“It is not over yet,” Fargo whispered in her ear. He parted her legs wide, knelt between them, and aligned his throbbing sword with her moist sheath. Her eyes met his, and he rammed into her.
Once again Fargo lost all sense of time. He was aware of his body, of pulsing with pleasure, of Birds Landing squirming and grinding and lavishing wet kisses on every square inch of him her mouth could reach. She reached the pinnacle yet again, her inner walls contracting.
Fargo could no longer hold back. He impaled her, over and over. Her coos and cries became louder, but not so loud that they could be heard far off.
Afterward, Fargo lay on his back, spent but content, and listened for sign of their enemies. All appeared to be tranquil. He started to drift when the crunch of a twig snapped him awake.
Fargo groped for his Colt. Something was out there, and it was stalking them.
6
As quietly as he could, Fargo put himself together. No sounds came out of the encircling cottonwoods but he could not shake the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them. Fully dressed and lying on his side, he bent toward Birds Landing to warn her.
Suddenly a figure in buckskins glided into view, cat-footing stealthily toward them.
Fargo froze, hoping the man would think he was asleep. Then he saw that the stalker had a bow, and spied what could be the top of a quiver poking above the man’s right shoulder.
It was an Indian, not a white man.
Since they were in Flathead country, odds were the warrior was a Flathead, or Salish, a member of Birds Landing’s tribe. They were on friendly terms with whites but Fargo never took anything for granted. He had his thumb on the Colt’s hammer, ready to snap off a shot the moment the warrior raised the bow to unleash a shaft.
That was when Birds Landing stirred and muttered in her sleep in the Salish language.
The warrior stopped. He appeared to be staring intently at Birds Landing. When she did not stir or sit up, he edged forward.
Waiting until the warrior was almost to his saddle, Fargo sprang. The warrior’s hand flew to the haft of a tomahawk at his waist but before he could wield it, Fargo was on him. Fargo gave him a hard shove while cocking the Colt and declaring, “Don’t move or I will shoot!”
Fargo had no idea if the warrior spoke English. He did not want to kill him, if he could help it. It was bound to stir up trouble, which was the last thing the Flatheads needed, what with the promise of a reservation in the offing.
The warrior fell onto his back and stayed there. He made no attempt to draw the tomahawk or resort to his bow.
Birds Landing sat up with a start. “What is it? What is going on?” Her eyes fastened on the warrior and she exclaimed something in her own language.
The warrior calmly answered.
Rising, Birds Landing said to Fargo, “Do not shoot! He will not harm us.”
“How can you be so sure?” Fargo demanded.
“He is my brother.”
Fargo slowly holstered the Colt but kept his hand on it as the two Salish warmly embraced and addressed one another in their own language. He waited for Birds Landing to explain what her brother was doing there, and when it became apparent she had forgotten about him, he coughed and said, “Remember me? I want to know what your brother is doing here. How did he find us?”
Birds Landing tore herself from her sibling. “Forgive me. His name is Thunder Cloud. He was off hunting when Kutler and Tork came to our village, and when he learned what they had done, he came to Polson to find me. Since he dared not let himself be seen, he watched from a gully.” Birds Landing spoke to Thunder Cloud and he replied. “He says that he saw Indian women going in and out of the Whiskey Mill, and guessed that is where I must be. He was nearby when you rescued me.” She squeezed her brother’s hand. “He followed, and only now caught up.”
Fargo noticed how young Thunder Cloud was, and the look of dislike the warrior gave him. “Have you told him you and I are friends?”
Birds Landing hesitated. “He knows what we did and he does not approve. But he never likes it when I am with a man, whether the man is white or red.”
Just what Fargo needed. “What is he liable to do about it?” He was not fond of the idea of taking an arrow in the back.
After a brief, sharp exchange, Birds Landing said, “He will not do anything. He understands it is between you and me.”
The way the warrior was looking at him, Fargo was not entirely convinced. “Has he seen any sign of Durn and his men?”
Another flurry resulted in: “He says we have lost them. That they gave up and turned back toward Polson.”
That was good news in two respects. “Then we are safe,” Fargo said in relief, “and I can leave you here with your brother and get on with what I came here to do.”
“Leave me? So soon after—” Birds Landing caught herself. “Must you?” she asked simply.
“Yes.” Fargo had learned a lot so far, about how Durn was taking over Polson. But one thing he had not learned, and which the army would want to know, was how Big Mike Durn intended to take over the entire territory.
“If you go back, Durn will have you killed.”
“He is welcome to try,” Fargo said, and began gathering up his saddle blanket and saddle.
“I am worried for you,” Birds Landing said. “You are one and they are many.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Fargo walked to the Ovaro. Were it not for the brother’s glares, he might be inclined to stay the night. He threw on his saddle blanket and smoothed it out, then saddled up. Tying his bedroll and saddlebags on took no time at all. As he stepped into the stirrups, Birds Landing came over and held out her hand to shake, white fashion.
“I better not kiss you. Thunder Cloud would not like it.”
“He sure doesn’t like me much,” Fargo remarked.
“Do not take it personal,” Birds Landing said. “If we had not made love, he would like you fine.”
Fargo doubted it.
As if she had read his thoughts, Birds Landing said, “Then again, he is not all that fond of whites. He resents being forced to live on a reservation.”
A lot of Indians resented it, with good cause, Fargo reflected. In too many instances, a tribe was marched hundreds of miles to their new home, which often was in a region with too little game and not enough water, areas the whites did not want for themselves. The Flatheads were lucky in that respect; the government was permitting them to stay on their own land.
“Make yourself scarce until Durn has been dealt with,” Fargo advised. “He will not be riding roughshod over people much longer.” Fargo touched her cheek, then gigged the Ovaro. He swore he could feel the brother’s eyes bore into his back as the night engulfed him.
Fargo held the Ovaro to a walk. Once he was down out of the hills, he swung toward a trail that would take him into Polson from the south. All things considered, it seemed wise to ride in from a different direction.
The wilderness was alive with the cries of animals, predators and prey alike. None of the meat-eaters came anywhere near him, though, and he reached the trail without mishap.
Fargo was bone tired. He had been on the go all day without much rest. He intended to treat himself to a cozy bed and to treat the Ovaro to a stall in the stable. The prospect set him to grinning but his grin faded when a loud caterwauling fell on his ears. “It can’t be,” he said.
