ribs protested and his head began to throb so he eased back down. He summed up the state of affairs with a heartfelt, “Damn.”
Not five seconds later the bedroom door opened and in swept a lovely blond vision with emerald green eyes and full strawberry lips, wearing a light green dress that swished with each stride of her long legs. “I thought I heard you say something. Good morning.”
“I was out all night?”
“You have been unconscious for three days, Mr. Fargo. For a while it was nip and tuck, and I feared I would lose you.” The blond vision had a radiant smile. “I am Sally Brook, by the way.”
“I know,” Fargo said. “Thaddeus Thompson told me about you.”
“Ah,” Sally said. “And Mike Durn told me a lot about you, but not why he had you beaten and thrown into the street.”
“The street?” Fargo repeated.
Sally nodded. “That is where I found you. No one else would go near you, so great is their fear of Durn. I took it on myself to bring you home and nurse you back to health.”
“I am obliged,” Fargo said. Not many people would put themselves out for a stranger as she had done.
“My motive is not entirely charitable,” Sally Brook said. “From what I gather, you are Mike Durn’s enemy.”
“After what he has done, it will be him or me,” Fargo said.
“I am his enemy, too,” Sally said, “in that I have been trying my utmost to stop his trafficking in Indian girls. They are brought to his place against their will and degraded in ways I can only describe as despicable.” She caught herself. “What am I thinking? Enough about my crusade. You must be famished. I was only able to get a little food and water into you while you were out.”
The mention caused Fargo’s stomach to rumble. “I reckon I am starved,” he admitted. “But there are things I need to know first.”
“Such as?”
“For starters, my horse,” Fargo said. “Did you see an Ovaro out front of the saloon?”
“I am afraid I do not know a lot about horses,” Sally said. “But if by Ovaro you mean a black and white stallion, it was nuzzling you when I first saw you. I assumed it must be yours, and sure enough, Kutler came out of the Whiskey Mill and confirmed it.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Only that you were a fool to buck Mike Durn, and that I was a fool not to accept Durn’s long-standing invitation to supper. All that while he helped me drape you over your saddle.” Sally indicated a window to his left. “Your horse is out back. Don’t worry. My yard is fenced so he can’t wander off.”
“More to be obliged for,” Fargo said.
“Save your thanks. When you hear what I have in mind, you might not be so grateful.”
“Care to give me a clue?”
“Let’s just say that since we share a common enemy, we should work together for the common good.” Sally Brook put a hand to his forehead. “Your fever is down. I will bring you hot soup directly.”
“How about some coffee? Or better yet, a glass of whiskey.”
“I run a millinery, not a saloon,” Sally said, not unkindly. “But I might have an old bottle in one of the kitchen cabinets.” She patted his shoulder and whisked on out.
Fargo settled back. He must have been born under a lucky star. If she had not come along when she did, he might still be lying out in the street, only he wouldn’t be breathing.
Rage bubbled in him like lava in a volcano. Mike Durn had made a mistake in not finishing him off. Because now it was personal. No one did to him what Durn had done.
Fargo had never been one to forgive and forget. When someone hurt him, he hurt back. When someone tried to kill him, he killed them. It went against his grain to be stomped into the floor and then go on with his life as if nothing had happened. Mike Durn had a reckoning coming. Kutler, Tork, Grunge—especially Grunge—must answer for carrying out Durn’s wishes.
Fargo made a silent vow. He was going to tear Durn’s little empire out from under him.
Drowsiness put an end to his musing. He dozed off, only to be immediately awakened by the bedroom door opening.
“Here you are,” Sally said sweetly. She bore a wooden tray with a large china bowl filled to the brim. Several slices of buttered bread were neatly stacked next to the bowl. “I trust chicken soup will do?”
“Will it ever,” Fargo said hungrily. Placing his hands flat on the bed, he pushed himself up and braced his back against the headboard.
Sally carefully settled the tray in his lap and handed him a spoon. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“My rifle. It should be in my saddle scabbard.” Fargo wanted it by his side, just in case.
“I’m sorry. When I stripped your horse, the scabbard was empty. Someone must have taken it.”
“I will add that to the list,” Fargo said.
“List?” Sally said.
Fargo avoided answering by spooning soup into his mouth. It was best she did not know. After all she had done for him, he did not want to upset her. But before he was done, Polson would run red with blood.
8
Fargo was up and around three days later but he was so sore and stiff that the best he could do was hobble about for short spells and then crawl back into bed to rest. He discovered that Sally lived in the back of a frame house. The front half she had converted into a millinery. She sold dresses and bonnets, along with things like hairbrushes and combs and hand mirrors, and even a selection of colored beads prized by Indian women. Her selection was modest compared to millineries in, say, Denver or St. Louis, but since she had the only lady’s store for a thousand miles around, she had a devoted if small number of clients. Her living quarters consisted of the bedroom, a kitchen, a parlor, and a sewing room.
Fargo also found out that she was spending her nights on a cot in the sewing room. He objected, and suggested they switch and she take her bed back.
Sally would not hear of it. “You are under my care, and my guest, and I would be a poor nurse and a worse host if I put you in my sewing room. You will recover more quickly with a nice, comfortable bed to sleep in.”
When Fargo still insisted it did not feel right, she put her hands on her shapely hips and her emerald eyes blazed.
“I will not hear of it and that is final. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. You are one of the few allies I have in my fight to stop Big Mike Durn from ruining the lives of more maidens.”
“What about the rest of the tribe?” Fargo asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is not just the women. Durn is luring a lot of Indian men into his saloon, plying them with liquor, and putting them in debt to him.” Fargo paused. “Then there is his loco notion of one day running the whole territory.”
“He has made no secret of his ambition,” Sally said. “It explains why he is always stirring everyone up against the idea of a reservation, and why he is doing all he can to cause trouble between the whites and the Flatheads and other tribes.”
Insight hit Fargo with the force of a physical blow. “Durn wants an all-out war.”
“That would be my guess, yes. If he can incite the Indians into going on the warpath, the government might decide a reservation is a bad idea.”
“Then Durn can take all the Indian land for his own.” Fargo marveled that he had not seen it sooner.
