“This is on your father’s shoulders, not mine or yours,” Fargo assured her. He began gathering up his clothes. “What is your real name?”
“Sorry?” she asked absently, still gazing at the dead men.
“Sweet Flower is the name I gave you. What is your real name. You never told me.”
“I am called Lame Deer but I like Sweet Flower better.”
Fargo tugged into his pants. “Then that is what I will call you.” He scooped up his shirt. “Why did you cut me free?”
“It was a hard decision. I do not agree with what my father wants to do. I think that killing the white chief is bad medicine, and many of my people may die.”
“They will,” Fargo confirmed.
“Your chief, this Kee-ver, came to our lodge as the sun was setting. My father sent me away so I came to get you. You must save this Kee-ver. Tell him of my father’s trick, and see that he leaves our land.”
“Keever is still alive?” Fargo thought Little Face would have killed him by now.
“I do not know when Father plans to do it. I heard him invite Kee-ver to a feast tomorrow night in his honor, so maybe that is when.”
“But it could still be tonight,” Fargo mused out loud.
“Yes.”
Fargo began strapping on his gun belt. He winced each time he turned a wrist. “Thank you for helping me. It took great courage.”
“I am not my father. I do not hate whites because they are different. I do not think all whites are bad. You are white, and you are a good man.”
Fargo could think of a parson or three who would disagree. His fondness for women, booze, and cards qualified him as a sinner of the highest order, as a man of the cloth once told him. Not that he had any intention of changing his ways. He might be able to give up whiskey and poker, but women? He wasn’t born in a monastery.
“What will you do now?” Sweet Flower asked.
“Go to your village and get Senator Keever out.” Fargo couldn’t take the chance that Little Face would wait.
“Try that, and you will surely die.”
16
Fargo sat so he could pull his boots on.
“Did you hear me? You will never get near my father’s lodge. Not with all the people.”
Fargo had lived in a Sioux village. Except when special ceremonies were held, after dark it was usually quiet. Families ate, friends visited the lodges of friends, lovers went for walks under a blanket. It should be simple for him to slip in, and he said so.
“You forget. The bands have gathered to see the white buffalo. In our village are Miniconjou, Oglalas, Brules, Hunk-papas, Sans Arcs. There is much moving about and talking and singing.”
“I have to try.” Fargo had a thought. “How many know of your father’s plan to kill the senator?”
“They did,” Sweet Flower said with a nod at the bodies. “Perhaps two or three others. Most believe he is meeting with the white chief to make peace with the whites. A lot do not like it but they trust my father to do what is right.”
Fargo finished putting himself together. He adjusted his gun belt and then his bandanna, and pulled his hat brim low. “How close can we get on horseback?”
“As far as an arrow can fly twice. But if you are caught—”
“I will say I am with the senator.” Fargo forked leather, gritting his teeth against the pain. His wrists hurt like hell and his body was sore all over. He offered her his arm. “Swing up.”
Another moment, and they were under way, Sweet Flower with her arms around his waist.
“You do not listen very well. If you are killed, the one called Kee-ver dies, and there will be war with the whites.”
Fargo had to try. He picked his way through the forest with care, Sweet Flower pointing the way. They stopped whenever they heard sounds but twice it was only deer and once, at a distance, riders who faded into the night.
The village, as Fargo suspected, turned out to be the same village he saw before. He left the Ovaro in the trees and snaked to the top of the rise, Sweet Flower at his side.
Just as she had said, far more Lakotas than usual were moving about the circles. It was rare for all the bands to get together, and they were having a grand time.
“Which lodge belongs to your father?”
Sweet Flower pointed.
Fargo sighed. It figured. The lodge was clear across a circle. To reach it, he must get past dozens of Sioux.
“I warned you.”
“Stay here.” Fargo hurried to the Ovaro. Taking off his hat, he placed it on the saddle horn. Then he untied his bed-roll, draped a blanket over his head and shoulders, and jogged back to the rise.
Sweet Flower regarded him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “It will not fool them.”
“Why not?” Fargo wanted to know. It was common for warriors to go about with a blanket over them, and for young lovers to stand under blankets to have privacy.
“Your beard. They will take one look at you and know you are not Lakota.”
“Not if I keep my head down.”
“You are too tall. And you wear boots, not moccasins.”
“I will slouch, and I will go barefoot.” So saying, Fargo removed his spurs and his boots and laid them on the rise.
Sweet Flower had a litany of objections. “Your feet are too white, and you do not walk like an Indian. You walk with the swagger of a white man.”
“I can walk like a Lakota. As for my feet, no one will see I am barefoot if we stay in the dark shadows.”
“You do not smell like a Lakota. You smell white. If my people do not notice, the dogs will.”
“Let us find out.” Fargo took her arm and started down. He hunched at the waist enough to reduce his height by several inches, and held the blanket so it hung over his head and both sides of his face. “Walk close to me. Pretend we are lovers.”
“You are very brave. But you are not very smart.”
As they drew near the first circle, it dawned on Fargo that he had never seen the Sioux acting so out-and-out happy. He had witnessed victory celebrations and attended dances, but this was different. There was an air about them, as if they were caught up in great joy. The only thing he could compare it to was when whites attended a carnival and indulged in feasting and merrymaking.
As if she could read his thoughts, Sweet Flower said, “Look at my people. Their hearts are filled with gratitude for the great gift Wakan Tanka has given them. The white buffalo is a sign of the Great Spirit’s favor. We will be strong, and defeat our enemies.”
Fargo had never been a big believer in signs and wonders but he didn’t argue the point.
Sticking to the shadows, they came by a circuitous route to the circle that included Little Face’s lodge.
Hugging the deeper dark between tepees, Fargo averted his face whenever a Lakota came near them. For her part, Sweet Flower strode along calm and casual. No one would suspect she was sneaking a white man into their village.
“What will you do when we get there?”
Fargo hadn’t thought that far ahead. He spied three horses with saddles outside the lodge. One belonged to Owen, the second was the sorrel Lichen rode, the third mount must be the senator’s. At least Keever hadn’t brought Rebecca and Gerty along.
“Be careful,” Sweet Flower suddenly whispered.
