Senator Keever nodded. “That’s better.”
“How does the rest of that go?” Gerty said, tapping her chin. “Oh. Now I remember.” She quoted the rhyme. “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my mother’s eyes.” She paused. “Or should I change that to stepmother?”
Keever rose and regarded her as he might a new form of insect. “You are vicious beyond your years, daughter.”
Again Gerty smiled ever-so-sweetly. “I have you to thank for that, don’t I, Father?”
The senator made for their tent.
Laughing, Gerty winked at Fargo. “Aren’t I the luckiest girl alive? To have a loving father like him and a doting mother like Rebecca?”
Fargo shook his head in disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Gerty clasped a hand to her mouth in mock shock. “Oh my. Such language. But that’s all right. You’re so wonderfully dumb, I forgive you.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
Gerty sighed and set down the stick. “You’re trying to figure me out, is that it? Would you like me to help you? I’ll give you a hint as to what I’m truly like.” She pointed at the dirt.
Fargo moved closer so he could see. “How is that a hint?”
“Silly man. That’s me.”
Fargo looked at her and then at the dirt again. She hadn’t been doodling. She’d drawn a remarkable likeness—of a rattlesnake.
6
Finding a buffalo herd wasn’t that easy. Most of the buffalo were well to the south at that time of year, although here and there small herds could be found if one looked long enough and hard enough.
“Where the hell are they?” Lichen groused. He had been doing a lot of grousing since they started out shortly after daybreak.
“We’ll find some,” Lem Owen said.
“We better,” Senator Keever declared. “I’m paying good money. I expect results.”
Fargo kept his eyes fixed on the ground, seeking fresh sign.
“I have an idea,” the senator said. “Let’s split up. We’re bound to find them that much sooner.”
“No.” Fargo was thinking of the Sioux.
“What do you say, Mr. Owen? You have almost as much experience as Mr. Fargo.”
“He’s right. It’s safer if we stick together. Killing a buff is fine and dandy but not if it gets you scalped by savages.”
“I daresay the two of you are a disappointment,” Keever told them. “I was under the impression frontiersmen are bold and reckless.”
“Only the dead ones,” Owen said.
The country was becoming increasingly broken by hills, ridges of rock, and stone outcroppings that towered like gigantic tombstones against a backdrop of hazy blue sky.
Senator Keever noticed. “By the way, when do we reach the Black Hills?”
“You’ve been in them for a day and a half now,” Fargo enlightened him.
“Finally!” Keever grinned and excitedly rubbed his hands. “I can see that trophy on my wall now.”
Fargo didn’t ask him which one. Then the Ovaro nickered, and he looked up to behold the object of their quest in the form of an old bull not fifty yards away. Head high, it sniffed the air to get their scent.
“I’ll be switched,” Owen blurted.
Senator Keever had been gazing to the south but now he looked in the direction they were looking and exclaimed, “I knew it! I knew God wouldn’t let me down.” He bent and yanked his rifle from the saddle scabbard. “Move aside, gentlemen. I’m not about to let an opportunity like this pass by.”
“Senator, wait,” Fargo said, but Keever did no such thing. He spurred his horse toward the bull.
“That jackass sure is trying to get himself killed,” Owen remarked.
Fargo used his spurs. But the Ovaro couldn’t overtake the senator’s mount, not in the short distance they had to cover. He saw Keever jerk the rifle up and shouted, “Don’t do it!”
The rifle boomed.
The buffalo whirled. Raising puffs of dust, it raced into a wash and was out of sight.
“After him, men!” Keever bellowed, giving chase. “I’m sure I wounded it. We can’t let it get away!”
“Damn you.” Fargo galloped after him.
Owen and Lichen came on quickly, Owen bellowing, “That’s not the one you want, Senator! That’s not the one you want!”
Which made no sense to Fargo. Keever was out to shoot a buffalo.
What difference did it make which one? Now the fool was charging into the wash with no thought to his safety or that of his mount.
Fargo cursed all idiots, and Easterners. The smart thing to do was to let the bull run off and track it at their leisure. But no. All Keever could think of was how the head would look on his wall.
“My trophy room is the envy of Washington,” the senator had confided a few days ago. “Two presidents have come to see it. So has nearly everyone of influence. You should hear how many say they wish they had trophies of their own. But they say their wives would object. Or their constituents would be offended. Or they’re just too cowardly to stalk and face a wild beast.”
Fargo had pointed out that it wasn’t yellow to fight shy of grizzlies and buffalo.
“I say different. I say a man is measured by his deeds.”
Now the great huntsman, as Keever liked to call himself, was winding along the serpentine bottom of the wash, whooping and waving his Whitworth like a damned lunatic.
Fargo would as soon shoot him.
A bend appeared, and Senator Keever went around it on the fly.
A piercing squeal told Fargo that which he dreaded had happened. He lashed the Ovaro. The senator’s life span could be measured in seconds unless he got to him quickly.
The buffalo had run as far as it was going to, and turned at bay. When the senator came galloping around the bend, the bull lowered its head and slammed broadside into his horse. The squeal Fargo heard was its cry of pain as the bull buried its horns deep. Now the horse was on its side, whinnying and kicking, while Keever sought to free his pinned leg and scamper to safety.
But the bull wasn’t done. It loomed over them, a shaggy juggernaut bent on ripping and rending.
Fargo drew rein and whipped the Henry to his shoulder. He fired, worked the lever, fired again. He went for the head because that was all he had to shoot at; the bull was facing him. But as every plainsman worth his buckskins already knew, shooting a buffalo in the head was a waste of lead. It was like shooting a wall or a boulder. Slugs had no more effect than gnats, except to make the bull mad.
With a tremendous bellow of pure rage, the buffalo bounded around the thrashing horse and came after Fargo and the Ovaro. Wheeling the stallion, Fargo used his spurs once more. He was barely a buckboard’s length ahead of the bull as he raced around the bend—and almost collided with Owen and Lichen, who were coming the other way. They both jerked on their reins and brought their mounts to a sliding stop. Which suited the bull just fine. Snorting, it veered at Owen’s dun but the dun was halfway up the wash in a few bounds.
Fargo had slowed to see if either of them went down, and now the bull was almost on top of him. He reined aside with inches to spare. The bull kept on going and was lost to view around the next bend.
“Son of a bitch,” Lichen fumed.
Owen had already reined back down. “Where did the senator get to? He nearly got me killed.”
Keever was still pinned by his horse, which had stopped thrashing and lay still in a spreading pool of scarlet. “Help me,” he requested, pushing in vain against the saddle.
“You damned jackass. That was a harebrained stunt you just pulled,” Fargo said bluntly. “The next time you do anything like this, you can find yourself another guide.” He went to dismount.
