Rocky Mountain Revenge Page 4

  “I have what?”

  “You be buffalo where most men goats. You understand?”

  Fargo laughed. “I reckon I’ve never had a lady complain, at that. But you should keep it to yourself.”

  “Not tell anyone? Why?”

  “White men like to pretend they don’t have one.”

  His face scrunching in confusion, Small Badger asked, “That new word. What be ‘pretend’?”

  “It means you act as if it’s not there.”

  “But it part of us, like arm and leg and head. Touch every day. How not be there when is there?”

  “You’re asking the wrong gent,” Fargo told him. “I’ve never ignored mine.” He chuckled. “How the hell did we get on this, anyhow?”

  “You lay with women.”

  Fargo changed the subject. He asked how the Nez Perce were getting along with whites these days and learned that while they were still the friendliest tribe around except for the Shoshones, relations with white men had soured.

  “Too many come our land,” Small Badger complained. “Kill animals. Look for yellow rock in streams.”

  “Those rocks are worth a lot of money and most whites want to be rich more than they want to be anything.”

  “You want be rich too?”

  Fargo shrugged. “I never gave it much thought. I like a full poke as much as the next gent but I can get by without one.”

  “This white who send you. This Bell. He must have much money.”

  “He has more than he knows what to do with,” Fargo said. “Ten years from now, odds are he’ll have even more.”

  “You think it good we let him have m’a mim?”

  Fargo recalled that was Nimipuu for “Appaloosa.” “I don’t see how it can hurt.” Bell would only sell to whites, not to Nez Perce enemies.

  “If you say it good, I ask father to help. We have much horses. Or should be many horses?”

  “Much and many are about the same.”

  “I sorry I not well at white tongue. Words make my head in whirl. Whites not think like we think.”

  Just then one of the warriors behind them barked the Nez Perce word for “enemies,” and pointed.

  Half a mile away and half a mile lower down, warriors were winding along a valley toward them.

  “We find Blackfeet!” Small Badger exclaimed, and was quick to rein into cover. The rest followed suit.

  Fargo suspected it was the same war party he tangled with. If they continued the way they were, the Blackfeet would ride right into an ambush. He slid the Henry out and levered a cartridge into the chamber.

  “Shiny rifle,” Small Badger said, referring to the brass receiver. “Where your buffalo gun?”

  Once, Fargo favored a Sharps. It was powerful enough to drop a buffalo with a single shot, but that was also the reason he switched; the Sharps held only one cartridge at a time. The Henry, on the other hand, held fifteen in a tubular magazine under the barrel. When a man was in a pinch and needed to spray a lot of lead, the Henry beat the Sharps all hollow.

  The Nez Perce were notching arrows to their bowstrings and seeking spots to conceal themselves.

  Fargo stayed close to Small Badger. When the young warrior squatted behind a pine, Fargo hunkered behind another right next to it. “It will be a while,” he said.

  Small Badger was practically squirming with excitement. “I count coup this day. I make my father proud.”

  “The Blackfeet are good fighters,” Fargo reminded him.

  “Nimipuu good fighters too.”

  The Nez Perce had to be. Their territory, abundant as it was with game and grass and water, was coveted by other tribes. Any sign of weakness on their part and they would be driven off.

  Small Badger tested his bowstring and gazed at the approaching Blackfeet. “It good day to die.”

  “I hope not,” Skye Fargo said.

  5

  Skye Fargo had heard that expression before. It never made sense to him. He liked being alive. He liked how whiskey burned as it went down his throat, he liked the soft feel of a willing woman, he liked the delicious taste of a juicy steak. Dying put an end to all that, permanent. For him, there was no good day to die. Anyone who thought there was didn’t appreciate breathing.

  Soon the war party was near enough that Fargo could see how alert they were. They rode with their weapons at the ready; bows with arrows nocked, lances held to throw. They were cautious this near to enemy country.

  “Wait until they are right on top of us,” Fargo whispered. That way the Nez Perce would drop more with their first flight of arrows.

