Fort Death (9781101607916)

by Sharpe, Jon

  “There aren’t any,” Fargo explained. “It was a figure of speech.”

  “What that?”

  “Words that mean something other than what you think they mean.”

  “Whites very strange,” Lone Bear said.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now hush up.”

  “We ahead of your friend.”

  “No, not that kind of ahead.”

  “You mean head on shoulders?”

  “No.”

  “There is another head?”

  “Do me a favor,” Fargo said. “Don’t say anything more or my head will explode.”

  An hour later they were so far above the valley floor, the soldiers below were the size of ants.

  Fargo halted on a shelf, had the chief slide off, and did the same.

  “That was fun,” California Jim said, joining them. “We should do it again real soon.”

  Fargo sighed, took his canteen, and sat on a boulder overlooking the tiered slopes. Opening it, he gratefully swallowed, then offered some to the others.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” California said.

  Captain Mathews and the seven or eight troopers still with him had stopped in a clearing. Mathews took out a spyglass and trained it on the shelf.

  Fargo waved.

  His knees popping, Lone Bear sat cross-legged and regarded him with curiosity. “Why you try help my people?” he asked.

  “Not that again. I already told you,” Fargo said. “For the women and the kids.”

  “You think blue coats hurt them?”

  California answered before Fargo could. “They might not intend to. But when Colonel Carlson surrounds your village and gives the order to close in, all it will take is for one warrior to resist and all hell will break loose. In the confusion . . .” He shrugged.

  “Why whites make Panati hurt?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” California Jim said. “It’s your young warriors who went on the warpath.”

  “They do it for Smells Like Rose.”

  “They’re counting coup for a squaw?” California smacked his leg. “I should have known. It’s always the blamed women who get us in hot water.”

  Fargo motioned for silence. Down below, Captain Mathews and the troopers were turning back. Mathews was the last to wheel, and only after he raised his fist and shook it.

  “Looks like you made a new friend,” California said.

  Fargo leaned back and contemplated the old Bannock. “You’ll have to guide us. Are you sure you remember how to get there?”

  “Panati not forget where lodge is,” Lone Bear said indignantly.

  California snorted. “They forgot there are more blue coats than there are blades of grass on the prairie.”

  “Many blue coats, yes,” Lone Bear said. “Good fighters, no. Whites easy to kill.”

  “I’d like to see you try to kill us,” California said.

  “You different,” Lone Bear said, and nodded at Fargo. “Him different. You like Indian.”

  “Carlson has a lot of soldiers with a lot of rifles,” Fargo said. “They’ll charge through your village shooting everything that moves.”

  “They shoot women? And children?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” Fargo stressed. “Unless you want that, get us to your village as fast as you can.”

  It finally seemed to sink in. Lone Bear grew thoughtful, and urged them to get under way even before the horses were rested.

  Instead of stopping at sunset as he’d ordinarily do, Fargo pressed on until near midnight. They kindled a small fire, had coffee and jerky, and crawled under their blankets.

  Before daybreak they were up and saddled. Another grueling day of difficult riding saw them deeper in the Salt Range than Fargo had ever been.

  This was the kind of raw country he liked. Where no white men had ever set foot. Where virgin forest had never rung to the chop of an axe. Where the streams were crystal pure. Where the wildlife hadn’t been killed off for the supper pot.

  Stark peaks rose miles higher, overlooking verdant valleys untouched by the plow. Deer thrived, and in the high meadows elk bugled.

  It was creation as God meant it to be, untrammeled by that two-legged destroyer, man.

  Fargo wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  “This is beautiful country,” California Jim commented that night as they sat drinking coffee and chewing jerky.

  “Panati country,” Lone Bear said proudly.

  “No sign of Colonel Carlson anywhere,” Fargo mentioned.

  “Maybe we’re worried over nothing,” California said. “Maybe he won’t find the village.”

  “You’re forgetting Badger,” Fargo said.

  “Good point,” California said.

  “Badger?” Lone Bear said. “Badgers only bite when you poke in hole.”

  “Not the critter, the scout,” California said. “He’s as good as Skye, here. If anyone can find that village of yours, it’s him.”

  “Me remember now,” Lone Bear said. “Scout with hard eyes.”

  “That’s Badger, all right,” California said.

  “Sadie is with them, too,” Fargo brought up.

  “She’s good but she can’t hold a candle to Badger,” California said. “If it was just her, we wouldn’t have to go to all this bother.”

  “Maybe my people see them before they see us,” Lone Bear said. “Maybe my people kill all blue coats.”

  “You better hope not,” California said. “Nothing makes the army madder than a massacre. Wipe out Carlson and his command, and the army will send another officer with twice as many soldiers with orders to wipe you and yours out.”

  Lone Bear sighed. “Killing all whites know.”

  “Your warriors killed warriors from other tribes long before we came along.”

  “Kill enemy how we count coup,” Lone Bear said.

  “It’s also how colonels like Carlson become generals,” California said. He turned to Fargo. “It’s a damn strange world, ain’t it, pard?”

