Black Hills Badman

“Hold on,” Owen said. “It would serve the sorry cuss right if we left him there a while. Say, five or six hours.”

Propped on his elbows, Keever regarded them in disbelief. “What is this? I told you I want a buffalo head for my trophy room. What did you expect me to do? Let it get away?”

“I expect you to do what I tell you,” Fargo said. “There’s a safe way to hunt and there’s a dead way to hunt and you didn’t pick the safe way.”

“Honestly. You forget who you’re speaking to. I’ve shot as much game as either of you. So don’t treat me as if I’m still in diapers.”

“Then don’t act as if you are,” Owen said.

Fargo climbed down. He was still mad but he had cooled enough to say calmly, “You’ve cost us a good horse, Senator, and we don’t have many to spare.”

“It wasn’t as if I planned it. Good Lord, man. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill and get me out from under this thing.”

Fargo and Owen tried but they couldn’t lift the saddle high enough. They were forced to use a rope, just as they had with the black bear. Fargo climbed on the Ovaro, deftly tossed a loop over the bay’s saddle horn, then had the stallion slowly walk backward. Owen was ready, and the instant the saddle rose high enough, he pulled the senator out from under it and helped him to stand.

“At last,” Keever said gruffly. He brushed at his expensive clothes and picked pieces of grass from a sleeve. “Which one of you will let me ride his horse to camp?”

“You can ride double with me if you like,” Owen offered.

“What about my saddle?”

“Lichen will bring it back with him.” Owen chuckled and winked at Fargo. “Damn. Here I am, doing your work. I would make as good a top dog as you.”

“We’ve been all through that,” Fargo reminded him.

Owen rubbed his jaw. “That we have. Still, I should get a raise, all the extra work I do.”

The senator was smoothing his hair. “I can remedy that. From here on out I’ll pay you a third more than you have been getting.”

“You sure are generous,” Owen said sarcastically.

“You know what I’m after. You want generous? Find it for me.”

“Find what?” Fargo asked.

“How many times must I repeat myself? I want a buffalo and a grizzly to add to my trophies and make this trek worthwhile.”

They rode slowly. Owen was in a talkative mood and went on about the weather and how hard it was proving to find buffalo and how maybe they should save shooting a buff for last and instead penetrate deeper into the Black Hills after a griz.

“These hills are special to the Sioux,” Fargo brought up.

“Oh posh,” Senator Keever said. “We have only seen a few Indians since we crossed the Mississippi River. I was led to believe the plains are crawling with them.”

Owen pointed. “There’s some for you.”

Six warriors on horseback were far off to the northwest, heading north. Their backs were to them.

“Sioux, you think?” the senator asked.

Fargo swung down and instructed them to do the same. Owen and Lichen quickly complied but Keever stayed on.

“Here you go again. Making a fuss when they don’t even see us.”

Owen grabbed the senator’s leg and yanked, nearly unhorsing him. “Get off, you simpleton.”

“I am growing severely weary of your insults,” Keever said. But he dismounted.

Fargo kept one hand on the Henry. It bothered him, the one warrior before and now these six. A village must be near, in which case they should pack everything up and get the hell out of there. He mentioned it to Keever.

“Give up because we’ve seen a few Indians? Why, I’d be the laughingstock of the Senate.”

“There are worse things,” Owen said. “Like being the laughingstock of the cemetery.”

Fargo began to wonder why Keever put up with Owen’s constant prodding. But he put it from his mind. He had something more important to think about: the Sioux. “I’m going to follow them,” he announced.

“You’re loco.”

“I don’t see the point,” the senator asked. “Let them go their way and we’ll go ours.”

“I’ll shadow them and find out if their village is nearby,” Fargo explained. “If it is, we’re lighting a shuck whether you like it or not.” He forked leather. The six warriors were almost out of sight. “Take Keever back,” he directed Owen, “and keep your eyes skinned.”

Owen grinned. “Says the gent out to part company with his hair.”

The senator cleared his throat. “I really must protest. You’re taking a rash risk. We’ve avoided them so far and we can keep on doing so if we use our heads.”

“I am using mine.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He stayed at a walk. The warriors were in no hurry and he wasn’t anxious to get any closer than he already was. Half an hour crawled by, then an hour. The six were barely visible. The terrain became hillier and more broken, typical of the Black Hills, or Paha Sapa, as the Sioux called them. To the Sioux they were sacred.

Fargo had lived with the Sioux once. They referred to themselves as the Lakotas, and were, in fact, made up of seven bands, among them the Hunkpapa, Miniconjou, and the Oglala.

Unlike the Shoshones and Flatheads, who were friendly to whites, the Lakotas resented white intrusion into their lands and killed most every white they came across.

Fargo had been an exception.

He didn’t blame them for protecting their land. Hell, he hated the advance of civilization as much as they did. To him it meant the loss of the open prairie and the high country he loved to roam.

The warriors were out of sight.

A tap of his spurs and Fargo brought the stallion to a canter. He expected to spot them almost immediately. But he covered a quarter of a mile, and no Sioux. Puzzled, he flicked his reins and had the Ovaro trot for half a mile, with the same result.

Something wasn’t right. Fargo slowed to a walk. He didn’t think they had seen him, but then again, all it would take was one warrior with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s to look back at just the right moment.

His skin prickling, Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. He would go on a little ways yet, and if he didn’t spot them, turn back.

The last Fargo saw of the six, they were winding between a pair of wooded hills. Both hills were about the same size and shape, and reminded him of a woman’s breasts. He grinned at the notion, and thought of Rebecca Keever, of her full bosom and winsome figure.

The next moment Fargo lost his grin when the trees to his right and the trees to his left disgorged shrieking warriors brandishing lances and notching arrows to sinew strings.

He had ridden into a trap.

7

The Ovaro burst into motion at a jab of Fargo’s spurs. The warriors were on both sides and slightly behind him; if he tried to go back the way he came, they would cut him off. So he headed deeper into the hills, the Lakota hard in pursuit.

Fargo could have shot a few. He could have jerked the Henry from the scabbard and banged away before they came within arrow range. But it would cost him precious seconds.

There was also the fact that while the Sioux, on rare occasion, would let a white man live, they killed anyone, white or red, who killed a Sioux.

Fargo rode for his life. The ground between the hills was open and he could hold to a gallop. But soon he came to thick woods where the slightest mistake on his part or a misstep by the Ovaro would reap calamity. Fortunately, the Ovaro was sure-footed and quick-hoofed, and avoided obstacles like downed logs and boulders with