“He is the reason I was taken. He likes to gamble. About a moon ago he went to the Whiskey Mill and lost all he had. Durn extended credit to him, and he lost that, too. Since he could not repay the money, Durn took me.”
“Durn can’t make you work for him against your will.”
“My father gave his consent. He was so drunk he could not sit straight, but he marked an X on the paper.”
“Durn made him sign a contract?” Fargo had to admire Big Mike’s thoroughness. A contract would make it legal, should anyone object. “Have you read the thing?”
“No. It was enough for me to know that I must work for Durn for two years, doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants.”
“I am surprised the Salish lets him get away with it.”
“My people are trying to avoid trouble with the whites. We have been promised our own reservation, and an Indian agent to help us. If we fight Durn, if we go on the warpath, we stand to lose all we have gained.”
Fargo had heard about the reservation. Six years ago or so, a treaty was signed. The government pledged to build a hospital and schools, and to give the Flatheads and two others tribes enough land to live on and all the aid they needed. As was often the case, most of the pledges had not been kept. It did not help matters that some whites resented giving land to the Indians; they would rather drive the Indians off or exterminate them. “Your people are damned if they do and damned if they don’t.”
“Sorry?”
“They stand to lose no matter what they do,” Fargo clarified.
“That is it, exactly.”
They rode in silence until Birds Landing cleared her throat. “I told my father I would not work for Durn. That I would not let them take me. So he had them come in the middle of the night when I was asleep. He let them sneak in our lodge and gag and tie me!”
Fargo felt her tremble. “Your own father?”
“It is the whiskey. He is no longer himself. The white man’s drink has turned him into someone else.”
“The Crows have a saying,” Fargo mentioned, “that a Crow who drinks is no longer a Crow.”
“Then we are not the only tribe to suffer.”
“Far from it,” Fargo said.
Her hand rose to his shoulder. “This is far enough. You can stop.”
Fargo kept riding. Polson was barely a quarter-mile behind them. “It is not safe yet. Besides, where would you go?”
“I have friends,” Birds Landing said. “Perhaps one of them will hide me until Durn stops searching.”
“And if he should get his hands on you again?”
“He will have me beaten and withhold food and water until he breaks my spirit. Or, if I still refuse, he will have me thrown into a pit. I have not seen it but I have heard about it, and his beast.”
“His what?”
“A creature he keeps hidden. He feeds it the bodies of those who—” Birds Landing stopped. “Did you hear something?”
Hooves drummed in the darkness behind them. A lot of hooves.
“Damn,” Fargo said, and shifted in the saddle just as riders appeared, coming on rapidly.
“They are after us!” Birds Landing exclaimed. “What do we do?”
“Ride like hell,” Skye Fargo said.
5
Fargo raced to the west at a gallop. He had complete confidence in the Ovaro’s ability to hold its own against any horse, but they had spent most of the day on the trail, and now the stallion was bearing double. Unless he did something, and did it soon, the Ovaro would tire, with dire consequences.
An explosion of shouts warned him their pursuers were flying in heated pursuit.
Birds Landing said urgently in his ear, “Let me off and you will be able to get away.”
“No.”
“They will catch us if you do not.”
“We stick together.” Fargo needed to ask her more about Durn and the situation in Mission Valley when he got the chance. “Please stay on,” he added to be polite.
“Very well.” Birds Landing’s mouth brushed his earlobe. “For now I will do as you want.”
Then there was no time for small talk. Fargo had to call on all the skill he possessed. They were riding pell- mell at night, across rugged, broken country. At any moment the Ovaro might step into a hole or a rut and go down. Or they might come on a boulder or a log and be unable to avoid it. He must stay alert and focus on riding and only on riding.
His every nerve tingled. Suddenly a dark phalanx appeared ahead: forest. It could be their salvation if they could reach it.
Some of their pursuers were narrowing the gap, and yelling back and forth.
A glance showed Fargo that three riders were rapidly gaining and spreading out as they came so he could not flank them.
Birds Landing’s grip tightened. Fargo knew she was afraid they would be caught, afraid of what Durn would do to her. That business about a pit, and a wild beast Durn threw his enemies to—could it be true?
Something swished over their heads and brushed Fargo’s shoulder. Another glance showed that one of the riders had closed to within fifteen feet and had thrown a rope, but missed. The man would try again as soon as he had the rope back in his hand.
Suddenly they were in among pines and spruce. Fargo had to slow, but so would they. He had ridden in timber at night before, countless times, and he and the Ovaro moved as one, the stallion responding superbly to the slightest pressure of rein or leg.
A revolver blasted and lead smacked a bole to their right.
“No shooting!” bellowed the deep voice of Big Mike Durn. “I want them alive, damn you!”
Small consolation, Fargo reflected, since he doubted Durn would keep them alive for long. Him, at any rate. The girl was valuable. She had a debt to repay.
A low branch slashed at them out of the ink.
“Duck!” Fargo cried, and did so, feeling Birds Landing shift and press low against his side. They flew under the limb with barely an inch to spare.
Fargo wished the moon was out. Starlight was not enough. They might as well be at the bottom of a well. The thought spawned an idea, and he smiled. It just might work. He urged the Ovaro to go faster, increasing their lead a few yards. The roper had fallen behind; now he and his friends were twenty to thirty feet back.
Could Fargo find what he needed? A thicket would do but they had not come on one yet. Some of the trees had branches low to the ground, but not low enough. Then a small spruce hove out of the night. Only fifteen feet high, it was as broad as it was tall. Fargo swept around it, hauling on the reins as he did, and brought the Ovaro to a standstill so close to the tree, branches were scraping its side.
Heartbeats elapsed, and their three swiftest pursuers flew by on either side. Soon the rest thundered past.
Fargo counted nine, possibly ten. He braced for an outcry but his ruse worked. No one saw them.
One of the last riders was twice the size of the rest. Big Mike Durn chose that moment to shout, “Where did they get to? Don’t lose them or there will be hell to pay!”
Gradually, the drum of hooves and the crackle of undergrowth faded.
Fargo didn’t linger. Bringing the Ovaro out from behind the spruce, he reined to the northwest. A throaty chuckle reminded him he was not alone.