  Fargo grunted. He’d done more than his share of life-taking. But it wasn’t as if he’d set out to make it his life’s goal. Were it up to him, he’d get along peaceably with everybody. A silly notion, since the real world wasn’t peaceable. The real world was lead slugs and barbed arrows. The real world was cold steel and lances.

  It was kill or be killed, and he’d be damned if he’d roll over for anyone. “Talk about something else.”

  California blinked. “Whatever you say.”

  “We should talk bears,” Lone Bear said.

  “Because you were named after one?”

  “Bears kill,” Lone Bear said.

  “So do rattlers and wolves and mountain lions,” California recited. “Hell, a bull elk will kill you if you get too close. Buffs charge if they so much as catch your scent. When it comes to killing, animals are just like us.”

  “Bears big. Bears have claws. Bears have teeth.”

  California snorted. “Painters have claws and teeth, too. Talking about bears is liking talking about goats. There’s no point to it.”

  “You want bear kill you?”

  “You’re plumb ridiculous,” California said. “I don’t want anything to kill me. Anything or anyone. I intend to go on being cantankerous until I’m a hundred and ten.”

  “Maybe bear kill anyway.”

  Fargo reached for the coffeepot to refill his cup. “Why do you keep bringing up bears?”

  Long Bear pointed across the clearing. “Because bear looking at us.”

  19

  The Bannock said it so calmly, so casually, that Fargo expected to see a black bear. Since they rarely attacked humans, it was no cause f
or alarm.

  But there, at the edge of the firelight, stood a massive monster that dwarfed any black bear ever born. The huge head, the high hump on its front shoulders, the brown hair with silver tips—it was a grizzly, and as they turned, it growled and rose onto its hind legs.

  “Good God,” California Jim blurted.

  “Don’t anyone move,” Fargo cautioned. Their guns would be of little use. His Henry, while powerful enough to drop a buck or a hostile, would do little more than annoy a griz that size.

  Towering gigantic in the starlight, the bear sniffed and rumbled deep in its enormous chest.

  California Jim sat with his mouth agape, making no attempt to hide his fear.

  Fargo hoped the bear would decide they weren’t worth eating, and go on its way.

  Suddenly Lone Bear rose. Facing the behemoth, he spread his arms, smiled, and commenced to sing in his own tongue.

  “Quiet, damn you,” California hissed.

  Lone Bear paid no heed. He went on smiling and singing a chant that rose and fell like the swells on a Pacific shore.

  Fargo braced for an attack. His best bet was to grab the Henry and jump on the Ovaro and get the hell out of there. He glanced at the horses. Unlike the Bannock, they had the good sense to stand perfectly still even though California’s was quaking.

  The grizzly tilted its head, its glowing eyes fixed on Lone Bear who began to slowly move his arms up and down.

  “You consarned idiot,” California snapped.

  The grizzly looked at him and growled, then went on staring fixedly at Lone Bear.

  Fargo had never seen the like. The bear acted half mesmerized.

  Without any forewarning, the grizzly suddenly dropped onto all fours. It was so immense, so heavy, that its front paws striking the ground sounded like hammer blows.

  Lone Bear’s smile widened and he chanted at the top of his lungs.

  Inexplicably, amazingly, the grizzly wheeled and melted into the night.

  Fargo stared after it, listening, but heard nothing to mark its passage. It might as well be a ghost. He worried it might circle and come at them from another direction, as bears sometimes did.

  Lone Bear stopped singing and lowered his arms. “Brother gone.”

  “You almost got us killed, you loon,” California said. “What in hell were you thinking?”

  “Me sang to brother,” Lone Bear said. “Told him we are friends.”

  “Brother to a griz?” California scoffed.

  “Me named after one.”

  “So what?” California said. “I’m named after a state but you don’t see me singing to it.”

  Lone Bear seemed to choose his words with care. “My spirit . . . bear’s spirit . . . all one. We brothers. Do you not see?”

  “All I see,” California said, “is that it’s a damned miracle you didn’t end up as bear shit.”

  “You white. You not understand.”

  “I savvy Indian ways as good as any white man,” California said.

  Fargo shut out their spat. Someone had to stay alert in case the griz returned. He wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t until a roar rose in the distance. It echoed and reechoed off the high peaks so that it seemed a legion of bears was on the loose.

  At his suggestion they turned in so they could be up early and on the go.

  A pink blush painted the eastern horizon when Fargo opened his eyes. He put coffee on and nudged his friend with his boot.

  Lone Bear was already awake. “Maybe see brother today,” he said hopefully.

  Fargo knew he wasn’t referring to another Bannock. “Let’s not push our luck.”

  “Brother not harm us.”

  From under California’s blanket came a grumbled, “Here we go again.”

  “Let it drop,” Fargo said.

  “Tell that to him.”

  They sat drinking coffee, California sullen and surly, Lone Bear smiling at the world.

  Fargo was eager to get under way. He snatched up his saddle blanket and turned to the horses, and stopped cold. “Oh hell.”

