Fort Death (9781101607916)

by Sharpe, Jon

  The post bustled with activity. Soldiers were forming up, horses were being saddled, pack animals were being readied.

  “Busy bees,” California said.

  It was pushing nine o’clock when the column departed. Colonel Carlson was at the head. On either side were figures in buckskin.

  “One must be Badger but who’s the other?” California said.

  “Sadie said she was offering her services.”

  “Even after the Bannocks tried to stick arrows in her yesterday?”

  “Some people forgive and forget easier than most,” Fargo said.

  Their accoutrements rattling, their horses raising swirls of dust, the troopers neared the far end of the long valley.

  “I hope to hell Carlson doesn’t start a full-fledged war,” California muttered.

  That wouldn’t happen if Fargo could help it. And he was about to take the first step to prevent it. “Let’s go.”

  “They’re not out of sight yet.”

  “The sooner we get him to his village . . .” Fargo said, and let it go at that.

  Acting as innocent as newborns, they made for the post at a leisurely walk.

  “I want you to know, pard, that if we wind up in front of a firing squad, I won’t hold it against you.”

  The sentry let them go by with a wave. Several wives were near the headquarters building, talking and gazing after the column. A trooper was over by the blacksmith’s.

  Fargo drew rein at the sutler’s. His boots barely touched the ground when an officer strode out and looked them up and down.

  “Gentlemen. I believe I saw you here the other day.”

  “You might have,” California Jim said. “We had a palaver with your colonel.”

  “Who is on his way to thrash the Bannocks. I’m Captain Mathews. I’m in charge until Colonel Carlson returns.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” California Jim said.

  “Might I inquire what you are doing back? I was under the impression the colonel had no need of more scouts.”

  Fargo answered before California could. “We’re looking for Sagebrush Sadie.”

  “You just missed her,” Captain Mathews said. “She rode out with the detachment.”

  “She’s scouting for them?” California said.

  “What else?”

  “But you just said . . .” California began.

  Captain Mathews smiled. “Ah. You’re wondering why the colonel asked her to join him, and not you. She’s a special case.”

  “Because she’s female,” California said.

  “Oh, no, not that.” Mathews seemed about to explain but he noticed the women over by headquarters, one of whom was beckoning. He touched his hat brim. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I see my wife needs me.” He strode on past.

  “What the hell is special about Sadie?” California wondered.

  Fargo was more interested in the guardhouse. A trooper was leaning against the wall, his carbine in the crook of his arm.

  California lowered his voice. “I still don’t see how in hell you’re going to do it with that bluebelly there.”

  “Watch and learn.”

  Fargo entered the sutler’s. Two women were examining bolts of cloth, and the sutler himself was behind the counter, counting coins. Fargo went down an aisle to a display of hats and bonnets. Hoping it was big enough to fit, he chose a floppy hat with a wide brim.

  “Do you want a blanket too?” California asked. “He can throw it over his shoulders.”

  “And have him stand out like a sore thumb?” Fargo shook his head.

  The sutler looked up from his counting. “You’re buying a new hat?” He regarded Fargo’s own. “I’ll probably lose the sale but yours looks perfectly fine.”

  “A man can never have enough hats,” Fargo said.

  “If you say so.”

  Fargo paid and walked out. At the rail he said, “This is as far as you go. Give a holler if you think anyone suspects.”

  “I hope he’s worth it, pard.”

  The captain and the ladies had gone into headquarters. The soldier at the blacksmith’s had disappeared, too.

  Plastering a smile on his face, Fargo strolled toward the guardhouse.

  The trooper guarding the prisoner straightened and moved in front of the door. “What can I do for you, mister?”

  “I’m supposed to give this to Lone Bear,” Fargo said, holding out the hat.

  “What in hell for?”

  “You saw me talking to the captain, didn’t you?” Fargo asked.

  “Sure did. But—”

  “Mathews thinks that if he’s nice to the Indian, the chief might cooperate. Give him a present and he might give the captain information about the renegades.”

  “Why’d he send you and not come himself?”

  “His wife needed him,” Fargo said. That much, at least, was true.

  Gnawing his lip, the soldier glanced toward headquarters.

  “Go ask him yourself if you want,” Fargo said.

  “No need, I reckon.” The trooper fished a key ring from a pocket and inserted a key into the lock. “Just toss the hat.”

  “That wouldn’t be friendly.”

  And before the trooper could stop him, Fargo walked in.

  Lone Bear was seated cross-legged along the opposite wall, his arms folded. “You have come back.”

  “Brought you something,” Fargo said, and dropped the hat in front of him.

  “I not wear white man’s clothes.”

  “Put it on anyway,” Fargo said, “and I’ll get you out of here.”

  “How you do that?”

  Fargo turned and called out to the guard.

  The private entered. “What is it, mister? That old redskin giving you a hard time?”

  “No,” Fargo said, and slugged him.

  17

  As he swung, Fargo felt a twinge of conscience. The soldier was only doing his duty. But a lot of people on both sides would die unless he took steps to prevent it, and the first step was to free Lone Bear. His punch caught the trooper flush on the jaw and felled him in his tracks.

