Fort Death (9781101607916)

by Sharpe, Jon

  He thought of Jed Crow and Tennessee. It was ironic that they were brought to Fort Carlson by a practical joke, only to meet their end.

  Scouting wasn’t for the timid. Or for the careless. All it took was a moment’s distraction, and death came swift and sure. The scouts who lasted the longest were those who learned their lesson from the deer. They never let down their guard. They never gave life the chance to bury its fangs in their neck.

  Fargo rarely let down his. He lived on the razor’s edge, and liked it.

  The young warrior did more fidgeting. He got up and walked in a circle around the sleepers. He checked the horses. He stared at the stars. He gazed into the night to the south, east, west, and north. He sat back down and added more wood and the fire flared brighter than older warriors would let it.

  Fargo didn’t like that. The smaller the fire, the less light, the easier for him. Now the ring of light was twice what it had been. He’d have to be lightning quick to get in, get the girl, and get out again.

  Presently the young warrior’s chin bobbed. He fought it. He jerked his head up and blinked and stretched. Then his head bobbed again and he went through the same thing.

  The intervals between each bob became shorter and shorter until finally his chin sank and didn’t rise. He had fallen asleep.

  The moment had come.

  Fargo crawled. He forced himself to go slow so the grass wouldn’t rustle. Holding his head high enough to see the Bannocks, he was halfway to the fire when the young warrior jerked and sat upright.

  Fargo froze.

  The warrior sheepishly looked at the sleepers and then anxiously stared all around, and relaxed. The fire had burned down a little and he groped the ground but he had used the last of the firewood. He stared at the trees.

  Uh-oh, Fargo thought. He was directly between the fire and more firewood. He hoped the young warrior would wait a while before coming for more, but no such luck.

  The Bannock stood. Bending, he selected a burning brand, raised it over his head, and came toward the woods.

  Fargo tried to sink into the earth.

  The young man glanced right and left. He was nervous. Fargo wondered if the warrior sensed him but then decided that no, it was the night. The youngster was scared of the dark.

  Some whites thought that was a white trait, that because Indians lived in the wild, they were used to the dark and went about without fear. But Indians knew that night was when the meat-eaters filled their bellies. Some tribes, too, believed that night was when other things were abroad, things they feared even more than grizzlies and mountains lions, things their forefathers feared, horrific things from the dawn of time. To say nothing of the many tribes that believed in ghosts.

  So the young Bannock’s fear, while it might seem childish, was understandable. He advanced slowly, moving the torch back and forth, his other hand on his knife.

  Fargo was willing to let the Bannock go past and then go for the girl. But the warrior was coming right at him. Quickly, Fargo holstered his Colt. Sliding his leg toward his chest, he slipped his hand under his pant leg and into his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick.

  The young warrior was taking his sweet time. Every few strides he stopped to look around.

  Fargo checked on the others at the fire. None had stirred.

  The light from the burning brand was about to wash over him.

  Then a shooting star blazed the heavens and the young warrior craned his head to watch it streak across the sky. The Bannocks took shooting stars to be omens.

  So did Fargo. He was up and reached him in a rush. He thought of the slain mother and the dead boys as he rammed his toothpick to the hilt just below the Bannock’s sternum.

  The young warrior never so much as opened his mouth to cry out. He died on his feet, and Fargo lowered him and yanked the toothpick out.

  The other warriors had gone on sleeping.

  A horse raised its head and pricked its ears but didn’t whinny or stomp.

  Fargo wiped the toothpick on the dead warrior’s leggings, crouched, and crept closer. The slightest sound could give him away. He stopped each time a Bannock moved. When one of them muttered, he stopped dead, thinking the warrior was about to sit up.

  Sophie Johnson was curled into a ball, her head tucked to her chest and her arms wrapped around herself, as if she was trying to climb into her own body.

  Fargo switched the toothpick to his left hand so his right was free to draw the Colt if he had to.

