Beyond Squaw Creek

good thirty sutures, all told.”

“Ah, shit,” Fargo rasped, feeling the deep, burning ache in his upper left chest. He glanced around the long room, both walls of which were lined with a dozen or so beds, most of them filled. Fort Clark’s infirmary. “How long before I’m back on my feet?”

“At least a week. The arrow didn’t hit anything vital, but it tore you up pretty good. The soldiers got you here about fifteen minutes before you would have bled to death.” The doctor snapped the grip closed, donned a ratty beaver hat, nodded at Valeria standing on the right side of Fargo’s bed, and began moving down the long alley between the beds, toward the open front door.

Fargo turned to Valeria. Except for a little sunburn and a few small abrasions on her cheeks, she looked as fresh as the day he’d first met her at the steamboat docks in Mandan. “How long I been here?”

“Two days. Don’t you remember riding in with the soldiers? The guards said you looked like a dead man riding through those gates. You no sooner told them where they’d find me and Mr. Charley than you passed out.” Valeria sat down beside him, smoothed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead, and gazed softly into his eyes. “Can I get you anything?”

Fargo glanced down at her bosom pushing against his shoulder and, in spite of the fire in his chest, felt the old, stubborn twitch in his loins.

“I mean, within reason!” she scolded, whispering so the men around them couldn’t hear.

Fargo felt his mouth corners quirk a grin, and then he glanced around the room once more, where a couple of uniformed men stood or sat beside the white-sheeted lumps of their wounded comrades. “Prairie Dog make it?”

“Of course, I made it, you idiot!”

Fargo turned to see Prairie Dog Charley occupying the bed left of his, lying belly down and looking for all the world like an old, bald, grizzled bear under the white hospital sheets and green wool blankets. Propped on his elbows, he was studying the miniature chess set on the bed before him. “And I wanna know how come you got my dear sweet Brunhilda so damn scratched up! Christ almighty, son, you know how much grease it’s gonna take to bring out her shine again?”

Mention of the Schuetzen reminded Fargo of Duke.

“Am I dreaming, or did your dear Brunhilda really blow out the crazy lieutenant’s lamp?”

Fingering a pawn and wincing as he adjusted his position in the bed, Prairie Dog nodded. “He’s cold-er’n a grave digger’s ass and snugglin’ with the snakes right outside these very walls. A patrol hauled him back—or what was left of him after the coyotes had their say.”

The old scout chuckled. “And the old major…uh, excuse me, Miss…Major Howard knew what he was talkin’ about. Killin’ that crazy officer seems to have taken the starch out of the Injuns’ shorts. The patrol that came back this mornin’ said they saw no Injun sign, and the village beyond Squaw Creek was plum gone. Vanished. All that’s left are some tracks, ashes, and circles of dead grass where the lodges stood.”

“How ’bout the soldiers that helped you spring me and Valeria?”

Prairie Dog cursed and shook his head. “Only two made it—the boy you found staked out by Duke and another holed up in a coulee. Iron Shirt’s boys ran the other two down, killed ’em. The boy you found, though, is already back on light wood-cutting duty.”

Fargo glanced at Valeria. “Your old man?”

She smiled. “His arrow wound wasn’t as bad as yours, and he didn’t lose as much blood, so he should be on his feet in a day or two. He’s sent couriers out with requests for more men to garrison Fort Clark and to rebuild Fort William.”

“Lost nearly a third of our own garrison in that last attack,” Prairie Dog growled.

“Figured as much.” Fargo groaned as fresh pain stabbed him. “Did the doc leave any whiskey hereabouts? I sure could use a shot.”

“He didn’t leave any,” Prairie Dog said, reaching under his bed. “But I got some.”

“With as much blood as you both lost?” Valeria cried, rushing around the bed and plucking the corked brown bottle from the old trapper’s hand. “I should say not!”

She shook her head like an admonishing schoolmarm, shifting her gaze between both beds, holding the bottle as though it were an evil talisman. “I’ll just hold on to this for six or seven days or when the doctor thinks you’re ready for spirituous liquid. Now, you both need to rest. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to check on you.”

Both Fargo and Prairie Dog watched her bottom sway behind the long, green skirt as she stalked off toward the door, holding the whiskey bottle before her with both hands. Her sunset red hair spilled down her back in swirling curls.

“Ain’t right—takin’ a man’s whiskey,” Fargo complained.

“Nope,” Prairie Dog said. “But it’s hard to argue with a girl that fills out a set o’ frillies like that. I wish my memory wasn’t as bad as my hearing and my eyesight, and I could remember how she looked without no clothes on!”

“I’d remind you,” Fargo said, fatigue washing over him. He lay his head back on the pillow, crossed his hands on his belly, and smiled at the image behind his eyelids. “But I’m afraid you’d have a stroke.”