowed to take a nip now and then. I hate milk. And beer just doesn’t taste the same. What else is there?”

“I get by with water when I have to.”

“I wonder if ghosts drink,” Harris said.

“Use your head,” Clymer told him. “Ghosts walk through walls and such. They couldn’t drink no more than they could eat.”

Fargo had an inspiration. “Has this ghost walked through any trees?”

“How’s that?”

“This ghost of yours. Does it walk through the trees or around them?”

Clymer scratched his stubble. “You know, I don’t rightly know.”

“It just sort of glides around all spooky-looking,” Harris said. “Sort of like a butterfly only without the wings.”

Fargo scanned the woods but there was nothing. “Maybe it’s gone back to the ghost world.”

“Could be,” Harris agreed. “Ghosts don’t stick around very long. I heard of a haunted house once where the ghost only acted up for a few minutes each night but that was enough to scare the people who live there half out of their hides.”

“I just thought of something,” Clymer said. “If ghosts are real, does this mean those other things are, too? Fairies and whatnot?”

Harris snorted. “You mean those little people with wings that flit about like hummingbirds? They ain’t real. Leprechauns, neither. Although I met an Irishman once who swore he’d seen one.”

Just when Fargo thought their talk couldn’t get any more ridiculous, it did.

“What about those ladies with fish tails that live in the sea? And those hairy critters some Injuns says live deep in the mountains?”

“I ain’t never been to the ocean so I can’t say about those fish women. Although I met me a river rat once who had been on a ship and he told me those fish gals are as real as you and me. They sit on rocks and wriggle their tails to lure sailors into the sea so they can drown them.”

“It sure is a strange world,” Clymer said.

For Fargo it got a lot stranger as just then a pale—
something
—seemed to float into view off in the woods. He blinked but it was still there. “What the hell?”

“I told you!” Clymer exclaimed. “And you were thinking we were simpletons, I bet.”

“Keep your voice down,” Harris cautioned. “Ghosts don’t like loud noises.”

“Says who?” Clymer demanded.

“Why, just about everybody. Yell at a ghost and it ske daddles. The same as if you throw water that those Catholics wash their feet in.”

“Hush,” Fargo said. He heard an odd lilting cry.

“The ghost keeps doing that,” Harris whispered. “If it was closer I’d chuck a rock at it.”

“Let’s go see what it is,” Fargo said, and started into the trees. He had gone half a dozen steps when he realized neither man was following him. “What are you waiting for?”

“I ain’t hankering to talk to no ghost,” Harris said. “It might get in my head and make me growl like a dog and spit on people.”

“You’re thinking of demons,” Clymer said.

“Oh. That’s right. I get them confused. I never did believe in demons much but now that ghosts are real, demons must be, too.”

“I’d sure like to meet one of those fish gals. I wonder if she’d be good to eat? I’m powerful fond of cooked fish.”

Fargo made a mental note to look these two up the next time he was sitting around camp bored. Drawing his Colt, he moved deeper into the trees. The pale figure was still moving about. It was definitely on two legs, not four. It was weaving among the trees at a peculiar shuffling gait. He slowed and crept quietly forward. Suddenly a twig crunched under his boot.

The thing turned in his direction.

Fargo’s skin crawled. It was coming toward him. He raised the Colt but he didn’t shoot. Not yet. Not until he knew what it was and if it was a threat. The lilting cry began again, only it wasn’t a cry at all.

The thing was singing.

Fargo lowered the Colt as the figure shuffled to within a dozen steps. That close, he could see it was a woman. An old woman with a wild mane of hair as gray as smoke, wearing a doeskin dress so worn and faded it was ready to fall apart.

She was singing in Lakota in a voice that cracked and rasped as if there was something wrong with her throat.

“I will not harm you,” Fargo said in her tongue.

The woman came closer, moving with that odd shuffling way she had.