  Now two of the horses were staring at him. Neither acted agitated, but all it would take was a nicker.

  Suddenly, a little ways up the valley, a coyote yipped. A normal enough sound; coyotes did that often at night. But a warrior gave a snort and sleepily rose onto an elbow.

  Fargo froze again. He was in clear sight if the man should turn his head.

  The warrior scratched himself, and sluggishly yawned.

  Conveniently, the coyote chose that moment to yip once more.

  With a grunt, the warrior sank back down, his cheek cradled on his arm.

  Fargo didn’t move a muscle until he was sure the man was asleep. Low to the ground, he snuck around to Sophie Johnson.

  Thunder Hawk was only five feet away, on his side, snoring lightly.

  Fargo started to reach for the girl, and hesitated. If she woke with a start, as she might well do given the circumstances, she was liable to shout and wake the war party.

  Sliding the toothpick into its sheath, Fargo took a gamble. He placed his hand over her mouth, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered, “Sophie, I’m a friend. I’m here to help you get away.”

  Her eyes flew open and her whole body stiffened.

  “I’m a friend,” Fargo whispered again. “Don’t make a sound or we’re in trouble.”

  The whites of her eyes were showing. She was frightened, but to her credit she stayed calm.

  “I’m going to untie you,” Fargo whispered, “and we’ll get out of here.”

  Hope lit her face.

  Fargo moved his hand from her mouth and bent over her ankles. He pried at the knots but they resisted his efforts to loosen them. Frustrated, he resorted to the toothpick. A couple of slashes, and the girl’s legs were free. He replaced the knife.

  Sophie watched his every movement as if her life depended on it—which it did.

  Putting a finger to his lips to caution her to stay quiet, Fargo looped his arm around her waist and hoisted her off the ground. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung fast.

  None of the Bannocks stirred.

  Fargo started to circle back the way he had come.

  Sophie stared at the warriors and quaked and pressed her face to his neck. She was afraid one would wake up.

  Fargo forced himself to go slow even though his every instinct was to bolt, to run for it and trust to the night to conceal them and the forest to keep them safe once they were under cover.

  All the horses were watching.

  Something in the fire crackled and popped, and there was a hiss.

  The same warrior who had woken up when the coyote yipped, woke up again. He raised his head and gazed at the fire and rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Every nerve taut, Fargo let half a minute go by before he took his next step. He was almost past the still forms when he was taken aback by Sophie unexpectedly raising her head to whisper in his ear.

  “Who are you?”

  “Not now.”

  “I want to know your name. I never saw you before. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “The Bannocks,” Fargo whispered, thinking that should be enough.

  “I want to know your name, mister,” she insisted with the typical stubbornness of a child her age.

  “Skye Fargo.”

 
“Your folks named you after the sky? I know a girl who was named after a daisy.”

  “You really need to be quiet,” Fargo urged. He had half a mind to clamp his hand over her mouth but she might struggle.

  “How did you know they took me? Was it my pa who sent you?”

  “Quiet, damn it, girl.”

  Sophie gasped.

  Fargo wanted to kick himself. He’d forgotten she was only ten. “We can talk when it’s safe,” he said, and took another step.

  That was when the warrior who had already woken up twice woke up a third time—and stood.

  12

  Fargo stayed perfectly still. Sophie Johnson tensed and dug her nails in deep but didn’t utter a peep.

  This time it didn’t matter. This time the warrior turned, and saw them.

  Several seconds went by. The Bannock stared and Fargo stared and Sophie tried to crawl into his neck.

  And then came the inevitable—the warrior opened his mouth to shout.

  Fargo drew the Colt and fired. The slug smashed the warrior off his feet and brought the others scrambling up off the ground.

  Sophie bleated in fright, and Fargo ran. He had no hankering to fight the whole war party.

  A warrior spotted him right away and pointed and shouted.

