Black Hills Badman

“A vision is always true. You know that. You have lived with us.”

Yes, Fargo had, and yes, he knew how much stock they placed in their visions. The Lakotas would go off alone and do without food and water for days in the hope a vision would come to them. “What about after what you saw in your vision?”

Little Face appeared puzzled. “After?”

“Yes. After you kill Keever and take his woman. Have you thought that far ahead? Killing him will cause some whites fear but it will make many more mad. The Great White Father will be mad, and he will send his blue coats against the Lakotas in numbers as great as the blades of grass on the prairie.”

Little Face laughed.

“The whites will do to the Lakotas as they have done to many other tribes,” Fargo went on. “Their soldiers will build forts where they will be safe from your arrows and lances. When they come out, your people will kill some of them and they will kill some of you. But always when you kill them, more soldiers will come to take their place. Bit by bit they will whittle you down to where there will be so many of them and so few of you that there will come a day when they drive you from your land.” Fargo paused. His talking served a purpose. He was hoping to lull the other two into finally lowering their bows.

“I do not believe you.”

“Thousands of Lakotas will die and it will be your fault. Your hate will bring sadness to their hearts and an end to their ways.” Fargo could have yipped with glee when Long Forelock let his bow dip so that the arrow was pointing at the ground. Bear Loves, though, hadn’t lowered his.

“You try to put fear in my heart. Fear for my people. But I do this for them. To keep them safe, and our land safe.”

Fargo wondered. Little Face had always flattered himself that he was a man of great importance. “Is that all there is to it? Or is it so that you want to stand higher in their eyes?”

“I will enjoy killing you more than I have enjoyed killing any enemy ever,” Little Face declared.

“I am not an enemy of the Lakotas,” Fargo tried.

“You are my enemy. You are my enemy because you are white. You are my enemy because you stopped me from taking that white woman. And now you are my enemy because you have been with my daughter.” Little Face’s features hardened. “I will stake you out and skin you. I will chop off your fingers and toes. I will dig out your eyes. When I tire of your screams, I will cut out your tongue. It will bring me much happiness.”

Fargo almost gave a start. Bear Loves had started to lower his bow. Not much, only a few inches.

“The whites have a word for man like you,” Fargo said. “I think you know what it means.” He bent toward Little Face and smiled to add salt to the verbal wound. “That word is bastard.”

Little Face lost his temper. Snarling, he whipped a knife from under his buffalo robe, and lunged. In doing so, he threw himself between Fargo and Bear Loves, which was exactly what Fargo wanted. Grabbing Little Face’s wrists, Fargo heaved upward. He was buck naked but that hardly mattered when any moment he might be dead. He saw Bear Loves step to the right for a clear shot and he instantly stepped to the left, keeping Little Face between them.

“Subdue him!” Little Face yelled at the others.

Long Forelock flung down his bow, streaked out a knife, and started to come around him.

Fargo’s intent was to reach the Ovaro. The Henry was still in the saddle scabbard. Once he got his hands on it, they would answer for their arrogance. Or if need be, he could escape and come back later. He had spare buckskins in his saddlebags, an older set that needed mending, but they would do.

“Help me!” Little Face fumed.

Bear Loves was gliding to the left.

Fargo risked all on a desperate gamble. He swung Little Face at Bear Loves, and shoved. Little Face squawked and tripped and they both went down, tangled together. Long Forelock thrust with his knife but Fargo was ready. He side-stepped and landed a solid cross to the jaw that jolted Long Forelock back.

The way to the Ovaro was clear.

Fargo took a bound, only to have Bear Loves fling out a leg and hook his ankle. Fargo tried to stay on his feet but gravity took over and he landed hard on his hands and chest. He pushed up and was almost to his knees when the razor tip of a knife was jabbed against his neck.

“Are you ready to die?”

15

Through a haze of pain Skye Fargo heard a chuckle. He opened his eyes and glared at his tormentor. “You son of a bitch,” he rasped in English.

Little Face laughed. He wagged the knife he was holding, then jabbed Fargo hard in the side. Not deep, but it drew more blood. “I know those words. A blue coat I killed once used them many times while I was cutting on him.”

Switching to Lakota, Fargo said, “You have no honor.”

“You are my enemy. A warrior counts coup on his enemies. Whether the warrior does it slow or quickly is up to him. With you it will be slow.”

Fargo was suspended between two trees. Rope dug into each wrist. His skin was rubbed raw and dry blood caked his forearms. It felt like his whole body was a mass of bruises and welts. Little Face had beat on him with a tree limb for a good quarter of an hour. He was cut in a dozen places. But none of the blows or the cuts were intended to kill him.

“You will suffer greatly before I am done,” Little Face boasted. “You will weep and gnash your teeth and beg me to end your misery.”

“Don’t hold your breath, bastard.”

“Eh?” Little Face jabbed him again. “In the Lakota tongue, remember? Or should I cut yours out so you can not talk at all?”

“It will be hard to beg without my tongue.”

Little Face’s smile was vicious. “You can whimper.” He turned away.

Fargo fought down a wave of fury. It would be pointless to lose his temper. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless, completely at the mercy of a bitter enemy.

A rattle drew Fargo’s gaze to Long Forelock and Bear Loves. The pair had made a pile of his clothes and upended his saddlebags and were gambling for his effects with a pair of plum-stone dice. So far, Bear Loves had won the Arkansas toothpick and his shirt. Long Forelock had won the Colt and his pants. Neither had won the Henry yet.

Little Face wasn’t taking part; he was interested in only one thing.

Fargo tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Beads of sweat dribbled down his brow. One got into his eye and stung like hell.

Little Face conversed with the other two in low tones, then came back. “They have agreed to watch you while I am gone.”

“You are going somewhere?”

“Have you forgotten?” Little Face pointed to the west with his blood-tipped knife.

The sun was an hour from setting.

“I must prepare for the sen-a-tor.”

Fargo had almost forgotten. And there he hung, powerless to do anything. “It will be your fault when the soldiers come and wipe out your people.”

“The blue coats are no match for the Lakotas. Their horses are slow. They do not shoot straight. Many are boys. They huddle around their campfires at night, in fear we will take their hair.” Little Face sneered. “Them wipe us out?”

Fargo grasped at a straw. “Senator Keever wanted me at the meeting to translate for him.”

“The one called Owen knows enough of our tongue. If the sen-a-tor asks, I will tell him I have not seen you, and say how sad I am that you are not there since you and I are good friends.” Little Face sneered in sadistic