It wasn’t until he could practically reach out and touch her that Fargo realized why. Her left foot, and probably her whole left leg judging by how her dress clung to it, was withered and deformed. So was her left arm and hand. She stopped and he saw her face clearly, and understood.

Someone, somewhere, had struck the woman a brutal blow. The left half of her forehead had caved in, and the left half of her face resembled a withered fig. Her left eye was white and sightless.

Fargo suspected a tomahawk or war club was to blame, that perhaps the woman’s village had been raided and she had done as any Lakota woman would do and defended her loved ones and her band, and been struck.

The woman stopped singing and crooked a gnarled finger at him. “Have you seen her, white-eye?”

“Seen who?”

“My girl. I cannot find her. She was with me when they attacked but now she is gone.”

“How are you known?”

The woman tilted her head. “I am half a woman. Once I was a whole woman but those days are gone.”

Fargo looked into her good eye. It held a gleam that wasn’t normal, a bright, sparkling glint that hinted at madness, or a mental state close to it.

“I gave up my name when I lost my daughter. What good was it? A name is a flower that does not last the winter. A name dies when we die.” She tittered in that raspy voice of hers. “I have no need of a name now. I am not here and will not be here until I find her.”

“Where is your man?”

The right half of her face became etched in sorrow. “I lost him when I lost my little girl. They killed him. A lance through the chest. I tried to pull it out but I was not strong enough.” She pressed her good hand to her withered hand and rubbed them. “So much blood. Blood on my hands, blood on my arms, blood on my face, blood on my dress.”

“Try not to think of it,” Fargo said softly.

She tittered, then touched the withered side of her face. “That is when I got this. I took my husband’s knife and tried to stab one of them and he hit me. They thought I was dead but I came back to life, and now I look for my girl. My sweet, precious girl.”

Fargo had been right. Her village had been raided, her husband slain, her child taken or killed, and she had her skull bashed in. “Where are your people?” He worried that her village was near. Someone might come looking for her and spot the senator’s camp.

“They are where they are. I am where I am. I do not care about them.”

“Why not?”

“They say my head is in a whirl. They say my baby is dead when I know my baby is alive. I look for her everywhere.”

“How long ago was your village attacked?”

“How long?” The woman scrunched up the good half of her face. “Was it yesterday? Or twenty sleeps ago?” She tittered some more. “I would count them on my fingers but only half my fingers work.”

Fargo had a thought. “How many winters have you lived?”

“Twenty-seven. Or maybe it is twenty-six. I forget things like that. I forget many things but I never forget my baby.” She turned to the right and the left. “Where can she be? I miss her so much. My heart is heavy.”

Fargo couldn’t get over how old the woman looked. He’d taken her to be sixty or more. “You should not wander around at night. There are bears and mountain lions.”

“Her name is Morning Dew. Do you like her name? I think it is the prettiest name there ever could be.”

“It is a fine name.” Fargo motioned toward camp. “Why not come and sit by our fire? We have food and water.”

“I do not want to eat. I do not want to drink. I only want my girl.” The woman started to walk away.

Boots thudded, and Harris and Clymer came up on either side of Fargo. Their rifles were leveled but they merely gaped.

“Well, I’ll be,” Harris declared. “She ain’t no ghost. I figured she couldn’t be when we saw you talking to her because ghosts don’t talk much unless they’re making spooky sounds.”

“It’s an old Sioux,” Clymer said. “Where’s she going? What’s she doing out here, anyhow? Doesn’t she know better than to walk around in the wild at night? That’s what the day is for.”

The woman turned.

“Look at her face!” Harris exclaimed.

“She’s scarier than any ghost.”

The woman fixed her good eye on Fargo. “Are these your brothers?”

“They are Heyokas.”

“They are clowns? Do they do everything backward?”

“They try their best.”

The woman gave half a smile and a little wave and shuffled into the darkness, singing.

With a start, Fargo recognized the song. It was one Lakota mothers often sang to small children when they tucked them in at night.

“She’s downright peculiar,” was Clymer’s opinion.