  Quickly, Fargo bent and pressed a finger to the guard’s throat to be sure the pulse was steady. When Fargo straightened, Lone Bear was staring at him in undisguised astonishment.

  “Let’s go.”

  The Bannock leader went on staring.

  “I’m getting you out of here,” Fargo explained.

  “You hit blue coat for me?”

  “So you can escape.”

  “Why?”

  Fargo had no time for this. Another soldier could stroll by at any moment. “We’ll talk on the trail. We have to light a shuck.”

  “Light . . . what?”

  “We have to go.” Fargo gripped the old man’s arm. “Now.”

  Lone Bear didn’t move. “Why you help me? I not know you.”

  “By helping you I help your people.”

  “You not know my people.”

  “Damn it,” Fargo said. He was close to losing his temper. “While you sit there being pigheaded, Colonel Carlson is leading his men into the mountain. What happens if they find your village?”

  “It far away.”

  “He has two of the best scouts alive helping him,” Fargo said. “Are you willing to chance that they won’t?” He pulled on Lone Bear’s arm but again the Bannock leader refused to move.

  “Why you care what happen to my people. You are a white man.”

  Fargo almost slugged him. “If the colonel attacks your village, women and kids could die.”

  “They Panati women, Panati young. Not white women, not white young.”

  Fargo couldn’t
think of what to say that would convince the man he was sincere.

  “How I know this not trick?”

  “I just knocked out your guard. The army will throw me in here with you if they catch me.”

  “Maybe other one have hand in this.”

  “I came in here alone.”

  “You think I not know but I do.”

  Fargo grabbed the hat and shook it. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and I don’t care. Put this on. Tuck your hair up under it and walk with me to the sutler’s. I’ll climb on my horse, you climb on behind me, and we’re out of here.”

  “Why I wear hat?”

  “To hide your hair and your face. I bought it just for you to use,” Fargo said, and shoved it at him.

  Lone Bear examined it. He turned it over and ran a hand along the brim. “Good hat.”

  “Keep it if you want. It’s yours.” Fargo moved to the doorway and peered out. So far no troopers were anywhere near the guardhouse. “Our luck is holding. Come on.”

  Lone Bear was still admiring the hat. “You really let me keep hat?”

  “Only if you get up off your ass right this minute,” Fargo said.

  Lone Bear stared and then said a strange thing. “You have soft heart.”

  Fargo shook his head. “I have no such thing. Now get over here.”

  To his relief, the old Bannock placed the hat on his head and stood.

  “Tuck your hair up,” Fargo directed. “From a distance the blue coats might mistake you for a scout.”

  “Tuck up?” Lone Bear said uncertainly.

  Fargo showed him.

  Grunting, Lone Bear did the rest himself. A few strands hung to his shoulders but most of it was now under the hat. “How that?”

  “You could pass for a white man.”

  “I not insult you,” Lone Bear said. “You not insult me.”

  “God in heaven,” Fargo said, and stepped out, pulling the Bannock after him.

  Lone Bear moved as slow as molasses. Taking a deep breath, he gazed at the sky and out across the valley, and smiled. “It good day.”

  “It might be your last if you don’t light a fire in your leggings,” Fargo warned.

  “Fire . . . in leggings?” Lone Bear looked down at himself. “Why I want to burn me?”

  “Forget it. We need to hurry.” Fargo moved faster but abruptly slowed when the soldier who had been down at the blacksmith’s earlier came out of it and crossed toward the barracks.

  “We run for horse?” Lone Bear said.

  “No. Act casual. And keep your head down so he can’t see your face.”

  Lone Bear tucked his chin to his chest. “How this?”

  “Beautiful,” Fargo said.

  “I not woman,” Lone Bear said. “I man.”

  California Jim was leaning on the hitch rail and keeping an eye on the headquarters building. He suddenly straightened and gestured.

  Fargo looked.

  Captain Mathews and the women were coming out. Mathews and his wife were arm in arm and she was laughing at something he’d said. The captain was smiling. Then he looked across the compound and his smile faded.

  “Uh-oh,” Fargo said.

  “What that mean?” Lone Bear asked.

  “Run like hell for the Ovaro.”

  “Ov-what?”

  “The horse that looks like a pinto.”

  “Me like pintos. They pretty horses.”

  “Run, damn it.”

  Captain Mathews chose that moment to point at them and holler, “You there! Stand where you are!”

  “Hell in a basket.” Fargo hooked an arm around Lone Bear and propelled him toward the sutler’s.

  The soldier crossing the parade ground stopped and looked in their direction.

  Mathews bellowed, “Stop those two, someone!”

  Fargo was moving as fast as he could. So was Lone Bear. That was the problem. Lone Bear wasn’t as spry as he used to be.

  At the hitch rail, California Jim vaulted onto his mount and wheeled it around, the Ovaro’s reins in his hand. A jab of his heels and he trotted to meet them.

  “Stop them!” Captain Mathews shouted.

