“Little Face hates you with all he is. Were you his prisoner he would stake you out and skin you.”

Fargo glanced at the other warriors. One Feather was fingering his knife. “I ask only to go my way in peace.”

“If I help you, you must agree to leave our land.”

Fargo had no objections and he doubted Senator Keever would, either, when Keever learned about the gathering of the bands. “You have my word.”

Four Horns smiled and put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “I have missed you, my brother. You are one of the few whites who looks at me and sees a man and not the color of my skin.”

Cola,” Fargo said warmly.

Four Horns grunted, and stood. Fargo followed his example and they walked over to where the other warriors waited.

One Feather pointed at Fargo. “I still want to kill this one. He should not be in the Paha Sapa.”

Heyah,” Four Horns said. He gripped the Ovaro’s reins and placed them in Fargo’s hand. “Go now, He Who Walks Many Trails. And may it be many moons before we see each other again.”

Fargo didn’t linger. One Feather and some of the others were too outright eager to kill him. They were under no obligation to do as Four Horns wanted, and might change their minds at any moment. “Pila mita.”

“Go,” Four Horns urged. Fargo touched his hat brim and got the hell out of there. But he had gone only a short way when a war whoop warned him he was far from safe.

One Feather and two other young warriors were after him.

Once again Fargo resorted to his spurs. He deliberately rode to the southwest; the camp was to the southeast.

One Feather was yipping up a storm.

Fargo had met young warriors like him before. Eager to prove themselves, they counted coup every chance they got. He could hardly blame them, since counting coup was considered not only a test of a warrior’s courage but a mark of leadership.

The three Sioux came on fast but the Ovaro was faster. Bit by bit the stallion pulled ahead until it was apparent to the three that they stood no chance whatsoever of catching him. Howling their fury and exasperation, they drew rein.

Fargo looked back, smiled, and waved. “That should rub it in.”

One Feather howled and shook his fist.

Chuckling, Fargo kept on to the southwest. Half an hour later he brought the sweat-caked stallion to a stop. Taking off his hat, he wearily mopped his brow with his sleeve.

Fargo reckoned he could safely swing to the east toward camp, but stick figures on the horizon changed his mind. Four Horns hadn’t been kidding when he said there were Lakota everywhere.

Bending low, Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He figured it would take him two to three hours to get back. Longer, if he ran into a lot of Sioux.

Fate was in a fickle mood. Again and again he spotted riders in the distance and had to seek cover or veer in a direction he didn’t want to go to avoid being spotted.

It began to look as if it would be sunset before Fargo rejoined Keever’s party.

He grew weary of the cat and mouse. His nerves were stretched to where a light patter brought him around with his Colt out and level, but it was only a coyote he had spooked, now slinking off.

By mere chance Fargo came on a spring. Nestled in the lee of a thickly wooded hill, it was an ideal spot to rest.

Fargo dismounted and let the Ovaro drink. Dropping onto his belly, he took off his hat and dipped his face in the wonderfully cool water. He had been sweltering, but in no time he was cool and refreshed and content.

Rolling onto his back, Fargo closed his eyes. A nap would do him good but he needed to warn the senator. He would lie there a few minutes and be on his way.

The Ovaro stamped a hoof.

With a start, Fargo sat up. He had dozed off. A glance at the sun assured him it had only been for a few minutes. Nevertheless, it was the sort of blunder a greenhorn made.

“Damn me for a yack,” Fargo said out loud, and jammed his hat back on. He sighed and went to stand. Only then did he notice that the Ovaro was looking at something behind him.

It occurred to Fargo that he had made two blunders, not one. He started to turn but froze when the sharp tip of a knife jabbed him between the shoulder blades.

“Move and I kill you.”

8

Fargo moved anyway; he turned his head in surprise. First, that someone had snuck up on him without him hearing. Second, that the “someone” holding a knife to his back was female.

She had raven hair and ink for eyes, fine full lips, and a bosom that strained against a doeskin dress. Her hourglass figure would be the envy of any woman, white or red. She was as gorgeous a female as Fargo ever set eyes on, and that was saying a lot. She was also Sioux.

There was nothing gorgeous about the steel blade she had gouged against Fargo’s back. Just as there was nothing friendly about the hard glint in her dark eyes.

“Your name must be Sweet Flower.”

The woman jerked back as if he had slapped her. She saw his smile and those full lips started to curl but she caught herself and jabbed him with the knife, harder than before.

“You speak the Lakota tongue.”

“I am a friend to your people. My heart is one with Four Horns. He sits high in the councils of the Miniconjou.”

“I am an Oglala,” the young woman said, and frowned. “I do not want you to talk. I must decide what to do with you.”

Fargo kept on smiling. “I know what I would like to do.” To make sure she got the point, he roved his gaze from the crown of her lustrous hair to the tips of her moccasin-clad feet, with pauses where needed.

“You are too bold.”

“How should I call you?” Fargo asked.

“Sweet Flower will do.”

Fargo chuckled and started to turn but the knife convinced him not to. “You can take that away. I would never hurt anyone so lovely.”

“You are much too bold. I should call for help. Warriors would come and then we would see how bold you are.”

Fargo noticed that she didn’t holler. “Your village is near?”

“Yes.”

Something told Fargo she was lying. “I will let you go back, pretty Sweet Flower, and I will be on my way.”

“You will let me?” she said, and raised the knife a few inches. “You are my captive. I am not yours.”

“You are a beautiful dove and a dove should never be in a cage.” Fargo winked, and moved. A twist of his body, a flick of his hand, and the deed was done; he held the knife and her hand was empty.

Sweet Flower gasped and poised for flight.

“Here.” Fargo reversed his grip and placed the hilt in her palm. “I told you I would never harm you.”

Her confusion was obvious. She looked at the knife and she looked at him and then she moved a few yards away and squatted. “I do not know what to think about you.”

“I am your friend if you want me to be.” Fargo knelt, cupped water, and sipped. He deliberately ignored her. When he was done drinking he took off his hat and splashed water on his neck and face.

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