“Don’t put him out with any mares in rut,” Fargo warned as he grabbed his rifle and saddlebags. “Once he sets his hat for a filly, it’ll take a dozen men to change his mind.”
He moved off down the barn alley, the crotchety Scot grumbling his displeasure at taking orders from a civilian while running a file across the horse hoof wedged between his knees.
7
Fargo and Prairie Dog tramped over to the sutler’s store in the early afternoon sunshine. The two-story log structure with a lean-to addition housing the saloon was shaded by a giant cottonwood tree rustling its silver leaves in the perpetual prairie breeze.
The store smelled like molasses and flour and cured meat. The Trailsman and Prairie Dog were the only saloon customers at this hour. They sat at a table under a large bison trophy mounted on a square-hewn ceiling joist. Through the open shutters emanated the phlegmatic barks of an infantry sergeant, the thuds of an ax, and the occasional stamp of horses passing the store on cavalry drill.
Between the sounds was an eerie, tense silence, as if the fort were awaiting an Indian attack similar to the one on Fort William. In the blockhouses, the guards had been doubled or tripled, and extra soldiers were perched on the shooting ledges along the stockade walls, facing the endless swell of prairie around the fort.
The sutler’s stoic Indian wife brought Fargo and Prairie Dog each a schooner of surprisingly cold ale and a whiskey shot. Collecting Fargo’s coins, she shuffled sullenly back to the store, where she’d been tying and wrapping the deer roasts her husband had carved from the carcass outside.
Fargo sipped the whiskey suspiciously, made a face as he swallowed. “Did Smiley Bristo have a whiskey contract with the sutler, by any chance?”
Prairie Dog downed nearly half of his own shot, and smacked his lips. “Nectar of the gods, ain’t it?”
“Wrathful gods,” Fargo muttered, and washed down the camphorlike taste of the liquor with several deep swallows of the wheaty, refreshing beer. Setting the mug down, he tossed his hat on a chair and sank back in his seat. “Finish the story, hoss—what’s this crazy Lieutenant Duke have to do with the uprising?”
Prairie Dog tossed down his own hat and fingered the tooth dangling from his right ear. He claimed it was a tooth from the Comanche who had scalped him down in Texas. When he’d looked around the saloon, making sure that he and Fargo were alone, he propped his elbows on the table, looked across at the Trailsman with a serious expression, and kept his voice low.
“You see, Lieutenant Duke spent a lot of time with a band of Assiniboine camped on the far side of Squaw Creek. Now, that’s against regulations, and most of this is hearsay, but rumor has it he married the daughter of Chief Iron Shirt. Iron Shirt took a liking to the lieutenant, even though Duke was obviously crazier than a pack of wild lobos on the night of the first full moon. Or maybe because he was crazy. The Injuns often take craziness for wisdom, don’t you know?”
Fargo nodded. He’d been around Indians enough to know that men and women whom white folks would normally lock up in a funny farm were often given special privileges amongst the natives. Many were respected for their “crazy wisdom” and insight into the “ether regions.” Some tribal leaders had been known to call upon these people for advice on hunting or battle strategies or to cast spells on their enemies.
“To make a long story short,” Prairie Dog continued, “Lieutenant Duke and Iron Shirt have been seen riding together with a whole passel of painted warriors. Apparently, somehow, Lieutenant Duke—in his crazy, mixed-up mind—decided the Indians oughta be killin’ the whites. And, somehow, he got the Blackfeet to throw in with the Assiniboine to do just that.”
“Two tribes that normally fight each other,” Fargo said, daring another sip of the rotgut whiskey. “You reckon the major’s attempt to trot Duke off to a nuthouse turned him against the entire army?”
“And the poor white settlers and trappers in these parts,” Prairie Dog said. “Possible.” He chased the whiskey with the beer, draining his schooner in three long chugs, then plunked the glass back down on the table. “Now, ain’t this a fine sichy-ation?”
“You have any idea what the major intends to do about it?”
Prairie Dog grinned. “No. But I got a feelin’ it’s gonna involve you, Mr. Trailsman, sir.” He slid his chair back. “Now, if you’ll excuse this rancid old hide, I’m due over to Lieutenant Donovan’s office to see about puttin’ a huntin’ expedition together. One that won’t lose its hair and other sundry body parts. We have enough food for a few more days, but sooner or later we’re gonna need meat.”
Fargo lifted his beer glass. “I reckon I’ll have a bath and a shave. Bathhouse still by sud’s row?”
“It is. And don’t forget to see Captain Thomas for your ‘debriefing.’”
“Hell,” Fargo grunted, donning his hat and rising. “I’m between contracts. If the captain wants to debrief me, he can come looking for me. I’m gonna take a good long bath and a nap before heading over to the major’s this evening.” He paused beside Prairie Dog in the store’s open doorway, looking out at the sun-washed parade ground. “You’ll be there?”
“Ain’t been invited yet, but I probably will be. Howard’s probably gonna try to throw me in with you, for no more pay than what I’m gettin’ now!” Prairie Dog cursed, descended the porch steps, and sauntered off across the parade ground where a dozen soldiers marched, the sun reflecting off their rifles and sabers.
Fargo enjoyed a long, hot bath in the bathhouse at the south end of the fort. Through the room’s single window, he watched the three stout wash ladies—the wives of noncoms—stirring kettles of boiling uniforms over ash wood fires while telling bawdy stories they didn’t think anyone could overhear, and laughing with salty abandon.
After the bath, he sacked out in a bunk at the back of the sutler’s store—just a storeroom cluttered with barrels, crates, and flour sacks—but far enough from the fort’s fray that he slept soundly until the light angling through the window was the salmon hue of late afternoon. Desultory voices rose from the saloon on the other side of the wall—the voices of officers finally freed from their duty and seeking distraction from the Indian trouble in the saloon’s questionable liquor.
Fargo stepped into fresh buckskins, donned his hat, and, leaving his rifle and saddlebags in the care of the sutler, headed off to Major Howard’s cabin on the north side of the parade ground. The two-story structure sat about halfway down the row of officers’ cabins, and could be distinguished from the others by its larger size and grand fieldstone hearth abutting the east end. It also had a broader porch and a brick-lined path leading from the front porch, around a welltended thicket of prairie rosebushes and chrysanthemums, to a two-seater privy out back.
Valeria Howard answered Fargo’s knock on the door and regarded him coolly, holding the door only two feet wide, as though she weren’t sure she would let him in. She glanced quickly behind her, then tipped her head forward, and whispered, “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
Fargo grinned and dropped his eyes to her bosom heaving behind a delightfully low-cut dinner dress. The ample breasts were pushed up and out, to thrilling effect. The ribbon choker on her neck, adorned with an ivory cameo resting just beneath the small mole on her neck, complemented the outfit nicely. Her rich, red hair was piled in a loose bun atop her head. Reacting to his bald appraisal, a blush rose in her finely tapered cheeks.