High Plains Massacre Page 4

  “Do you ever listen to yourself?”

  “I never talk to myself, no,” Tom said. “You have to be loco to do that.”

  Fargo glanced behind them at the troopers, and stiffened. Half a mile or so back there was a bright flash of light. It was there and it was gone. The kind of flash caused by, say, the sun glinting off metal.

  “What?” Bear River Tom said, and shifted in his saddle. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It could be we’re being followed.”

  “Hostiles, you reckon?”

  “This soon?” Fargo rejoined. He deemed it unlikely that a war party would venture so close to the fort.

  “We’ll have to find out who. Do you want to flip a coin to see who goes?”

  “Me,” Fargo said.

  “Why you?”

  “I’m in charge.”

  “So you get to have fun and I get stuck with the green bluebellies?”

  “You’ll be a fine nursemaid.”

  “Just so I don’t have to change their diapers.”

  10

  Fargo let another mile go by before he made his move. They had just crested a low hill when he slowed to let Lieutenant Wright come up. “I’m dropping back. Keep going with Tom and I’ll catch up.”

  “Why are you leaving us?”

  Fargo saw no harm in saying, “I think we’re being shadowed.”

  “By who?”

  “I won’t know until I see them.” Fargo lifted his reins to go.

  “Hold on. You should take a couple of my men with you.”

  “No.”

  “To back you up.”

  “I don’t need backing.”

  “It’s common sense. What if there are more than one? What if something happens to you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you ask me,” Wright said, “you’re too smug by half. I know you don’t think highly of us but we’re not incompetent.”

  Fargo almost said, “You’re damn close to it.” Instead, he replied, “You give orders a lot better than you take them. The colonel said you’re to do as I say.”

  “Nice of you to remind me every chance you get,” Wright said. “But very well. And if we never see you again, I’ll put it in my report that you died due to your own pig- headedness.”

  The troopers looked quizzically at Fargo as he rode past.

  Private Oleandar Davenport smiled and looked as if he was about to say something but didn’t.

  Fargo put them from his mind for the time being. He circled around the hill and stopped when he could see their back trail. Dismounting, he shucked his Henry from the saddle scabbard.

  A small boulder a stone’s throw up the slope was the only cover. It would have to do. He climbed and flattened and took off his hat. Folding his arms, he rested his chin on his wrist and settled down to wait. It shouldn’t be long, he reckoned.

  It wasn’t.

  A lone rider appeared, coming on at a walk. Fargo wasn’t at all surprised to see who it was.

  The killer with the eye patch rode with the casual air of someone at home in the wilds. There was none of the nervousness of the young soldiers. His good eye was bent to the ground, and he held his reins loosely. A rifle butt poked from a scabbard, and he had his knife on his hip.

  It annoyed Fargo that Tom had realized the man was a Metis before he had. He couldn’t afford lapses like that. They too often proved fatal.

  Sliding the Henry past the boulder, he tucked the stock to his shoulder and took a bead. Shooting from ambush didn’t bother him, not when the bastard had tried twice to kill him.

  Instead of aiming at the head or the heart, though, he centered the Henry’s sights on the man’s shoulder. He’d like to take him alive and ask a few questions.

  The Metis raised his head and regarded the hill, and just like that he reined sharply around and jabbed his heels against his bay.

  Fargo swore. The same thing that had given the Metis away earlier—the flash of sunlight off metal—had now given him away. The Henry’s brass receiver must have caught the sun just right. He banged off a shot but was sure he missed. Jacking the lever, he pushed to his knees and went to fire again.

  Well out from the hill, the Metis performed a feat worthy of a Sioux warrior; he swung onto the side of his bay, hanging by a foot over its back and an arm over its neck.

  Fargo aimed at the foot. He might hit the horse but it couldn’t be helped. Just as his finger began to tighten, horse and rider disappeared. It was as if the earth swallowed them.

  Grabbing his hat, Fargo raced down the hill to the Ovaro. He vaulted into the saddle, hauled on the reins and used his spurs.

  A gully explained how the Metis had vanished.

  Fargo galloped down into it and along its winding course to where it opened into a stretch of flat prairie. Beyond were hills.

  The Metis and the bay were nowhere to be seen.

  Fargo made for the hills. He spotted tracks and leaned down for a closer look. The whistle of lead and the crack of a rifle were simultaneous.

  Wheeling the Ovaro, Fargo galloped for the gully. The rifle cracked a second time and a slug missed his head, but not by much. Fear spiked in him that the Metis might try to bring down the Ovaro, and he cut right and then left.

  He reached the gully and sprang down. Moving to the rim, he scanned the hills. The man with the eye patch had to be somewhere on the nearest, but if so, he was well hid.

  Fargo felt a certain begrudging respect. Whoever this small man was, he was damn good.

  Fargo stayed put, hoping the killer would show himself. He got his wish but not in the manner he expected.

  The bay and its rider appeared atop the second hill, not the first. Safely out of range, the man with the eye patch raised an arm as if in salute, then turned his animal and rode down the far side.

