Fargo ran after her but it was soon apparent that barring a miracle, he could forget catching her. She was a two-legged deer, bounding smoothly and lithely, and god-awful fast. He poured on more speed yet gained only a little. “Wait!” he called, but not too loudly. “I only want to talk to you!”
She looked back, her face a blur, and momentarily slowed, breaking stride. In doing so, she tripped and nearly fell.
The mistake cost her.
Fargo launched himself through the air and tackled her about the shins. He tried not to hurt her by bringing her down on top of him. For that he nearly lost an eye when she raked at his face, her fingers hooked like claws. Jerking back, he grabbed her wrists.
“Stop it! I am not your enemy.”
Her long hair had fallen over her face and Fargo could not get a good look at her. He tried to grab her chin but she pushed his arm away and kicked and bucked to break free.
The only way to keep her still was to pin her. Suddenly rolling, Fargo covered her body with his and pressed her arms to the ground. She was breathing heavily, and he was aware her dress had hiked above her knees.
“Will you behave?” Fargo requested. He had grown warm all over, and felt a stirring, low down. “I only want to talk.”
“Get off me,” she said in perfect English.
“Not until you give me your word you will not run off.”
She puffed at her hair and some if it fell away, revealing a face as lovely as a sunrise.
“You!” Fargo blurted. It was the young Flathead who had been with Kutler and Tork.
“I remember you,” she said, studying him. “You are not one of Dead Heart’s men.”
“Who?”
“Dead Heart. It is what my people call Mike Durn. His heart is dead to everyone with red skin.”
Fargo glanced toward the saloon. The two men still lay where they had fallen but they might come around at any moment. “Do I have your promise you will hear me out?”
“You have it.”
Rising, Fargo helped her to stand. Together they hurried half a block to an alley.
“Wait here,” Fargo said. “I will be back in a minute with my horse.”
“Be quick,” she urged.
Fargo sprinted to the end of the alley and out into the street, nearly colliding with a townsman coming the other way. The man swore but did not stop. Slowing so he would not attract attention, Fargo reached the saloon. He untied the Ovaro, forked leather, and rode at a walk back up the street to the alley. When he was sure no one was watching, he reined into it.
His jaw muscles twitched when he did not find the woman where he had left her. “Where are you?” he called out.
“Here.” She materialized out of the shadows and held up an arm for him to grab.
Fargo swung her up behind him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mary Two Trees.”
“That is a white name.”
“It is the one I was given at the mission. My father is Charlie Two Trees. He stopped using his real name when he took up white ways and began drinking white liquor.”
“What do the Flatheads call you?”
“We call ourselves the Salish, not Flatheads. That is another white word. And my Salish name, in your tongue, would be Birds Landing.”
Fargo was going to tell her that he knew of many tribes who did not call themselves what the whites called them, but a shout interrupted them.
A portly man in an apron had discovered the unconscious forms behind the saloon. Fortunately, he was on one knee with his back to them.
A jab of his spurs, and Fargo was on his way out of Polson. Birds Landing pressed against him, holding tight. He could feel the swell of her breasts and the contours of her hips. He tried not to dwell on her body as he brought the Ovaro to a canter.
Fargo did not know where he was going. He had not thought that far ahead. “Where do you want me to take you?” he asked. “The mission?” It was a good thirty miles or more south of Polson.
“I live with my people now,” Birds Landing said.
“We will go to your village, then.”
“That is the first place Durn will have his men look. They would find me and drag me back.”
“Your people won’t help?”
“Some would, yes. But I do not want Durn mad at them. He hates us enough as it is.”
“What about your father?”
“He is the reason I was taken. He likes to gamble. About a moon ago he went to the Whiskey Mill and lost all he had. Durn extended credit to him, and he lost that, too. Since he could not repay the money, Durn took me.”
“Durn can’t make you work for him against your will.”
“My father gave his consent. He was so drunk he could not sit straight, but he marked an X on the paper.”
“Durn made him sign a contract?” Fargo had to admire Big Mike’s thoroughness. A contract would make it legal, should anyone object. “Have you read the thing?”
“No. It was enough for me to know that I must work for Durn for two years, doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants.”
“I am surprised the Salish lets him get away with it.”
“My people are trying to avoid trouble with the whites. We have been promised our own reservation, and an Indian agent to help us. If we fight Durn, if we go on the warpath, we stand to lose all we have gained.”
Fargo had heard about the reservation. Six years ago or so, a treaty was signed. The government pledged to build a hospital and schools, and to give the Flatheads and two others tribes enough land to live on and all the aid they needed. As was often the case, most of the pledges had not been kept. It did not help matters that some whites resented giving land to the Indians; they would rather drive the Indians off or exterminate them. “Your people are damned if they do and damned if they don’t.”
“Sorry?”
“They stand to lose no matter what they do,” Fargo clarified.
“That is it, exactly.”
They rode in silence until Birds Landing cleared her throat. “I told my father I would not work for Durn. That I would not let them take me. So he had them come in the middle of the night when I was asleep. He let them sneak in our lodge and gag and tie me!”
Fargo felt her tremble. “Your own father?”
“It is the whiskey. He is no longer himself. The white man’s drink has turned him into someone else.”
“The Crows have a saying,” Fargo mentioned, “that a Crow who drinks is no longer a Crow.”
“Then we are not the only tribe to suffer.”
“Far from it,” Fargo said.
Her hand rose to his shoulder. “This is far enough. You can stop.”
Fargo kept riding. Polson was barely a quarter-mile behind them. “It is not safe yet. Besides, where would you go?”
“I have friends,” Birds Landing said. “Perhaps one of them will hide me until Durn stops searching.”
“And if he should get his hands on you again?”
“He will have me beaten and withhold food and water until he breaks my spirit. Or, if I still refuse, he will have me thrown into a pit. I have not seen it but I have heard about it, and his beast.”
“His what?”
“A creature he keeps hidden. He feeds it the bodies of those who—” Birds Landing stopped. “Did you hear something?”
Hooves drummed in the darkness behind them. A lot of hooves.
“Damn,” Fargo said, and shifted in the saddle just as riders appeared, coming on rapidly.
“They are after us!” Birds Landing exclaimed. “What do we do?”
“Ride like hell,” Skye Fargo said.
5
Fargo raced to the west at a gallop. He had complete confidence in the Ovaro’s ability to hold its own against any horse, but they had spent most of the day on the trail, and now the stallion was bearing double. Unless he did something, and did it soon, the Ovaro would tire, with dire consequences.