“Shouldn’t we stop her?” Harris asked. “She’ll tell her tribe where to find us and we’ll be up to our neck in redskins.”

“Let her go,” Fargo said.

“I don’t mind shooting her. I’ve never shot a female but I’m not hankering to be scalped.”

“No.”

“Whatever you say. I just hope you’re not making a mistake.”

So did Fargo.

Senator Fulton Keever was in fine fettle the next morning. He came out of his tent all smiles and saying good morning to everyone. In his wake trailed Gerty, who scowled at the world and everyone in it. Rebecca emerged last and was her usual quiet self. She glanced at Fargo only once, and when she did there were daggers in her eyes.

Fargo hunkered by the fire, sipping coffee. He hadn’t slept well. Add to that his frame of mind over the shenanigans going on, and he was in a testy mood.

Senator Keever came over and clapped him on the back. “How are you, sir, this morning? Have you made up your mind? Are you leaving us and heading back to civilization?”

“No.”

“I won’t hold it against you if you do. But I wish you would reconsider. I hired you for a specific reason. You are supposed to be the best there is at what you do, and I—” Keever stopped. “Wait? What did you say?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Whether by coincidence or intent, just then Owen and his human shadow, Lichen, strolled over.

“Did you hear him, Mr. Owen?” the senator said. “Apparently he has decided to stay with us, after all.”

“I heard.” Owen grinned as if he found it funny. “You’re glad, I bet, all the trouble you’ve gone to.”

Keever coughed. “Yes, yes, of course. I was a little surprised, is all. He seemed so determined to leave us last night.”

Gerty said, “I wish he would. I don’t like people who don’t treat me nice. I don’t like them at all.”

“I know,” Keever said. “I’ve heard you say that a million times. But be a dear and don’t interrupt when the adults are talking, all right?”

“I’ll talk when I want. I’ll say what I want. If I don’t like someone, I’ll say that, too.”

Owen was staring at Fargo. “What’s this I hear about some squaw paying us a visit last night?”

“What’s that?” Senator Keever said.

Fargo nodded. “She was harmless. Touched in the head. But it worries me, her showing up like that. Her village can’t be far. I’m going to look around. I want everyone to stay in camp until I get back.”

“But I have hunting to do,” the senator complained. “I was hoping we could look for sign today.”

“When I get back,” Fargo stressed.

“Surely if a village was close by, we would know it by now?”

“Not if it’s behind one of these hills,” Fargo said to set him straight.

“Damn,” Owen said. “Just what we needed. I’ll keep extra men posted and have the horses ready to light a shuck.”

“This complicates things,” Keever said.

Fargo finished his coffee and put his tin cup in his saddlebags. He saddled up and was just done adjusting the cinch when Rebecca materialized at his elbow.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“You don’t need to apologize for not wanting to die. It shows good sense, and there’s a shortage of that around here.” Fargo smiled to show there were no hard feelings. So what if she tried to use him? He got to make love to her—and wouldn’t mind doing so again.

“Be careful out there. The men are on edge. They’re saying we could be attacked anytime.”

“I’ve been trying to get that through your thick heads for days now.” Fargo forked leather, the saddle creaking under his weight.

“Remember. Don’t trust my husband. I meant what I said about him not being honest with you. I’d say more but if he found out I told you, he would beat me.”

Fargo wondered if she was telling the truth or if this was another of her ploys. “I’m not the lunkhead everyone seems to think I am. I suspect the senator is after gold. Is that it?”

Instead of answering, Rebecca asked a question of her own. “Do you think it’s true? The rumors, I mean? Is there really gold in these hills?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. But only a fool goes looking for trouble.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. It took a few minutes to find the spot where he had talked to the Lakota woman. The ground was hard and she hadn’t left many prints. He tracked her for half an hour until he lost every trace on a rocky spur. By then the sun was well up and the Black Hills were alive with wildlife. That wasn’t all. From atop the spur he spied smoke plumes in the distance. It could be her village.