An explosion of shouts warned him their pursuers were flying in heated pursuit.
Birds Landing said urgently in his ear, “Let me off and you will be able to get away.”
“No.”
“They will catch us if you do not.”
“We stick together.” Fargo needed to ask her more about Durn and the situation in Mission Valley when he got the chance. “Please stay on,” he added to be polite.
“Very well.” Birds Landing’s mouth brushed his earlobe. “For now I will do as you want.”
Then there was no time for small talk. Fargo had to call on all the skill he possessed. They were riding pell-mell at night, across rugged, broken country. At any moment the Ovaro might step into a hole or a rut and go down. Or they might come on a boulder or a log and be unable to avoid it. He must stay alert and focus on riding and only on riding.
His every nerve tingled. Suddenly a dark phalanx appeared ahead: forest. It could be their salvation if they could reach it.
Some of their pursuers were narrowing the gap, and yelling back and forth.
A glance showed Fargo that three riders were rapidly gaining and spreading out as they came so he could not flank them.
Birds Landing’s grip tightened. Fargo knew she was afraid they would be caught, afraid of what Durn would do to her. That business about a pit, and a wild beast Durn threw his enemies to—could it be true?
Something swished over their heads and brushed Fargo’s shoulder. Another glance showed that one of the riders had closed to within fifteen feet and had thrown a rope, but missed. The man would try again as soon as he had the rope back in his hand.
Suddenly they were in among pines and spruce. Fargo had to slow, but so would they. He had ridden in timber at night before, countless times, and he and the Ovaro moved as one, the stallion responding superbly to the slightest pressure of rein or leg.
A revolver blasted and lead smacked a bole to their right.
“No shooting!” bellowed the deep voice of Big Mike Durn. “I want them alive, damn you!”
Small consolation, Fargo reflected, since he doubted Durn would keep them alive for long. Him, at any rate. The girl was valuable. She had a debt to repay.
A low branch slashed at them out of the ink.
“Duck!” Fargo cried, and did so, feeling Birds Landing shift and press low against his side. They flew under the limb with barely an inch to spare.
Fargo wished the moon was out. Starlight was not enough. They might as well be at the bottom of a well. The thought spawned an idea, and he smiled. It just might work. He urged the Ovaro to go faster, increasing their lead a few yards. The roper had fallen behind; now he and his friends were twenty to thirty feet back.
Could Fargo find what he needed? A thicket would do but they had not come on one yet. Some of the trees had branches low to the ground, but not low enough. Then a small spruce hove out of the night. Only fifteen feet high, it was as broad as it was tall. Fargo swept around it, hauling on the reins as he did, and brought the Ovaro to a standstill so close to the tree, branches were scraping its side.
Heartbeats elapsed, and their three swiftest pursuers flew by on either side. Soon the rest thundered past.
Fargo counted nine, possibly ten. He braced for an outcry but his ruse worked. No one saw them.
One of the last riders was twice the size of the rest. Big Mike Durn chose that moment to shout, “Where did they get to? Don’t lose them or there will be hell to pay!”
Gradually, the drum of hooves and the crackle of undergrowth faded.
Fargo didn’t linger. Bringing the Ovaro out from behind the spruce, he reined to the northwest. A throaty chuckle reminded him he was not alone.
“You are sly like a fox.”
“We were lucky,” Fargo said. It could have gone either way. “Where to now? You know this country better than I do. Is there a spot we can camp for the night where Durn isn’t likely to find us?”
Birds Landing pondered, then said, “Keep riding. I will direct you.”
Night sounds wafted across the valley: the yip of coyotes, the hoot of an owl, the lonesome howl of a wolf. They had covered about a mile when a revolver cracked to the west and was answered by another to the south.
“Why are they shooting?” Birds Landing wondered.
“Signaling,” Fargo guessed. “Once they lost us, Durn broke them into groups.” That is what he would have done.
“Do you think he suspects you are the one who came to my rescue?”
Fargo couldn’t say. But the man who nearly roped them had gotten a good look at the Ovaro, and might describe the stallion to Durn. If Kutler or Tork were along, they would know right away.
“You are a fine rider,” Birds Landing remarked. “No warrior in my tribe could do better.”
“I have spent half my life in the saddle,” Fargo said. Or that was how it seemed.
Now that they were no longer being chased, Fargo was once again aware of the warmth of her body. Her bosom was still pressed flush against him. It made him wonder.
Eventually they came to a series of low hills. Birds Landing guided Fargo up into them until they came to a bench overlooking the valley. The lights of Polson gleamed far off. Even farther away, to the southeast, were a few more. The St. Ignatius Mission, Fargo figured.
At one end of the bench, screened by cottonwoods, was a small spring. The Ovaro wearily hung its head and drank while Fargo stripped off the saddle and saddle blanket. His stomach growled, reminding him he had not eaten all day.
Birds Landing heard. “You are hungry, too?”
“Starved.” Fargo could go for an inch-thick steak, or a roast haunch of venison. He settled for opening a saddlebag and taking out a bundle wrapped in rabbit hide. Opening it, he handed a piece of pemmican to Birds Landing. “I have plenty so eat as much as you want.” He untied his bedroll, spread out his blankets with his saddle for a pillow, and sank down.
“We are safe here,” Birds Landing said.
Fargo helped himself to pemmican. The ground buffalo meat had been mixed with fat and blackberries, and was downright delicious.
Birds Landing accepted another piece and eased down next to him. “Did you make this yourself?”
“I bought it from a Cheyenne woman at a trading post,” Fargo revealed. It was rare to find pemmican made with blackberries. Usually chokecherries or other berries were used.
Birds Landing smacked her lips. “You did say I could have as much as I wanted.”
“Here.” Fargo gave her a handful. As she took them, her fingers lightly brushed his palm in what might be construed as a caress. Again, Fargo wondered.
Her expression, though, gave no hint of her intentions.
Birds Landing chewed lustily. “For a white man you have been awful nice to me.”
“With the body you have, who wouldn’t be?” Fargo tested the waters.
Birds Landing blinked, then laughed. “You do not—what is the white saying? Oh, yes. You do not beat around the bush.”
“Life is too short for bush-beating,” Fargo said, and reaching behind her, pulled her face to his and kissed her full on the lips.
“Oh,” Birds Landing said.
Fargo entwined his fingers in her hair and waited for her to make the next move.
“A white woman would slap you now.”
“Some would,” Fargo agreed. “Some are as miserly with their kisses as they are with their money. Some give their bodies as rewards when their men please them. Some won’t ever part their legs because they think it goes against Scripture.” Fargo paused. “Then there are those who like to lie with a man as much as they like breathing.”
Birds Landing grinned. “That is the most you have said to me since we met. You must like it a lot.”