“I am not that gullible,” Sally Brook said.
Durn turned and pointed at several men, all Indians, who were playing poker or faro or roulette. “Look for yourself. I don’t force anyone to come here. I don’t force them to gamble. They do it of their own free will.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it if they lose all they have and can’t make good.”
“You set out honey to catch flies and then claim it is not your fault when they get stuck,” Sally said.
Durn looked about the room at all the players and drinkers. “Did you hear her, gentlemen? You are all a bunch of flies.”
Hoots of laughter filled the saloon. Sally Brook reddened, then wheeled and stalked out, pushing one of Durn’s men out of her way. Kutler started after her but Durn said, “Where do you think you are going? Leave her be. She is harmless.” He walked toward the back, his underlings at his heels.
Fargo did not waste a moment. The night air was bracing after the smoke of the saloon. He glanced up and down the street but did not see her. Then a shapely form in a dress passed a house with a lit window, her hair glowing golden. He hurried after her, his spurs jingling, and she heard him, and spun.
“That is far enough, whoever you are. Go back and tell your boss I will not be mistreated.”
“I don’t work for Mike Durn,” Fargo said.
“Then what do you want?”
“To talk to you. We have a common interest. Is there somewhere we can go to be alone?”
“What do you take me for? I don’t know you. I have never set eyes on you before. And you want to be alone with me?”
“I am not out to do you harm.”
“So you say. But a woman can’t be too trusting these days.” Sally shook her blond mane. “If you really need to talk, visit me tomorrow at my shop.”
Reluctantly, Fargo watched her walk off. He headed back to the saloon. Next to it was a general store, which was closed and dark, and as he was passing the gap between them, he heard the sounds of a scuffle and a woman’s voice, pleading, coming from the rear. Instantly, he darted into the gap and ran the length of the buildings.
The back door to the saloon was open. Bathed in the rectangle of light that spilled out were two husky men and a Flathead woman struggling to break free of their grasp. Her back was to Fargo, so all he could see was long black hair and her doeskin dress.
“—back inside and change clothes, squaw,” one of the men was saying. “You will do as you are told or we will take a switch to you.”
The woman struggled harder but they were too strong for her. They began to haul her toward the door and she dug in her heels.
“Damned wildcat,” the other man complained. “Quit it, or I will sock you on the jaw.”
“No bruises that anyone can see, remember?” the first man said.
In three bounds Fargo was behind them with the Colt out. He slammed it against the back of the head of the man on the right, shifted, and slammed it against the head of the man on the left. Both crumpled, but he hit them again to ensure they stayed out. Then he turned to the woman.
Only she wasn’t there.
She was bolting.
Fargo ran after her but it was soon apparent that barring a miracle, he could forget catching her. She was a two-legged deer, bounding smoothly and lithely, and god-awful fast. He poured on more speed yet gained only a little. “Wait!” he called, but not too loudly. “I only want to talk to you!”
She looked back, her face a blur, and momentarily slowed, breaking stride. In doing so, she tripped and nearly fell.
The mistake cost her.
Fargo launched himself through the air and tackled her about the shins. He tried not to hurt her by bringing her down on top of him. For that he nearly lost an eye when she raked at his face, her fingers hooked like claws. Jerking back, he grabbed her wrists.
“Stop it! I am not your enemy.”
Her long hair had fallen over her face and Fargo could not get a good look at her. He tried to grab her chin but she pushed his arm away and kicked and bucked to break free.
The only way to keep her still was to pin her. Suddenly rolling, Fargo covered her body with his and pressed her arms to the ground. She was breathing heavily, and he was aware her dress had hiked above her knees.
“Will you behave?” Fargo requested. He had grown warm all over, and felt a stirring, low down. “I only want to talk.”
“Get off me,” she said in perfect English.
“Not until you give me your word you will not run off.”
She puffed at her hair and some if it fell away, revealing a face as lovely as a sunrise.
“You!” Fargo blurted. It was the young Flathead who had been with Kutler and Tork.
“I remember you,” she said, studying him. “You are not one of Dead Heart’s men.”
“Who?”
“Dead Heart. It is what my people call Mike Durn. His heart is dead to everyone with red skin.”
Fargo glanced toward the saloon. The two men still lay where they had fallen but they might come around at any moment. “Do I have your promise you will hear me out?”
“You have it.”
Rising, Fargo helped her to stand. Together they hurried half a block to an alley.
“Wait here,” Fargo said. “I will be back in a minute with my horse.”
“Be quick,” she urged.
Fargo sprinted to the end of the alley and out into the street, nearly colliding with a townsman coming the other way. The man swore but did not stop. Slowing so he would not attract attention, Fargo reached the saloon. He untied the Ovaro, forked leather, and rode at a walk back up the street to the alley. When he was sure no one was watching, he reined into it.
His jaw muscles twitched when he did not find the woman where he had left her. “Where are you?” he called out.
“Here.” She materialized out of the shadows and held up an arm for him to grab.
Fargo swung her up behind him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mary Two Trees.”
“That is a white name.”
“It is the one I was given at the mission. My father is Charlie Two Trees. He stopped using his real name when he took up white ways and began drinking white liquor.”
“What do the Flatheads call you?”
“We call ourselves the Salish, not Flatheads. That is another white word. And my Salish name, in your tongue, would be Birds Landing.”
Fargo was going to tell her that he knew of many tribes who did not call themselves what the whites called them, but a shout interrupted them.
A portly man in an apron had discovered the unconscious forms behind the saloon. Fortunately, he was on one knee with his back to them.
A jab of his spurs, and Fargo was on his way out of Polson. Birds Landing pressed against him, holding tight. He could feel the swell of her breasts and the contours of her hips. He tried not to dwell on her body as he brought the Ovaro to a canter.
Fargo did not know where he was going. He had not thought that far ahead. “Where do you want me to take you?” he asked. “The mission?” It was a good thirty miles or more south of Polson.
“I live with my people now,” Birds Landing said.
“We will go to your village, then.”
“That is the first place Durn will have his men look. They would find me and drag me back.”
“Your people won’t help?”
“Some would, yes. But I do not want Durn mad at them. He hates us enough as it is.”
“What about your father?”
