by Sharpe, Jon
“Emmett Badger is still here then?” Bear River Tom said.
“He’s the official scout. Colonel Carlson swears by him.” The corporal paused. “I was talking about the others.”
“Others?” Fargo asked.
“Four, besides you two and Badger,” the corporal clarified. “What’s going on, anyhow? How come so many scouts are showing up at one time?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Bear River Tom said.
“Is one of the four California Jim?” Fargo wanted to learn.
“There’s a gent by that name, yes,” the corporal said. “Old cuss. He calls me a whippersnapper, and me pushing thirty.”
“That sounds like Jim.”
The corporal motioned. “Well, go on in, seeing as how you’re white and all.”
“We’re obliged, general,” Bear River Tom said.
“You’re not funny,” the corporal said.
“Depends on whose mirror you’re looking into,” Bear River Tom rejoined.
“Huh?” the man said.
New arrivals were a rarity. Fargo wasn’t surprised that nearly everyone gave them a close scrutiny. They rode to a hitch rail in front of the company headquarters, and dismounted.
Arching his back, Fargo stretched. He’d ridden for over a week to get there. It would be nice to rest up for a couple of days.
The lieutenant drilling the infantry was barking commands in sharp cadence. Farther out, the cavalry paced their horses in unison.
“Got to hand it to the boys in blue,” Bear River Tom said. “They sure work hard.”
A voice behind them said, “I’m happy to hear you think so highly of us.”
They turned.
A man with a colonel’s insignia had stepped from the headquarters. Ramrod-straight, his uniform spotless, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back as if he were at parade rest.
“You must be Carlson,” Bear River Tom said.
“Colonel Carlson,” the commanding officer corrected him.
“Must make you proud,” Bear River Tom said. “It’s not every day a man has a post named after him.”
“The army didn’t know what else to call it,” Colonel Carlson said. “And it won’t be here forever. As soon as the Bannocks are suppressed, the army will close it down and move us elsewhere.”
“Suppressed?” Bear River Tom said. “Is that a fancy word for on a reservation or killed off?”
“Whatever it takes,” Colonel Carlson said. “The red menace must be contained.”
Fargo bristled. He had a hunch the colonel was one of those who believed the only good Indian was a dead Indian. “The Indians were here before we were.”
Colonel Carlson regarded him icily. “I suppose you’re one of those who has lived with them.”
“I have.”
“And mated with them.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“So have I,” Bear River Tom broke in. “And a nice mating it was.” He chuckled. “Tits are tits, I always say.”
The colonel switched his icy stare to him. “Did you just say tits?”
“They’re his favorite thing,” Fargo said.
Bear River Tom nodded enthusiastically. “Every man I know likes tits. And it beats saying bunions all hollow.”
“Bunions?” Colonel Carlson said.
“Can’t fondle them, now can you?”
Colonel Carlson sniffed. “Scouts.” He said the word as if it were a plague. “You are all alike.”
“We love tits,” Bear River Tom said.
“That’s enough,” Colonel Carlson said. “There are women on this post, and I won’t have them overhear your vulgarity.”
“You have something against t—” Bear River Tom caught himself. “Against melons?”
“I’m not as obsessed with them as you obviously are,” Colonel Carlson informed him.
“Maybe you should be,” Bear River Tom said. “There’s nothing that helps a man relax like a handful of jugs.”
Colonel Carlson closed his eyes and raised his hand to his nose and pinched the bridge as if he had a headache, or was about to. “Why are you gentlemen here? I don’t recall sending for more of your ilk, yet I find myself in scouts up to my neck.”
“Ilk?” Bear River Tom said. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
Fargo snorted.
“Emmett Badger is my scout,” Colonel Carlson said. “I don’t need any others. Yet now six more have shown up. And I imagine you’ll give me the same story they did. That you were sent for by one of your own.”
“That I was,” Bear River Tom said. “By Badger himself.”
“What?” Fargo said.
“We talked about his letter earlier,” Bear River Tom said.
“My letter is from California Jim.”
“What?”
Colonel Carlson’s brow knit. “Interesting. You’ll find it even more so when you talk to the rest.”
“In what way?” Bear River Tom asked.
“It’s common knowledge that scouts enjoy playing practical jokes,” the commanding officer said. “But the purpose to this one eludes me.”
“What joke?” Fargo asked.
Colonel Carlson smiled. “You’ll find out directly.” He smoothed his uniform and started past them but stopped. “A word of caution. It’s also common knowledge that scouts enjoy raising hell. There will be none of that here. I run my post strictly by the book. Any shenanigans and there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
“Hell no,” Bear River Tom said. “Can’t you use little words like everybody else?”
“Mock me if you must,” Colonel Carlson said. “Although I should think you would want to stay in my good graces.” He nodded at each of them and strolled toward the parade ground.
“He sure is fond of himself,” Bear River Tom said. “And has a broom up his ass, to boot.”
Fargo was more interested in something else. “What did he mean by a practical joke?”
“Let’s find out.”