  “I wait, Iron Will,” Small Badger promised. He grinned and flexed his fingers and shifted his feet.

  Fargo thought to ask, “Have you ever fought Blackfeet before?”

  “No.”

  Fargo had another thought and it troubled him. “Tell me something. How many warriors have you counted coup on?”

  “None.”

  “Hell.” Fargo should have realized. Small Badger was young and eager to prove himself. The other warriors had gone along with him because he was a chief’s son.

  “What be wrong?” Small Badger whispered back.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “Why I do that?” Small Badger raised his horn bow. “We kill enemies, women sing songs of us.”

  “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Pay attention to the Blackfeet. And whatever you do, stay behind that tree.”

  “Can’t kill with knife from behind tree. Must get close to show have courage.”

  Fargo put his cheek to the Henry. He hoped to God they got through this. That was the trouble with spilling blood. Sometimes the blood that was spilled was your own.

  Small Badger and the other Nez Perce had drawn their bowstrings back and were sighting down the shafts.

  Fargo took aim on the fourth Blackfoot. He figured the Nez Perce would go for the closest.

  “It good day to die,” Small Badger said again, and let fly. The twang of his bowstring was the signal for the others to loose their shafts.

  Fargo squeezed the trigger.

  Three of the Blackfeet fell in the first volley but only two were dead. The third had been hit in the shoulder. Another was struck in the ribs but the arrow didn’t penetrate deep and he was still on his horse. Now he and the remaining mounted warriors showed why the Blackfeet were so widely respected as fighters; they reined toward the woods, and charged.

  Fargo jacked the lever and fixed a quick bead. A buckskin-clad chest filled his sights and he fired. At the boom the warrior was jolted but somehow stayed on his horse.

  Arrows and lances flew thick. War whoops pierced the air. A Nez Perce went down, thrashing and kicking, a shaft through his throat. A spear transfixed another low in the side and a shower of scarlet erupted.

  Then the Blackfeet were in among them and it was every man for himself. Fargo dived as a shaft sought his neck and it whizzed over his head. He rolled and came up with the Henry level but the Blackfoot who loosed the arrow at him had taken an arrow from a Nez Perce. He spun to see how his young friend was faring.

  Small Badger was down. Over him stood a Blackfoot with a war club raised on high.

  Fargo fired, worked the lever, fired again. At each blast the Blackfoot was jarred back a step. Suddenly the man bellowed in rage and flew at him. Fargo got the Henry up in time to deflect a blow that would have caved in his head. He slammed the stock against the warrior but it had no effect. The war club scraped his shoulder. He ducked, sidestepped, and rammed the barrel into the Blackfoot’s gut. It, too, had no effect.

  In the savage heat of combat some men were immune to harm. Bloodlust overcame them and they went virtually berserk. This warrior swung his war club in a wild frenzy, seeking to batter the rifle aside and bring Fargo down.

  Fargo backpedaled. He blocked a swing from up high and a sweep from down low and then he clipped the warrior on the cheek. Al
l it did was make the Blackfoot madder. With another bellow, the Blackfoot leaped and brought the heavy war club smashing down. The Henry was torn from Fargo’s grasp. Throwing himself clear, Fargo drew his Colt. He fired twice from the hip and he didn’t miss.

  In the abrupt silence, Fargo’s ears rang. He looked around. All the Blackfeet were down but so were half the Nez Perce. The battle had been brutal and bloody. He turned toward Small Badger and his blood chilled in his veins.

  “No.”

  The chief’s son was still on his back, blood welling from a gash on his temple.

  Fargo ran to him and knelt. He gripped Small Badger’s wrist and felt for a pulse and was elated to find one, strong and steady. He examined the wound. The war club had glanced off, taking a lot of skin and flesh but doing no serious harm. He shook Small Badger’s shoulder. Small Badger groaned. Fargo shook him again, harder.

  The young warrior’s eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes and gazed groggily about him and said something in his own tongue.

  “Do you know where you are?” Fargo asked.

