“Does your hair itch?”
Fargo reached up and scratched his head. “No. Does yours?”
Lilting laughter rippled from her silken throat. “Not there,” Sweet Flower said, and rubbed her chin. “The hair on your face. My people do not have hair there. Our warriors are not as hairy as you whites.”
“Not all white men have a lot of hair,” Fargo enlightened her.
“Do white women like those who do? I do not know if I would like it.”
“For some white women, hair is all they think about,” Fargo said with a straight face. “Others like their men as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
Sweet Flower laughed again. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“What? Growing hair?”
“You should be a Heyoka. You are funny.”
Fargo was familiar with the contraries, who did everything backward. To whites it seemed silly if not downright stupid. But to the Lakotas, the Heyokas were their clowns, men and women who brought laughter and delight into their lives. “I thank you for the compliment.”
“Tell me about yourself.” Fargo kept it short. His Indian name, some of the places he had been, some of the tribes he had lived with or fought against.
“You have been to the land of the Comanches? I have heard of them from my grandfather. He says that when they ride a horse, the horse and the Comanche are one.”
“He speaks with a straight tongue.”
“Tell me. Of all the tribes you have known, who are the best fighters?”
Fargo didn’t hesitate. Nearly every tribe took pride in the fighting prowess of its warriors. But there was one that, in his estimation, was head and shoulders above the rest when it came to killing their enemies. “The Apaches.”
“I have heard of them too. The People of the Woods, they call themselves. Are they truly so fierce?”
“To kill without being killed is the law they live by. Were there ten thousand of them, they would have all the land from the Muddy River to the western sea.”
“Are they handsome?”
“They are short and heavy and as hairy as bears,” Fargo exaggerated. “They itch a lot and are always scratching.” He was rewarded with more merriment.
“You talk with two tongues now. I have been told Apache men are handsome. Not as handsome as Lakota men. But a woman would not complain if she were taken by them.”
“Only a female would say a thing like that.” Fargo leaned back. He should be on his way to warn the senator. But it would help to know exactly how near her people were.
“You are fond of women. I can tell. I see the hunger in your eyes when you look at me.”
“Any man would look at you with hunger,” Fargo piled on the praise. “You must have a husband. Lakota men would not let such beauty be wasted.”
“I lived in the lodge of Left Handed Buffalo for a winter but he was not nice to me. He tried to give me away but I went back to live with my mother and father.” Sweet Flower paused. “Do you have a woman?”
“Not in the past, not now, not ever,” Fargo declared. He caught movement off in the trees and stiffened but it was only her pony, tied to a tree and grazing. “What if your people come along? Will you get in trouble talking to me?”
She answered without thinking. “They do not know where I am. I wanted to go for a ride and my horse brought me here. She must have smelled the water.”
“So it is just the two of us.” Fargo pushed his hat back, and grinned.
“Much, much too bold.” Sweet Flower stood. “I must go. But if you were to be here tomorrow I would come and talk to you again.”
“I will try.” Fargo was half serious. He would very much like the pleasure of her company, but not just to talk. He watched her sway off and reflected that when it came to jiggling deliciously, women everywhere were the same. With a sigh he climbed on the Ovaro.
About two hours of daylight were left. Fargo rode hard but warily. He saw no Sioux, and it was with relief that he came within sight of camp, and a crackling fire.
“Where have you been?” Senator Keever demanded the moment Fargo came to a stop. “Mr. Owen about had me convinced the savages had caught you and scalped you.”
“They almost did,” Fargo acknowledged. Wearily dismounting, he began to strip the Ovaro.
Most of the others gathered around.
“I’m glad you’re back safe,” Rebecca said.
Gerty scrunched up her face. “I’m not. I wanted the Indians to get you and scalp you so you can’t be mean to me anymore.”
“Gertrude! That’s no way to talk.”
“Oh, hush,” Keever snapped at his wife. “She’s only speaking her mind. He’s a grown man. He can take it.”
Owen nudged Lichen with an elbow and said in mock delight, “We sure are glad you made it. I’ve been a bundle of worry. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. It was plumb awful.”
Lichen cackled.
They didn’t know how close they came to being pistol-whipped. Instead, Fargo said loud enough for all to hear, “I want everyone to gather around in about ten minutes.” That would give him time to strip the Ovaro and wet his throat. “I have something important to say.”
“You’re leaving us?” Gerty teased.
“No. I sold you to the Sioux.”
“Father!” she squealed. “Did you hear him? Did you hear how mean he is to me?”
“Yes, daughter, I did. That was uncalled for, sir. You should set a better example.”
“She’s your brat, not mine. The only things she’d learn from me is how to play poker, drink red-eye, and make the acquaintance of saloon doves.”
“That will be quite enough of that kind of talk,” Senator Keever said indignantly. “Need I remind you in whose employ you are? I told you at the outset that you and the other men must watch your tongues around my daughter and my wife.”
Fargo noticed that he put his daughter first. Hunkering, he poured coffee into his battered tin cup, sat back, and let the hot liquid trickle down his dry throat. Senator Keever and Gerty went to their tent. The other men milled idly about, talking and joking.
“Mind if I join you?” Rebecca squatted across from him, her forearms across her knees. “I meant what I said. I really am glad you made it back safe.”
Fargo sipped more coffee. She had something on her mind, he could tell, and she would get to it in her own good time.
“You’re the only one I can talk to. If that sounds strange, it’s only because my so-called husband doesn’t care what I think or how I feel about things. As for Gerty—” Rebecca shrugged.
“She would make fine bear bait.”
Rebecca snorted, then covered her nose and mouth with her hand. “You can be awful at times.”
“Lady, you don’t know the half of it.”
“I wish I could be like you. I wish I had your courage. I’ve always been a mouse, myself. Too timid for my own good. I let myself be talked into things I shouldn’t.”
“Such as being here,” Fargo guessed.
“Such as being married.” Rebecca glanced at the tent and lowered her voice. “You see, our marriage isn’t quite what you think. Oh, I took the vows, and I go where he goes and do what he wants me to do. But only because he’s paying me.”
“I must have missed something.”
“You know that his first wife died in childbirth. He blames it on her consumption. She became so weak she didn’t want to live. But that’s only part of it. She wasn’t tired of living. She was tired of
“How do you know?”