  “I’ll be damned,” Fargo said. His respect climbed. This Metis had a flair about him.

  Reluctantly, Fargo shoved the Henry into the scabbard and climbed back on the Ovaro. He didn’t give chase. It would be pointless. The Metis had too great a lead, and something told him that bay would prove to possess as much stamina as the Ovaro.

  Something also told him he hadn’t seen the last of them. Sooner or later, that small man with the eye patch would try again.

  11

  Lieutenant Wright was a stickler for the manual. He posted a sentry by the horse string even though the horses weren’t twenty feet from their campfire. The troopers were to take turns standing watch.

  “One good thing about having these kids along,” Bear River Tom remarked to Fargo, “is we get to have a good night’s sleep.”

  Fargo doubted he’d rest all that easy. Not with the Metis out there somewhere, and liable to sneak in and try to slit his throat in the dead of night.

  “I heard that,” Lieutenant Wright said, taking a seat across from them. “And I’ll thank you to stop calling my men ‘kids.’”

  “Sorry, sonny,” Bear River Tom said. “But when you’re not old enough to shave, that’s what you are.”

  “I’ll have you know I shave twice a week whether I need to or not.”

  “That often, huh?”

  Wright focused on Fargo. “Tell me more about this one-eyed killer.”

  “You know as much as I do.”

  “Which is nothing,” Wright said. “You’re supposed to be one of the best plainsmen alive. How could he get away from you?”

  “It happens,” Fargo said.

  “I hate to think we’ll have him on our trail all the way to the Black Hills,” Wright complained. “Surely you can come up with a way to catch him.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “What I don’t savvy,” Bear River Tom said, “is how the Metis are involved with those settlers who have gone missing.”

/>   Neither did Fargo. The Metis rarely visited towns or settlements. Considered outcasts because of their mixed blood, they kept to themselves. They dealt more with the Indians than with whites, trading for hides and sometimes plunder. But according to Captain Calhoun’s report to the colonel, the settlement hadn’t been raided.

  “So much for the great scouts,” Lieutenant Wright remarked.

  “Keep it up, sonny,” Bear River Tom said, “and you’ll be eating teeth.”

  “Anytime you want to try, tit fiend, feel free,” Lieutenant Wright said.

  Tom blinked. “What did you just call me?”

  “Tit fiend,” Fargo said.

  “That I did,” Wright said. “And it’s only fair to warn you that I was the top of my class in the fine art of boxing.”

  “A scrawny runt like you?” Bear River Tom scoffed.

  Lieutenant Wright jumped to his feet and raised his fists. “I’ll thrash you here and now if you dare try me.”

  “Sit down,” Fargo said.

  “I will not.” Wright moved around the fire until he was only a step away from Tom. “I’ve had enough of you two looking down your noses at me. I challenge this lout to a fight.”

  “Now, Archibald . . .” Tom said with a smirk.

  “Archibald this,” Wright snapped, and stabbed the toe of his left boot at the ground. Dirt flew up, not a lot, but it caught Bear River Tom flush in the face, causing him to turn his face away.

  “You damned pup.”

  “Stand and fight.”

  Fargo was dumbfounded, and he wasn’t the only one. The troopers sitting a few yards away were slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

  “Lieutenant,” Private Davenport made bold to say, “what on earth has gotten into you?”

  “I have been belittled long enough,” Wright said without looking at him. “And you and the others will keep silent and not interfere. Is that understood?” He gestured at Tom. “On your feet, bumpkin.”

  “First I’m a tit fiend and now I’m a bumpkin. Make up your puny mind.”

  “I’ll show you puny,” Lieutenant Wright said.

  Bear River Tom turned to Fargo. “It’s up to you, pard. Can I or can’t I?”

  “You can,” Fargo said.

  Bear River Tom set down his rifle and rose. He stood a good head and shoulders over the lieutenant and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, but Wright didn’t seem to care. “Boy, I’ve whipped bigger men than you without half trying.”

  “You’ll have to try with me,” Wright said. “Raise your fists and defend yourself.”

  “I don’t go in for that fancy stuff,” Bear River Tom said. “Whenever you want this dance to commence, get to hopping.”

  “Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re ignorant of the science of fisticuffs.”

  “You know where you can shove your science, boy?”

  “Stop calling me boy,” Lieutenant Wright cried, and waded in with his bony fists flying.

  Bear River Tom just stood there. A left connected with his cheek and a right whipped into his stomach. All he did was wince. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Archibald Wright lost control. With a half growl, half scream, he waded in again.

  Tom got an arm up but he didn’t make any great effort to avoid the rain of blows. He grunted when an uppercut clipped his jaw and again when Wright slammed him in the ribs. When Wright stepped back, he was the one breathing heavily.

  “Not bad, youngster,” Bear River Tom said, rubbing his side. “Some of them stung.”

  Wright looked at his fists and then at Tom. “This can’t be. What are you made of?”

  “Flesh and bone, boy.”

  “I told you to stop calling me that.” Wright sprang and cocked his right arm but before the blow could land, Bear River Tom unleashed a backhand that caught Wright full in the face and knocked him flat on his back.