  “Iron Will?” Small Badger licked his lips. “I still live?”

  “No thanks to the Blackfoot who tried to bash your brains out,” Fargo said, and nodded at the fallen figure.

  Rising onto his elbows, Small Badger grimaced. “Feel much sick between ears.”

  “You might have a concussion.”

  “What that?” Small Badger tried to raise a hand to his temple but sank down and groaned.

  “It means you are hurt inside your head,” Fargo explained it as simply as he could. “You must take it slow and easy for a while.”

  “Blackfeet all dead?”

  “Every last one.”

  Small Badger smiled weakly. “Good. My father be proud. I protect my people.”

  “I hope the cost was worth it.”

  Lifting his head, Small Badger looked about. His smile changed to deep sorrow. “Otter Tail. Two Owls.” He closed his eyes and sank back down. “They my friends.”

  “Not anymore,” Fargo said. “They would still be alive if you hadn’t wanted to fight the Blackfeet so much.”

  “Men do what must,” Small Badger said. “Now Blackfeet no raid village. They die good.”

  The wounded were tended to. The dead Blackfeet were stripped of weapons, their horses collected. The Nez Perce left the hair of the Blackfeet untouched.

  Unlike many other tribes, the Nez Perce took no pride in lifting scalps.

  Fargo wanted to bandage Small Badger but the younger man wouldn’t let him.

  “Let people see wound. They know I brave.”

  Fargo sighed. “At least wash it.” Dirt was in the gash and could lead to infection.

  “I fine,” Small Badger happily declared.

  By late afternoon he had the chills and was swaying so badly he couldn’t sit his horse. The other warriors called an early halt. A fire was kindled. Two warriors went off to hunt.

  Fargo brought his bedroll over to where Small Badger lay curled on his side, his teeth chattering, his whole body shaking. Unrolling the blankets, he said, “Bundle yourself in these.”

  “They yours. I not need.”

  “You’re too damn hardheaded for your own good.” Taking hold of the young warrior’s shoulders, Fargo hauled him onto the blankets.

  Small Badger was so startled he didn’t resist. Nor did he object when Fargo covered him. An hour later he was muttering and mumbling. An older warrior came over and put a hand on Small Badger’s forehead. He motioned for Fargo to do the same. Small Badger was burning up.

  Fargo had tried to warn him. Infected wounds killed more people than the guns and knives that caused the wounds.

  The older warrior opened a pouch and showed Fargo the contents. In it were plantain leaves. He applied several directly to the wound and then ground others into a powder and mixed them with clematis leaves to make a tea that he forced Small Badger to drink.

  Some whites scoffed at Indian remedies, but not Fargo. He had seen them work too many times. When he felt Small Badger’s brow a couple of hours later the fever had broken. By morning it was gone and the young warrior awoke ravenous and eager to be on their way.

  The others did not speak to Fargo unless he spoke to them first. They had won a hard fight and should be in fine spirits but they had lost two of their own. They were taking their slain friends back for burial and must hurry before the bodies began to decompose.

  Their village lay beside a gurgling stream in a verdant valley. The lodges were similar to those of the Shoshones, Crows, and Sioux: buffalo hides stretched over frames of lodgepoles. Everyone in the village came running.

  The wives of the dead warriors broke into wails of lament.

  Gray Bear emerged from a sweat lodge to greet his son. He welcomed Fargo, listened to an account of the fight, and then called for a council for later. There were the burial preparations to attend to, and a victory to celebrate.

  Everyone hurried off, leaving Fargo holding the Ovaro’s reins. He decided to go to the stream and let the stallion drink, and turned.

  “You have come back.”

  “Eapalekthiloom,” Fargo said.

  Her name meant “Many Clouds” in English. She wasn’t much over five feet tall yet every inch was exquisite. Raven hair cascaded past her slender shoulders to the small of her back. Her ample bosom, her narrow waist, the shapely contours of her thighs—all were highlighted by her doeskin dress with its many blue and white beads. She spoke English better than Small Badger; better, even, than anyone in her band. Keen intelligence, and something else, were mirrored in her lovely eyes. “Iron Will. He Who Rides Many Trails. Skye Fargo. How would you be called?”