They made for the sutler’s. Along the way they had to pass the guardhouse, and when Fargo glanced over, he saw a face peering out at them. It stopped him in his tracks. “What the hell?”
“What is it, pup?”
Fargo bobbed his chin at the swarthy visage behind the bars in a small window in the door.
“It must be one of the bucks who went on the warpath,” Bear River Tom said.
They went over. A soldier was on guard but he made no attempt to stop them.
To judge by the Bannock’s gray hair and wrinkles, Fargo guessed that he’d seen sixty winters or better.
His arms were folded across his chest, and he had an air of dignity about him.
“What have we here?” Bear River Tom said. “Who are you, old hoss?”
To their surprise, the old Indian cleared his throat and said, “Me Lone Bear of the Panati. You whites call us Salt River Bannocks.”
“What did you do that the army took you into custody?” Fargo asked.
“Colonel Carlson come to our village. Him say me must go with him. Him say that he take me to teach my people lesson. Him say our young warriors must stop killing whites or he will do bad thing to me.”
“What bad thing?” Bear River Tom asked.
“Him say he will hang me by a rope from tree until me be dead.”
“Hell,” Fargo said.
3
“Something on your mind?” Colonel Carlson asked without looking around as Fargo came up. He was watching his men drill.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Fargo demanded, stepping around in front of him.
Carlson colored. “Be careful how you address me. I don’t care for
your tone.”
“Lone Bear,” Fargo said.
“What about him? He’s the chief of the band that’s been giving us trouble.”
“The younger warriors are on the warpath. Not Lone Bear.”
“He’s their chief. Therefore, he’s responsible. Just as I’m responsible for the behavior of the soldiers under me.”
“It’s not the same,” Bear River Tom interjected. “A chief doesn’t have the power you do. He can’t order a warrior to do or not do something. He can ask, but the warriors don’t have to listen.”
“Then why bother being chief?” Colonel Carlson said. “And be that as it may, my strategy worked.” He puffed out his chest. “Those bucks of his haven’t killed a single soul since I took him into custody.”
“Does Washington know?”
“I have full authority to deal with the renegades as I deem fit,” Colonel Carlson informed them. “Seventeen lives have been lost because of them, and I’ll be damned if anyone else will die. Anyone white, that is.”
“Seventeen?” Fargo said in genuine shock.
“You didn’t know that, did you?” Colonel Carlson said smugly. “That’s the tally so far. Nine were members of a wagon train bound for Oregon Country. A war party struck as they were hitching their teams to their wagons.” Carlson scowled. “Three of those nine were women.”
Fargo scowled.
“Do you still blame me for hauling Lone Bear in?” Colonel Carlson asked. When neither of them answered right away, he said, “No? I didn’t think so. I stand by my decision. So long as we hold their precious leader, the Bannocks won’t lift a finger against us.”
“It might turn the Bannocks who are still friendly to whites against us,” Fargo felt compelled to mention.
“You don’t seem to be listening. Their feelings aren’t the issue here. Saving lives is.” Carlson started to walk away. “Now if you’ll excuse me. Some of us have work to do.”
“I reckon he put us in our place, pup,” Bear River Tom said.
“Come on,” Fargo growled.
A few off-duty troopers were the only customers at the sutler’s.
Out of curiosity Fargo went down the aisles. The selection didn’t rival a general store but for the middle of nowhere there was a lot.
“May I help you?” a spindly man in a white apron asked.
“We’re looking for friends of ours,” Bear River Tom said. “Scouts, like us.”
“I don’t keep track of the post personnel,” the sutler said. “But I do believe those you seek rode off with Emmett Badger along about daybreak.”
“Where to?” Fargo asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the sutler replied. “Are you positive I can’t sell you anything?”
“Later maybe,” Fargo said.
“It’s just as well. I have stocking to do. A patrol came in yesterday and reported a wagon train will arrive in a week or so.”
“Get a lot of them, do you?” Bear River Tom inquired.
“Enough to keep me in business,” the sutler said. “If I relied on the soldiers for my livelihood, I’d starve.”
“The army isn’t lavish with its pay,” Bear River Tom said.
“No, the army is not. Even if it were, Colonel Carlson keeps a tight rein on things. I can’t sell liquor. Or playing cards. Or dice.”
“The hell you say,” Bear River Tom said.
The sutler nodded. “The liquor I can understand. But to deprive grown men of their right to indulge in friendly wagers now and then is taking discipline too far. Not that I would ever say that to the colonel’s face.”
“You can always close up and go elsewhere,” Fargo said.
“Carlson is strict, yes, but I can live with that,” the sutler said. He glanced at the entrance and bustled off.
“Nervous little fella,” Bear River Tom said. “Do you know what he needs to relax?”
“Don’t say it,” Fargo said.
“Tits, tits, and more tits.”
They went back out and leaned against the front wall and watched the drills.
After a while Bear River Tom said, “I just had me a thought. A wagon train means females. Could be they’ll stick around a few days and we can get acquainted.”
