“You’re loco.”
“I don’t see the point,” the senator asked. “Let them go their way and we’ll go ours.”
“I’ll shadow them and find out if their village is nearby,” Fargo explained. “If it is, we’re lighting a shuck whether you like it or not.” He forked leather. The six warriors were almost out of sight. “Take Keever back,” he directed Owen, “and keep your eyes skinned.”
Owen grinned. “Says the gent out to part company with his hair.”
The senator cleared his throat. “I really must protest. You’re taking a rash risk. We’ve avoided them so far and we can keep on doing so if we use our heads.”
“I am using mine.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He stayed at a walk. The warriors were in no hurry and he wasn’t anxious to get any closer than he already was. Half an hour crawled by, then an hour. The six were barely visible. The terrain became hillier and more broken, typical of the Black Hills, or Paha Sapa, as the Sioux called them. To the Sioux they were sacred.
Fargo had lived with the Sioux once. They referred to themselves as the Lakotas, and were, in fact, made up of seven bands, among them the Hunkpapa, Miniconjou, and the Oglala.
Unlike the Shoshones and Flatheads, who were friendly to whites, the Lakotas resented white intrusion into their lands and killed most every white they came across.
Fargo had been an exception.
He didn’t blame them for protecting their land. Hell, he hated the advance of civilization as much as they did. To him it meant the loss of the open prairie and the high country he loved to roam.
The warriors were out of sight.
A tap of his spurs and Fargo brought the stallion to a canter. He expected to spot them almost immediately. But he covered a quarter of a mile, and no Sioux. Puzzled, he flicked his reins and had the Ovaro trot for half a mile, with the same result.
Something wasn’t right. Fargo slowed to a walk. He didn’t think they had seen him, but then again, all it would take was one warrior with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s to look back at just the right moment.
His skin prickling, Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. He would go on a little ways yet, and if he didn’t spot them, turn back.
The last Fargo saw of the six, they were winding between a pair of wooded hills. Both hills were about the same size and shape, and reminded him of a woman’s breasts. He grinned at the notion, and thought of Rebecca Keever, of her full bosom and winsome figure.
The next moment Fargo lost his grin when the trees to his right and the trees to his left disgorged shrieking warriors brandishing lances and notching arrows to sinew strings.
He had ridden into a trap.
7
The Ovaro burst into motion at a jab of Fargo’s spurs. The warriors were on both sides and slightly behind him; if he tried to go back the way he came, they would cut him off. So he headed deeper into the hills, the Lakota hard in pursuit.
Fargo could have shot a few. He could have jerked the Henry from the scabbard and banged away before they came within arrow range. But it would cost him precious seconds.
There was also the fact that while the Sioux, on rare occasion, would let a white man live, they killed anyone, white or red, who killed a Sioux.
Fargo rode for his life. The ground between the hills was open and he could hold to a gallop. But soon he came to thick woods where the slightest mistake on his part or a misstep by the Ovaro would reap calamity. Fortunately, the Ovaro was sure-footed and quick-hoofed, and avoided obstacles like downed logs and boulders with an alacrity few horses could match.
It was partly why Fargo never lacked for confidence in the stallion. It had saved his hide countless times. He expected that this time would be no different, that the Ovaro’s exceptional stamina would enable him to widen his lead to where the warriors had no chance of catching him. He glanced back, and smiled. He was gaining.
Fargo faced around. Too late, he saw a low limb. He ducked, or tried to, but the limb struck him full across the chest. Pain ripped through him as he was swept bodily from the saddle and crashed to earth. He landed on his back, his head swimming. The breath had been knocked out of him, and it was all he could do to rise on his elbows in a vain bid to get up. He got his hands under him but he couldn’t muster the strength to stand.
Then Fargo’s head cleared and he saw the Ovaro twenty yards away, looking back at him. “Here, boy,” he croaked. Again he tried to stand. This time he made it to his knees but his chest was hurting so bad, he had to grit his teeth against the agony.
Hooves drummed, approaching swiftly.
Fargo pushed up off the ground. He swayed. He took a faltering step. His body wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. Concentrating, he started to walk, but oh-so-slow.
The hooves became thunder.
Fargo turned and dropped a hand to his Colt. He figured the warriors would turn him into a porcupine but not until after he took more than a few with him. One was already in midair. A shoulder slammed into his chest, into the same spot the limb had caught him. He was bowled over and wound up on his back with the warrior on top, the warrior’s legs pinning his arms. He tried to rise but couldn’t. He was helpless, completely, totally helpless.
The warrior grinned and raised a gleaming knife on high.
Fargo tensed. He had always known it would end like this someday. He’d tempted the jaws of fate again and again, and now those jaws were closing. He held no regrets, though. He’d lived a good life. Maybe not good by the standards of some, but good by his own reckoning. All the women, the whiskey, the cards, had been the spice that gave his life taste.
The knife gleamed in the sunlight.
That was when a swarthy arm flicked out and a swarthy hand gripped the wrist of the knife-wielder.
“Heyah.” It was Lakota for “No.”
The warrior with the knife wasn’t happy. “Why not?” he demanded, adding, “Anapo.” He wanted to count coup.
“I know this white-eye.”
Fargo found his breath and said quietly, “Unshimalam ye oyate.”
The warrior about to stab him showed surprise at hearing his own tongue from white lips. He had lived maybe twenty winters, and wore his long hair loose. “Why should I spare you? You are my enemy.”
“I have lived with the Lakotas. I have shared their lodges.” Fargo glanced at the other warrior, the one who had stopped the knife from being buried in his body. “My heart is happy to see you again, Four Horns.”
“It should be.” Four Horns grinned. He was in his forties, his features typical of his people: a high forehead, high cheekbones, a long nose, and square jaw. He wore his hair in braids.
The warrior on Fargo’s chest still hadn’t lowered the knife.
“What will it be, One Feather?” Four Horns demanded. “Kill him or get off him. But if you kill him we are no longer friends.”
One Feather frowned. He glared at Fargo, then slid the knife into a fringed sheath. “I spare you, white-eye. But not because I want to. But for Four Horns.” He stood and stepped back.
The rest of the warriors were still on their mounts, some staring at Fargo in open hostility.
Four Horns offered his hand. “It has been almost five winters since I saw you last, He Who Walks Many Trails.”
“Pila mita.” Fargo let himself be pulled to his feet. He still had the Colt but if he so much as touched it, he would be dead before he got off a shot.
“Why are you in the land of the Lakotas?”
“Hunting,” Fargo answered honestly. He touched a hand to his chest, and winced.