  Sophie Johnson whimpered.

  Fargo glanced back. Two warriors hadn’t bothered grabbing bows; they’d drawn knives and were bounding in pursuit. He churned his legs, thinking if he could reach cover he could elude them. But God, they were fast. Faster than he was. He was almost to the woods when the first was on top of him.

  Fargo thrust out the Colt and fired without stopping. The lead cored the warrior’s chest, killing him outright. But momentum carried the body forward, and into Fargo. He felt the other’s leg entangle with his.

  Sophie shrieked as they went down.

  Fargo landed on his shoulder so he bore the brunt. The body was on top of him and he shoved it off with the same hand that held the Colt, just as the second fleet-footed warrior reached him and raised a knife to stab.

  Fargo shot him in the head. He didn’t watch the husk collapse. He was up and running again, Sophie clutched tight. An arrow whizzed past his neck. Another missed his arm by a cat’s whisker.

  The trees closed around them and Fargo swerved to avoid colliding with one.

  High above them rifles boomed.

  Emmett Badger and California Jim were covering his escape.

  Fargo flew. Behind him the undergrowth crackled and he realized at least one of the Bannocks had also made it to the trees. He swerved right, ran straight for a short distance, then swerved to the right again and stopped in his tracks and squatted.

  The crackling and snapping was close. It, too, stopped, and Fargo knew the warrior was straining his ears to catch some sound of them.

  “Why did you stop?” Sophie whispered.

  Fargo was up before she stopped asking. He was sure the warrior had heard her and the pounding of moccasin-shod feet proved him right. He zigged. He zagged. He raced around a thicket. He barely spotted a log in time to vault over it. He was in midleap when inspiration struck, and when his boots thudded down, he spun and flung himself behind the log and pressed Sophie against it.

  “Don’t move!” Fargo whispered in his best you’d-better-listen-or-else voice. He was still holding the Colt, and he cocked it just as a figure leaped over the log, and over them.

  Fargo figured to shoot as the warrior landed. But the Bannock must have seen him drop behind the log and did an incredible thing. In the middle of his leap, the warrior twisted around and came down on both feet inches from where they lay. Fargo extended the Colt at the same instant the warrior slashed with a tomahawk. Metal met metal and the Colt went flying.

  Letting go of Sophie, Fargo pushed up. The tomahawk arced at his face and he grabbed the warrior’s wrist in both hands, and wrenched. He thought he could force the Bannock to drop it but the young warrior clung tenaciously and drove a knee at his gut.

  It felt as if Fargo’s stomach smashed against his spine. Involuntarily, he doubled over. The warrior sought to wrest his arm free, and drove the same knee at Fargo’s nose. Fargo got a forearm between them, absorbing most of the blow. Most, but not all. His head rocked and it was a wonder his nose didn’t break. He tottered, and the Bannock dug iron fingers into his throat. His boots bumped something that moved.

  Sophie Johnson screamed.

  Fargo’s left foot hooked the log. He lost his balance and gravity took over. He wound up with the warrior on top of him, trying to choke him while simultaneously seeking to use that tomahawk to deadly effect.

  Fargo couldn’t breathe. His vision swam. In desperation he smashed his forehead into the warrior’s face. There was a crunch, and wet drops spattered his cheeks. The Bannock howled in rage more than pain and drew back.

  Somehow Fargo found his boot. The Arkansas toothpick was where it should be, and he buried it in the other man’s ribs. The Bannock cried out and tried to pull away, and Fargo rammed the cold steel up in under the warrior’s jaw. More wet drops rained, and suddenly deadweight was on his chest.

  Fargo lay still, catching his breath, his blood roaring in his ears.

  “Mister?” Sophie whispered.

  Fargo swallowed but couldn’t find his voice. It had been that close.

  “Mister? Are you dead?”

  “Not yet,” Fargo whispered. He almost added, “No thanks to you.” He pushed at the body but it refused to budge.

