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.
12
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.”