  “However you want.”

  “You are not a man a woman forgets. I have thought of you often. I hoped that one day you would return to see me.”

  “I came to see Gray Bear.”

  “Oh.” Many Clouds didn’t hide her disappointment. “So you still ride where the wind takes you.”

  “Afraid so.” Fargo motioned. “I’m on my way to the stream. You’re welcome to tag along.”

  Many Clouds hesitated but only for a second. Falling into step beside him, her small hands clasped in front of her, she said softly, “It is not good for a woman to give her heart to a man who does not give his heart to her.”

  “We’ve been all through that. I never promised anything. I was honest with you.”

  “Yes, you always speak with a straight tongue,” the beauty allowed. “How long are you staying?”

  “It depends on Gray Bear.”

  “The night, at least?”

  “At least,” Fargo said.

  Many Clouds smiled and her hand brushed his arm. “I offer you our lodge. My mother and father will not mind. They know I am fond of you.”

  “I don’t want to impose.” Nor did Fargo care to endure the stares of her parents. He did that the last time.

  The water was clear and cold and tasted delicious. Fargo dried his hand on his pants and sat with his forearms over his knees. High grass screened them from the village.

  Many Clouds sat so close to him, their legs brushed. She leaned back, her mounds thrusting against her dress, her full lips quirked. “They will be busy until the sun goes down.”

  “Who?” Fargo was thinking of the last time he was with her, and twitched below his belt.

  “My people. The dead must be buried with their medicine bundles. Their women must mourn for twelve moons and then hold a giveaway.”

  Fargo was familiar with the custom, unique among the Nez Perce. “Will you go to see them buried?”

  “It is for family. I thought I would keep you company.” Many Clouds placed her hand on his. “If you do not mind.”

  “We are a lot alike, you and me.”

  “In what way? I am a woman, you are a man. I am Nimipuu, you are white. I want a husband. You do not want a wife.”

  “There is one thing we both want,” Fargo said.

&
nbsp; “I admit I often think of our nights together. They were special.” Many Clouds leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “I know I can never have you but I can please you and you can please me.”

  “A gal after my own heart.”

  “I am after something,” Many Clouds said, and slid her hand between his legs.

  6

  Some women didn’t play female games. Some didn’t pretend they weren’t interested when they really were. Some liked to be with a man as much as Fargo liked to be with a woman and weren’t shy about letting him know. He’d always admired them for being so honest.

  Many Clouds was one of those women. The last time Fargo paid Gray Bear’s village a visit, she had taken an immediate liking to him and before the night was over had treated him to her many charms.

  When Clarence Bell proposed coming to the Nez Perce for a pair of Appaloosas, Fargo had thought of that night with Many Clouds. He wouldn’t mind another. Now, seated on the bank with the warm sun on them and hidden from the village, he pulled her to him and molded his mouth to hers. She was everything he remembered: warm, soft, delectable. Kissing some women was like kissing molten sugar. Her breasts were hard against his chest. Her hand cupped him, and he felt himself grow as rigid as iron.

  “You are the best kisser,” Many Clouds said softly when they broke for breath. “I could kiss you all day.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  Many Clouds nodded at the trail to the village. “Others might come to drink. It is best we are together where no one can see.”

  “Couples are together in lodges all the time,” Fargo said.

  “Under robes and blankets.”

  Fargo got up and untied his bedroll. He spread out the blankets and covered her and him from their ankles to their shoulders, then pressed against her until she was on her back and he was cushioned by her yielding body. “How does this suit you?”

  Many Clouds smiled. “You must want me very much.”

  “It’s been a while.” Fargo hadn’t been with a woman in almost three weeks, a long spell to go without.

  “It has been longer since you were here last.”

  “Don’t start.” Fargo refused to be nagged. “It’s up to you. Do I roll up my blankets?”