Rocky Mountain Revenge Read online

  “There are days when I talk to my horse,” Fargo said.

  “Damn, you are peculiar. He’s nothing. Get that through your noggin. It’s us you should be talking to. We’re the ones who are hiring you.”

  “Not yet you haven’t,” Fargo reminded him. “And it’s your pa who sent for me.”

  “Quit squabbling,” Thad snapped at Emery. “The sooner we get there, the sooner he can be on his way.”

  Emery muttered and walked on.

  “I sure am popular,” Fargo said to Chaku, and was rewarded with a hint of a smile.

  “He right. You peculiar white man.”

  “What’s so strange about howling at the moon when you’re drunk?”

  “You drunk now?”

  “Sober as a parson.” Fargo took a few more strides before saying, “So what part of Africa are you from.”

  “Whites call it Katonzaland. We call something else. It green land. Have much jungle and hills with grass. I miss my land. I miss it very much.”

  “Is that the name of your tribe? The Katonza?”

  “Yes.” Chaku smacked a huge fist against his broad chest. “You know what Katonza are?”

  “No,” Fargo admitted.

  “Katonza warriors. We strong tribe. Fight many others. It make us good fighters.”

  “How in hell did you end up here?” Fargo asked when the big black didn’t go on.

  A scowl creased Chaku’s expressive face. “Arabs.”

  “Those gents who wear sheets on their heads and ride camels?”

  Chaku grunted. “They raid for slaves. Man, woman, child, they take anyone. One night they come my village. They burn huts, shoot warriors who fight, take rest. I try fight and be hit on head. When I wake I in chains. They march us many days to ocean. Put on ship. Ship bring us to America.” His features clouded. “Many die on way. Not enough food. Not enough water.”

  Fargo could guess the rest. “You were put up for sale and the Broxtons bought you.”

  “Abe Broxton. The father. He like I big. He bring me to house. He have me learn white talk. He make me wear these.” Chaku plucked at his gray jacket. “I not like but must do as—”

  “Enough!” Emery had stopped again. “Not another word out of you, do you hear?” he told Chaku. “If the scout has any questions about our family he can damn well ask us and not a slave.”

  Fargo said, “Are you anything like your pa?”

  “What? No. He likes to say as how he’s as different from me as day is from night. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if he is, I wouldn’t work for him no matter how much he paid me.”

  That shut Emery up.

  At the stable Fargo threw his saddle blanket and saddle on the Ovaro and slipped a bridle on and had to wait while they made the stableman saddle their horses for them. From there they rode to the Dallas House so he could get his saddlebags, bedroll and Henry rifle, and to pay his bill. It left him a dollar to his name.

  The Trinity River flowed through the center of Dallas. They took a road that wound along it until the hustle and bustle were behind them. Little was said. Emery was in a funk. Thad pointed out a few houses along the way and mentioned the settlers who lived in them.

  Fargo’s interest perked when they passed one where a pretty young woman was hanging clothes on a line. He touched his hat brim and offered his most charming smile, and she blushed.

  Two hours later they arrived at a mansion on a low hill overlooking the Trinity.

  Fargo no sooner drew rein and dismounted than the front door opened and out came a white-haired man using an uncommonly thick cane. He was old but he was big and he was spry and he came down the steps with the agility of a man half his age and came straight over to the Ovaro.

  “Are you Skye Fargo?” he demanded.

  Fargo nodded. “Who might you be?” If he had to guess, he would say it must be Thad and Emery’s grandfather.

  “I’m the one who is going to bash your brains in,” the old man said, and raising his cane, he swung at Fargo’s head.