  A pair of troopers barreled out of the barracks, one pulling a boot on, the other donning a shirt.

  “Stop them!”

  The soldier over at the parade ground fumbled at the flap to his holster. Jerking his revolver free, he cried, “Halt or I’ll fire!”

  Soldiers were notoriously poor shots. Few used firearms before they enlisted, and once in uniform they didn’t get to use them much, either. Cartridges cost money, and the army, always looking for ways to cut expenses, limited target practice to once or twice a month, and only a few rounds at a time. It was a wonder troopers could hit anything.

  Still, when the soldier’s revolver boomed, Fargo involuntarily flinched. A lucky hit was as deadly as a well-aimed shot.

  “They not happy we leave,” Lone Bear said.

  Whooping with excitement, California Jim brought his horse and the Ovaro to a stop. “Climb on, pard,” he bawled.

  Fargo didn’t need the urging. He vaulted onto the Ovaro, bent, and offered his arm to Lone Bear.

  The old warrior stared. “You have big hand, white man.”

  “Grab hold, damn you.”

  Another shot galvanized the old Bannock into action. He gripped Fargo’s forearm, and nodded.

  Surprised at how light he was, Fargo swung him up and behind. “Hang on,” he commanded as he reined sharply to the west.

  The revolver cracked a third time and lead buzzed his ear. Hunching forward, he used his spurs.

  Captain Mathews was shouting like a madman. Soldiers were rushing from several buildings but as yet none had a rifle.

  The sutler emerged, turning a startled gaze on Fargo and California Jim as they raced by.

  California did more whooping and waved his hat in the air.

  “Your friend happy we be shot at,” Lone Bear said in Fargo’s ear.

  Fargo swore. They had a lot of open ground to cover to reach the woods, and the few remaining soldiers would soon be in pursuit.

  Cackling merrily, California came alongside. “That was slick as could be, pard.”

  “It could have been slicker,” Fargo yelled to be heard above the pounding of hooves.

  “There’s never a dull moment with you,” California said. “I never know what you’re going to pull next.”

  Fargo glanced back. A dozen or more troopers were converging on the stable.

  “But this stunt beats all,” California continued. “Breaking a prisoner out. Next you’ll be robbing banks.” He cackled louder.

  Fargo didn’t find it at all hilarious. The army brass would take a dim view of his latest escapade. Yes, he had friends in high places, a few generals and colonels and majors he’d scouted for. But unless he could prove that breaking Lone Bear out was in the army’s best interests, he’d end up in a stockade. Or worse.

  “You have good horse,” Lone Bear said.

  “I think so.”

  “Him strong. Carry both of us. And him fast. Him be fine warhorse. You want trade?”

  “No.”

  “Me give you five horses for him.”

  “No.”

  “Me give you ten horses.”

  “No.”

  “Me give you ten horses and one of my women.”

  “No, damn it.”

  “Why you mad?” Lone Bear asked.

  “I’m not mad,” Fargo lied. “We just need to reach those slopes before the soldiers come after us.”

  Lone Bear shifted and pointed toward Fort Carlson.

  “Blue coats already after us.”

/>   18

  Captain Mathews and fully a dozen soldiers were flying from the fort. Some had saddles on their horses. Others had jumped on in haste and didn’t. With Mathews yelling and waving his arm as if it were a sword, they poured across the valley floor.

  California Jim laughed.

  Mathews struck Fargo as the dogged sort who would chase them to the gates of hell if he had to. Lashing his reins, he sought to reach the forest well ahead of them.

  “Five horses and two women,” Lone Bear said.

  “You can’t have the Ovaro,” Fargo said for what he hoped was the last time.

  “Now you sound more mad.”

  “I’m not goddamn mad,” Fargo fumed. He slapped his legs and gave thanks they were far enough ahead it was unlikely the soldiers would shoot.

  As if to mock him, rifles banged.

  California Jim laughed and waved at their pursuers. He was having the time of his life.

  “Whites strange,” Lone Bear said.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Fargo said without thinking.

  “Whites only half strange?”

  “Do me a favor and don’t talk. I have riding to do.”

  “Panati ride and talk at same time.”

  Another rifle shot cracked but it was the last for a while. The troopers didn’t have lead to waste.

  The forest loomed closer. Fargo was already thinking of how he would shake the boys in blue once he reached it. “Which way to your village?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “On horse is good,” Lone Bear said.

  “No. Which direction is it? East, west, north, or south.”

  “Go where sun rise.”

  “East it is,” Fargo said, nodding. “How long will it take to get there?”

  “Four sleeps.”

  Four days. Fargo could make it in half that by riding hell-bent for leather and sleeping only a few hours each night.

  Relief washed over him when the woodland swallowed them. Drawing rein, he checked on the troopers. Still in dogged pursuit, they had fallen a quarter mile behind and some of their horses were flagging.

  “We won’t have to worry about them,” California Jim declared.

  “Don’t count your chickens,” Fargo said, and headed up the mountain.

  “Where chickens?” Lone Bear asked.