delight and raised the knife.
Fargo braced for another cut but all his tormentor did was prick his arm, and chortle.
“I leave you now. My friends will watch over you. I have told them that if you try to slip free they are to cut out one of your eyes.” Little Face pricked him again. “If you yell they are to sew your mouth shut.” He smacked Fargo on the jaw, wheeled, and hiked off.
Fargo sagged. It would be easy to give in to despair. But it wasn’t his way. He had never given up his whole life and he would be damned if he would start now.
Long Forelock and Bear Loves were so engrossed in their gambling, they were paying him no mind.
Gritting his teeth, Fargo twisted his wrists. The pain was awful. But if he could get his wrists to bleed again, it would make the rope slick enough for him to work a hand loose. The threat of losing an eye was nothing compared to the threat of losing his life.
The shadows in the woods lengthened. The breeze picked up. Somewhere a robin was warbling.
Fargo kept on twisting. He didn’t want to die like this. He’d always figured his end would be quick, a bullet to the brain or an arrow to the heart. Or better yet, to die in bed with a woman, to keel over while making love. Rough for the woman, but the man would go out with a smile on his face. The thought made him chuckle.
Long Forelock glanced at him and said something to Bear Loves, who got up and came over.
Fargo stood perfectly still.
Bear Loves was suspicious. He looked at the ropes and then looked Fargo up and down. “Why did you laugh?”
“I am happy.”
“Your head must be in a whirl. You have nothing to be happy about, stupid one. By the rising of the sun tomorrow you will be dead.”
Fargo grasped at another straw. “Has Little Face told you about the white man called Keever? About what he plans to do?”
Bear Loves grunted.
“You do not care that it will cause war to break out? Not war as you are used to it. Not war where you raid an enemy’s village and the enemy raids yours. In this war, the blue coats will come again and again. They will kill and kill until the Lakotas are no more.”
“You try to make me fear for my people so I will free you. But Little Face warned us you would try that.” Bear Loves poked Fargo in the chest. “Do not make noise and do not bother us. The next time, I will cut off one of your fingers or maybe a toe.”
As soon as the pair resumed their dice game, Fargo set to work on his wrists. Trickles of blood held promise.
Time crawled, dragged by anchors of worry. Fargo stopped twisting whenever one of the warriors looked in his direction, which wasn’t often. Like many Indians—and whites—the Sioux were inveterate gamblers. They would bet on anything—dice, horse races, contests of skill, you name it.
The sun sank. Fargo figured the pair would light a fire but they went on rolling by the light of the moon, bending close over the dice after each toss. He wondered why, and then it hit him. They didn’t want a fire for the same reason Little Face hadn’t taken him back to the village. A fire might bring other warriors to investigate, and some might be friends of his.
Fargo rested. The way things were going, he’d rub clear down to the bone before he got loose. The pain was awful. Despair nipped at him but he fought it off.
Then a hand touched his shoulder from behind.
Fargo nearly gave a start. He felt fingers slide down his back, and a warm body pressed against his. Breath fanned his ear and a familiar voice whispered, “I will cut the ropes. Do not let on.”
It was the last person Fargo expected. He held his arms still in case the warriors glanced his way. In moments it was done, and lips brushed his other ear.
“We will sneak away. I will go first and you follow.”
“No,” Fargo whispered. He wasn’t leaving without his clothes and his weapons.
“They will kill you.”
“They will try.” Fargo glanced over his shoulder. “Give me your knife.”
Sweet Flower took a step back. “I cannot,” she whispered. “They are my people.” And with that, she turned and melted into the undergrowth.
Fargo supposed he couldn’t blame her. She had gone against her own father in freeing him. Little Face would be furious if he found out, and punish her severely.
Fargo turned toward Long Forelock and Bear Loves. They were rolling dice for the Henry. Both were tense with eagerness. Few Lakotas owned Henrys. It was a trophy any of them would give anything to possess. They were so intent on the dice that neither noticed when Fargo edged toward them. His gun belt lay to one side, where Long Forelock had placed it after winning it.
Bear Loves was about to roll. He stared at the Henry as if by doing so he could will the rifle into his possession. Then his hand flicked and the dice tumbled onto the ground.
Both warriors bent lower then ever, nearly bumping heads.
Fargo sprang. His bare feet made little sound, and he had the gun belt in his left hand and was drawing the Colt with his right before either of them realized he was free. They whirled, Bear Loves grabbing the toothpick and Long Forelock swooping a hand to a knife at his hip.
“I will kill you if you try,” Fargo warned. He had no hankering to put windows in their skulls. They hadn’t harmed him. The only thing they had done was bind him.
The pair froze, but only for a few seconds. Then Long Forelock glanced at Bear Loves, and nodded, and simultaneously, Long Forelock’s other hand swept up off the ground holding a handful of dirt.
Fargo ducked but some of the dirt got into his eyes. He backpedaled and blinked to clear them, and as he did iron fingers clamped onto his wrist and a foot hooked behind his ankle and tripped him.
Long Forelock raised his knife high to stab.
Flat on his back, Fargo pointed the Colt at the warrior’s chest, and fired. The blast would carry for a mile. With it came a flash and the smell of the powder.
Long Forelock staggered. He looked down at himself in disbelief and tried to say something but all that came out was blood. Half turning, he reached out for Bear Loves, who was rigid with shock. His fingers clawed in appeal, he mewed like a kitten, and died.
If Fargo had thought to spare Bear Loves, he had another think coming. The death of his friend filled the other warrior with blind rage. Uttering a sharp cry, he threw himself forward.
The toothpick against the Colt was no contest. Fargo rolled, heaved onto a knee, and thumbed back the hammer. But as he went to squeeze the trigger, Bear Loves lashed out with a foot. It caught Fargo on his wrist. Sheer agony shot up his arm, and the Colt fell from fingers gone briefly numb.
Fargo lunged to snatch it up but Bear Loves was quicker. The toothpick arced at his neck. He barely got a hand up in time to grab Bear Loves’ wrist; the tip of the blade came within an inch of his jugular.
Bear Loves drove a knee at Fargo’s face but Fargo avoided it and drove his fist into the warrior’s gut, doubling him over. It put Bear Loves’ chin within easy reach of an uppercut that lifted him onto his toes.
Bear Loves tottered. His ankle caught on Fargo’s saddlebags. He tried to right himself, and in flailing his arms, partly turned. He crashed down on his side and didn’t move.
Fargo quickly reclaimed the Colt. He nudged Bear Loves with his toe but the warrior just lay there. Since Fargo hadn’t hit him hard enough to knock him out, he suspected the Lakota was playing possum. “Sit up. I will not shoot you unless you force me.”
Bear Loves was as still as a log.
Warily, Fargo rolled him over. The warrior’s eyes were open, and empty of life. The hilt of the toothpick, jutting between Bear Loves’ ribs, explained why; he had fallen on the blade.
“I’ll be damned.” Fargo yanked it out and wiped it clean on Bear Loves’ leggings.
The crunch of a twig brought him around in a blur. But he didn’t shoot. “You came back?”
“I never left.” Sweet Flower sadly regarded the fallen warriors. “They were friends of mine.”
“I did not want to kill them.”
“I know. I saw.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I wish there had been another way.”