“Is that all you ever think of?”
“Listen to you. The randiest rooster this side of anywhere,” Bear River Tom said. “If you were a horse you could open your own stud farm and be in clover the rest of your days.”
“Which am I? A rooster or a horse?”
“You’re a bull elk in rut.”
At that moment two women came strolling along the periphery of the parade ground. Both wore bonnets and long dresses that clung to their winsome legs.
“How do you do,” Bear River Tom said, and licked his lips. “What have we here?”
“Officers’ wives,” Fargo deduced. “And off-limits unless you hanker to be beaten to a pulp by a dozen soldiers.”
“Off-limits for you maybe, pup,” Bear River Tom said. “For me a tit is a tit.”
“I never thought I would say this,” Fargo said, “but I am commencing to hate that word.”
Women were not all that plentiful on the frontier, especially at military posts, and double-especially at remote posts like Fort Carlson.
“Ladies,” Bear River Tom said as the pair approached, doffing his hat. “Nice day if it don’t rain.”
The women smiled politely and strolled inside.
Bear River Tom nudged Fargo. “Did you see that? One of them likes me.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“The one with the brown hair. She jiggled her tits at me.”
Fargo stared.
“What?” Bear River Tom said. “I saw them jiggle with my own eyes.”
“Were you hit on the head when you were a sprout? Or did a tree fall on you sometime?”
“I tell you she did. I am a master at tits. And some females jiggle theirs to get a man’s attention.”
“She has a dress on.”
“So?”
“And under that, likely a chemise.”
“So?”
“And under that maybe more.”
“You’re saying that even if she did jiggle her jugs, I couldn’t see them for all her clothes.”
Fargo grinned. “I’ll be damned. There’s a smidgen of smart left in that head of yours.”
“You have to have real good eyes to catch a tit jiggle,” Bear River Tom said. “You should get yours checked. Might be you need spectacles.”
“Might be I need a drink more than ever,” Fargo said.
He turned, debating where to go next, and spied a rider in buckskins trotting toward the post from across the valley. “Look there.”
“A scout, by-God,” Bear River Tom said.
“We can’t be sure from this far off,” Fargo said. A lot of people besides scouts wore buckskins—backwoodsmen, trappers, some farmers and the like.
“It’s those bad eyes of yours,” Bear River Tom said. “If you can’t see tits at three feet, how can you expect to tell who is who from that far away?”
Fargo hoped it wasn’t a scout just to prove Tom wrong. But as luck would have it, he wasn’t.
“It’s California Jim!”
Fargo smiled. Of all the scouts, he liked California the most. Jim’s nickname came from the fact he was always going on about how when he finally got too old to scout, he would head for California to spend his remaining days lying in the sun and listening to the surf roll in. Jim was as fond of oceans as Bear River Tom was of tits. Well, almost.
“I wonder where the others are.”
Fargo moved out from under the overhang, took off his hat, and waved it.
Califor
nia Jim straightened, waved his own hat, and brought his horse to a gallop. With a whoop and a holler, he pounded up in a swirl of dust and was out of the saddle before his animal stopped moving. “Skye, you ornery coon!” His buckskins were decorated with blue and red beads, and he wore a blue bandanna that hung near to his waist. He wore a black gun belt decorated with silver conchos, and a high-crowned hat that was popular in Texas. Clapping Fargo on the shoulders, he declared, “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
“How have you been?” Fargo asked.
“My joints creak more.” California beamed. “God, it’s good to see you again.”
“Kiss him, why don’t you?” Bear River Tom said.
California ignored him and clapped Fargo again.
“Haven’t seen you since that time in the Mountains of No Return. We were lucky to get out of there alive.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” Bear River Tom asked.
California Jim finally looked at him. “What you are is a tit fiend and a damned nuisance.”
Fargo laughed.
“I’m a tit what?” Bear River Tom said.
“You heard me. I’m warning you now. Go on about tits like you usually do and I will by-God take my rifle stock to your head.”
“That’s harsh,” Tom said.
California Jim turned back to Fargo. “You won’t believe it, but the last time I ran into him, we had drinks in a saloon, and damn me if he didn’t talk about tits for four solid hours.”
“I believe it,” Fargo said.
“A man can never have enough tits,” Bear River Tom said.
“What brought you here, hoss?” California Jim asked Fargo. “I bet it was a letter.”
“From you, in fact,” Fargo said.
California swore. “Which I never sent. I’m here because I got a letter from you.”
“The hell you say,” Fargo said.
“All of us scouts got letters, which none of us sent,” California Jim said, and scratched his stubble. “What in tarnation is going on, pard?”
Fargo wished he knew.
4
To say the scouts were puzzled was putting it mildly. As California explained, the scouts who had already arrived decided to get away from the fort to hash things over. So earlier that morning they’d saddled up and ridden into the mountains to the east of the valley. They’d climbed a short way to a clearing, and three of them were seated around a fire drinking coffee when Fargo and his friends came out of the trees.