  “Stay down, pup,” Tom said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Rubbing his chin, Wright looked up in amazement. “I hit you with all I had.”

  “It’s not how a man hits,” Tom said, “it’s how much he can take.” He extended his hand. “Here. I’ll help you up.”

  Anger and bewilderment had Wright confused. He let himself be pulled to his feet, and shook his head. “I’ve never been so humiliated.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” Bear River Tom said. “Give yourself a few years and you’ll be someone to be reckoned with.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “Hell, I don’t even know what that means.” Tom chuckled and clapped the lieutenant on the arm. “I’m only saying that tough trumps everything else. Look at the Apaches. Or look at him.” Tom pointed at Fargo.

  “Are you saying he’s tougher than you?”

  “Fargo there is the toughest son of a bitch I know, and that’s saying a lot. If you’d pulled your stunt with him, you’d be spitting teeth.”

  Wright frowned and his shoulders slumped. “I’ve been made a fool of in front of my men.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “What’s another?”

  “That you learned an important lesson,” Bear River Tom said. “A man has to know his limits. Now you know yours like I know mine.”

  “What about him?” Wright asked with a nod at Fargo. “What are his limits?”

  “He doesn’t have any.”

  Wright scowled and said, “He doesn’t seem so formidable to me.”

  “Take a swing at him, then,” Bear River Tom said, “and see what happens.”

  Lieutenant Archibald Wright stared into Fargo’s eyes and slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I will. I need these teeth to chew my food.”

  Bear River Tom grinned. “There’s hope for you yet, Archie.”

  12

  The fight took a lot of the starch out of Lieutenant Wright. Over the next several days he was a lot friendlier. To Fargo and Bear River Tom, anyway. To his men he was still a no-nonsense officer who barked his orders and took them to task if they didn’t keep their uniforms clean.

  Right there was one of the reasons Fargo had never joined the regular army. He couldn’t abide being bossed around. He could abide it even less when the things he was told to do were downright stupid.

  He did love scouting. He got to do what he enjoyed most, wandering all over creation. And he was paid for it. That, and he didn’t have to wear a uniform and was pretty much left alone when his talents weren’t needed.

  Those talents served him in good stead now. Two days after the fight, he cut the sign of a party of seven warriors. The troopers would never have noticed. Unless tracks were as plain as the noses on their faces, the boys in blue might as well be blind. But Fargo noticed. So did Bear River Tom.

  They dismounted and were studying them when their new bosom friend asked, “What is it? What do you see?”

  “Injuns,” Bear River Tom answered. “Seven, if my count is right.” He looked at Fargo.

  Fargo nodded. “Could be a hunting party. Could be a war party.” He pointed. “They’re heading north.”

  “Sioux?” Lieutenant Wright asked.

  “Could be,” Fargo said again. “We can’t tell by the hoofprints.”

  “All we know is the horses weren’t shod and there were seven of them,” Bear River Tom amplified.

  “How you can tell anything is a marvel to me,” Wright admitted. “All I see is some crushed grass and scuff marks.”

  “The ground is hard,” Bear River Tom said. “We could do with some rain.”

  That they could, Fargo reflected. Thunderstorms were fairly common at that time of year but so far the sky had stayed clear and virtually cloudless. Which was too bad. A downpour would wipe out their own tracks and help hide them from the Sioux.

 
Lieutenant Wright’s saddle creaked as he turned. “Do you think that one-eyed man is still stalking us?”

  “Why would he stop?” Fargo said. “He hasn’t done what he set out to do.”

  “Which is to kill you, for some reason,” Wright said. “But why you and not, say, Tom, here?”

  “Hey, now,” Tom said, “why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “I heard Colonel Jennings say that he would like to. It had something to do with tits.”

  “Well, hell,” Tom said.

  Fargo stayed alert for dust and smoke and anything else that would forewarn them of hostiles.

  They were raising dust, themselves. Not a lot. Not so much that the Sioux would notice, he hoped.

  That evening, as the troopers sat clustered around the fire and Fargo sat honing his Arkansas toothpick on a whetstone, someone coughed to get his attention. Thinking it was Wright, he looked up.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Private Oleandar Davenport said. “I thought it was time I introduced myself.”

  “I know who you are,” Fargo said. “And I know your pa, the general.”

  “He’s spoken very highly of you,” Private Davenport mentioned.

  Fargo stared at the younger man’s uniform where insignia would be. “Why a private?”

  “I’ve only been in the army a short while.”

  “No,” Fargo said. “Why aren’t you following in his footsteps?”

  “Oh. That.” Davenport looked away. “My father and I argued over that, actually. He wanted me to do as he did and attend officer’s school and start my career as a lieutenant, like Lieutenant Wright has done.”

  “That’s how most would do it.”

  “I don’t want it to be easier for me than it is for most everyone else.”

  Fargo didn’t understand. “From what I hear, West Point is hard as hell to get through.”

  “But if you make it you’re automatically an officer.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I consider it the same as having my life handed to me on a silver platter. I’d much rather do it the ordinary way. The way most men do.”