  California swiveled. Cursing furiously, he leaped to his feet. “My horse is gone!”

  The chestnut’s hobble lay where Fargo had last seen the animal standing. He went over and scoured for sign.

  “The Bannocks took him, I bet,” California said, with a hard glace at Lone Bear. “They slipped in while we were sleeping and snuck away with him.”

  “Why didn’t they take my horse, too?” Fargo said. Or, for that matter, slit their throats. He examined the hobble; it hadn’t been cut. “Are you sure this was tight enough?”

  “I know how to hobble a horse,” California said petulantly.

  Tracks showed where the chestnut had wandered off into the woods.

  “I’ll go after him,” Fargo said, and hurriedly saddled the Ovaro. As he was about to climb on, he spied gray tendrils rising into the sky to the south.

  California spotted them, too. “Smoke,” he said. “Four or five campfires. It must be the colonel. Not more than a mile off, I reckon.”

  Fargo swore. He’d counted on being far ahead by now. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  The chestnut had made a beeline through the trees as if it had somewhere to go.

  At least, Fargo saw, it had been moving away from the soldiers.

  For the next hour he pressed hard. He was midway down a rocky slope when he spied it in a valley below. It had stopped near a stand of cottonwoods and was drinking from a small stream.

  Thinking it was a shame he didn’t eat horse meat, Fargo descended and drew rein in the shadowed cover of some pines.

  The moment he showed himself, the chestnut might run off. To avoid having to chase it all over creation, he dismounted, tied the Ovaro, and snaked into the high grass in a crouch.

  Every ten feet or so Fargo raised his head to confirm the chestnut was still there. He was almost close enough to rush it when he raised his head a final time and heard a light chuckle.

  “Fancy running into you here.”

  Fargo straightened. Only then did he see that a rope had been thrown over the chestnut’s neck and the other end wrapped around a cottonwood.

  Leaning against it was Sagebrush Sadie, her rifle propped against her leg, her arms across her chest. “Are you trying to catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that?” she teased.

  “I’ll be damned,” Fargo said. Movement in the stand showed him where her own horse was tied.

  “I don’t blame you for being surprised,” Sadie said. “I sure am. What in hell are you doing here?”

  “Trying to catch California’s horse.”

  “I reckoned it was his,” Sadie said. “But the last I saw of you two, you were in Salt Creek.”

  Fargo went to the chestnut and patted it. “We’re obliged for you catching him.”

  “Catch, hell,” Sadie said. “I was on a scout for Colonel Carlson and came to this valley and there it was, right where you see it.”

  “We’re still obliged,” Fargo said. “I’d better get it back. California wasn’t any too happy that it slipped its hobble.”

  “Hold on there,” Sadie said, straightening. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

  Fargo decided to tell the truth, to a degree. “The same thing you are. We’re looking for the Bannock village.”

  “What for?” Sadie asked. “You’re not doing it for Carlson.”

  “On our own account,” Fargo said, and went to slide her rope off.

  “Hold on,” Sadie said again. “You still haven’t told me why.”

  “We’d like to stop the killing if we can,” Fargo hedged.

  “How? By riding into their village and asking pretty please for the renegades to sto
p shedding white blood?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  Sadie straightened, her brow puckered. “That’s not like you. You think more than anybody I know. It’s why you’re usually two steps ahead of everybody else.”

  “I really do have to be going.” Fargo was anxious to get out of there before Carlson and the soldiers showed up. “Where is the good colonel, anyhow?”

  Sadie jerked a thumb to the west. “About half a mile back. He’s moving slow and careful so as not to give the hostiles any warning.”

  “And then what?”

  “He won’t tell me what he’s up to. All he says is that he’s going to solve the hostile problem once and for all.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Me either. It’s why I practically begged him to let me come along. I have friends among the Bannocks. I don’t want them to come to harm.”

  “We think alike,” Fargo said.

  “Isn’t this sweet?” a gravelly voice said, and out of the cottonwoods rode Emmett Badger. Drawing rein, he leaned on his saddle horn and stared at the chestnut. “California is here too?”

  Fargo motioned. “We’re camped up the mountain a ways. His horse ran off and I came to find it.”

  “I heard what you two bleeding hearts just said,” Badger remarked, giving Sadie a resentful look.

  “All I want is to stop the killing,” Fargo said, suppressing his temper.

  Badger’s hard countenance grew harder. “Who in hell do you think you are?”

  “Emmett,” Sadie said.

  “Butt out,” Badger snapped. He jabbed a finger at Fargo. “I asked you a question. Who do you think you are, interfering in army matters?”

  Fargo didn’t answer.

  “I’m the scout at Fort Carlson. Not you. If anyone has a say, it’s me. And I say whatever the army wants to do, we stay out of it.”

  “I’m worried that Carlson plans to attack the Bannock village,” Fargo confessed.

  “Well, guess what,” Badger said. “He does.”

  20

  Sagebrush Sadie put a hand to her throat. “You know this for a fact?”

  “Out of his own mouth,” Badger said, “before we left the fort.”