Black Hills Badman (15 page)

“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 fondness 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.”

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.”

Fargo had to try. He picked his way through the forest with care, Sweet Flower pointing the way. They stopped whenever they heard sounds but twice it was only deer and once, at a distance, riders who faded into the night.

The village, as Fargo suspected, turned out to be the same village he saw before. He left the Ovaro in the trees and snaked to the top of the rise, Sweet Flower at his side.

Just as she had said, far more Lakotas than usual were moving about the circles. It was rare for all the bands to get together, and they were having a grand time.

“Which lodge belongs to your father?”

Sweet Flower pointed.

Fargo sighed. It figured. The lodge was clear across a circle. To reach it, he must get past dozens of Sioux.

“I warned you.”

“Stay here.” Fargo hurried to the Ovaro. Taking off his hat, he placed it on the saddle horn. Then he untied his bed-roll, draped a blanket over his head and shoulders, and jogged back to the rise.

Sweet Flower regarded him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “It will not fool them.”

“Why not?” Fargo wanted to know. It was common for warriors to go about with a blanket over them, and for young lovers to stand under blankets to have privacy.

“Your beard. They will take one look at you and know you are not Lakota.”

“Not if I keep my head down.”

“You are too tall. And you wear boots, not moccasins.”

“I will slouch, and I will go barefoot.” So saying, Fargo removed his spurs and his boots and laid them on the rise.

Sweet Flower had a litany of objections. “Your feet are too white, and you do not walk like an Indian. You walk with the swagger of a white man.”

“I can walk like a Lakota. As for my feet, no one will see I am barefoot if we stay in the dark shadows.”

“You do not smell like a Lakota. You smell white. If my people do not notice, the dogs will.”

“Let us find out.” Fargo took her arm and started down. He hunched at the waist enough to reduce his height by several inches, and held the blanket so it hung over his head and both sides of his face. “Walk close to me. Pretend we are lovers.”

“You are very brave. But you are not very smart.”

As they drew near the first circle, it dawned on Fargo that he had never seen the Sioux acting so out-and-out happy. He had witnessed victory celebrations and attended dances, but this was different. There was an air about them, as if they were caught up in great joy. The only thing he could compare it to was when whites attended a carnival and indulged in feasting and merrymaking.

As if she could read his thoughts, Sweet Flower said, “Look at my people. Their hearts are filled with gratitude for the great gift Wakan Tanka has given them. The white buffalo is a sign of the Great Spirit’s favor. We will be strong, and defeat our enemies.”

Fargo had never been a big believer in signs and wonders but he didn’t argue the point.

Sticking to the shadows, they came by a circuitous route to the circle that included Little Face’s lodge.

Hugging the deeper dark between tepees, Fargo averted his face whenever a Lakota came near them. For her part, Sweet Flower strode along calm and casual. No one would suspect she was sneaking a white man into their village.

“What will you do when we get there?”

Fargo hadn’t thought that far ahead. He spied three horses with saddles outside the lodge. One belonged to Owen, the second was the sorrel Lichen rode, the third mount must be the senator’s. At least Keever hadn’t brought Rebecca and Gerty along.

“Be careful,” Sweet Flower suddenly whispered.

Several Lakotas were coming toward them. Warriors, talking and smiling. When they were near, one of them raised a hand in greeting. “
Was’te
.”

Fargo knew it was Lakota for” greetings.” He was about to respond but Sweet Flower beat him to it.

“
Hou
.”

The same warrior looked at Fargo, apparently expecting a reply, so Fargo said, “
Toniktuki hwo,
” which was “How are you?”

“
Nahan rei wayon heon
,” the warrior said, and laughed.

That was Sioux for “I am still alive.” Fargo grunted and turned his head and walked on by.

Sweet Flower glanced over her should. “You can breathe easy. They did not catch on that you are not one of us.”

“Take me around to the back of your father’s lodge.”

“If we are seen some might wonder why we are there.”

“Not if you stand under the blanket with me.” Fargo averted his face again as an old man came around a lodge and shuffled past.

They reached her father’s tepee. Fargo raised the blanket and she did as he wanted, whispering, “They will banish me if they catch us.”

“Not if I say I forced you.” Fargo leaned toward the lodge and strained to hear. Muffled voices gave him no clue to what they were talking about. He recognized Little Face’s voice, and then Owen’s. “You should go in and hear what they are saying.”

“My father told me not to come back until the whites leave. He will be mad if I go against his wishes.”

Fargo reckoned he should take some consolation in the fact the senator was still alive.

“Careful!” Sweet Flower whispered.

Fargo heard footsteps behind them.

Sweet Flower suddenly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. He responded, savoring the feel of her body. The footsteps faded and she stepped back.

“I have become as bold as you.”

“I like bold.” Fargo peered out to be sure the person had gone, then bent and put an ear to the lodge. He still couldn’t hear what was being said although he did catch a few words. Little Face talked, and then Owen, who was translating for Senator Keever.

Sweet Flower tapped him on the arm and he straightened. A group of warriors were going past. Again she kissed him, and from under the edge of the blanket he saw one of the warriors nudge another, and laugh.

“If we keep this up you will have to make love to me before you go,” she teased.

“Thank you for what you are doing.”

“I do it for my people.” Sweet Flower touched his chin and wistfully smiled. “And for me.”

Voices rose from the front of the lodge. Fargo realized those inside were coming out. He wanted to move closer but if Little Face spotted him, all it would take was a shout to bring every warrior in the village down on his head. Saddles creaked, and words were exchanged, followed by the thud of hooves as the white men rode off.

Sweet Flower rose onto her toes to whisper, “Follow me but stay out of sight.” She moved around the lodge.

Fargo trailed after her and heard her address her father.

“May I go in now?”

“Yes. I am sorry if I offended you when I asked you to leave.”

“Did it go as you wanted, Father?”

Little Face laughed. “Better than I dared hope. Whites are stupid, daughter. Deceiving them is easy.”

“I am surprised you let them live.”

“You must learn patience. There is no enjoyment in killing an enemy quickly. I learned that as a boy. I would pluck the legs off grasshoppers and hold them in my hand while they wriggled and tried to jump. I would catch butterflies and pluck their wings. I would shoot animals in the leg with my arrows just to watch them roll in pain.”