  “You scared me,” Sophie said. “I thought you were a goner.”

  Fargo pushed harder. The body still wouldn’t move, and he swore.

  “My ma says you shouldn’t ought to talk like that,” Sophie said. “When pa does, she makes him say he’s sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry,” Fargo said, and heaved. The lifeless lump rolled to one side and he managed to rise high enough to sit on the log.

  “You must be a foul mouth,” Sophie said.

  “A what?” Fargo realized the shooting had stopped. Either the Bannocks had fled or they had reached the forest, and cover.

  “That’s what Ma calls people who use words like you do,” Sophie enlightened him. “Foulmouthed.”

  Fargo thought he heard the crunch of a twig. Sliding off the log, he put his hand over the girl’s mouth. “Quiet. There are more Indians.”

  For once she shut up.

  Lifting her, Fargo crept away. The climb grew steep, the undergrowth thick. In order to avoid making noise, he had to go slower than a tortoise.

  It was taking so long that Sophie squirmed and finally whispered, “Where’s your horse? You did bring one, didn’t you? You’re not going to carry me all the way?”

  “Do you want my hand over your mouth again?”

  “No,” she said. “It smells funny.”

  Fargo didn’t know what to make of that. He sniffed his other palm. It smelled fine to him.

  They were skirting a spruce when a figure materialized, in front of them, not behind them.

  Fargo was looking behind them and wouldn’t have noticed except that Sophie bleated in alarm.

  “An Injun!”

  Fargo spun and brought up the Colt.

  “Are you or her hurt?”

  “Badger?” Fargo said. He was impressed at how silently the other scout moved. In more ways than one, the man was every bit his equal.

  “It’s my voice, isn’t it?” Badger said.

  Another figure appeared.

  “We think one of the Bannocks made it into the trees after you, pard,” California Jim said.

  “He’s been taken care of.”

  “The sky man stabbed him,” Sophie said proudly. “Killed him dead.”

  “The rest skedaddled,�
�� California revealed, “so you’re safe enough.”

  “For now,” Badger said.

  California grinned at Sophie and held out an arm. “Want me to carry the sprout for a spell?”

  “No,” Sophie said, and pressed against Fargo. “I want you to carry me.”

  “It’s true what they say,” Badger quipped. “You sure have a way with the ladies.”

  California snickered.

  “Why is that funny?” Sophie asked.

  “Pay them no mind,” Fargo said. “They’re both touched in the head.”

  “They should be in a what do you call it?” Sophie said.

  “Call what?”

  “Now I remember. Ma called it an asylum. Her aunt had a fall and hurt her head, and she went around making cat sounds. Ma said she was touched in the head, and they put her in an asylum. We went to visit her once. It was awful. She meowed and licked herself. There was a man who kept sniffing everybody and growling. And another man who said he liked to dance with snakes. And another who—”

  “The Bannocks might come back,” Badger said.

  “Tell me about the asylum later,” Fargo suggested to the girl. “We have to light a shuck.”

  “Shouldn’t we take them there?” Sophie asked.

  “Take who where?”

  “These two,” Sophie said, with a nod at California Jim and Badger. “You said they should be in an asylum.”

  California snickered anew.

  “He does that a lot,” Sophie said.

  “Are we going to stand here listening to her babble all night?” Badger asked.

  “Hey,” Sophie said.

  Fargo headed up the mountain. Once over the crest they descended to the horses. He swung Sophie over the saddle and was about to climb up when she bent toward him to whisper.

  “I have to go.”

  “We’re going now,” Fargo said.

  “No, I have to go.”

  “As soon as I’m on, we’re leaving.”

  “No,” Sophie said, sounding annoyed. “I have to wee-wee.”

  “Wee-wee?” Fargo said.

  “Ma said to never say the other word. But those Injuns had me tied up an awful long while and the mean one said they wouldn’t let me go until the sun came up.”