by Sharpe, Jon
Badger let out a hiss and a groan, and sagged.
Fargo threw the piece aside. “You sure about the rest of it? A doc could do it and give you something for the pain.”
“Stop dawdling.” Badger swallowed. “One thing, though. If I die, kill the warrior who did it.”
Fargo thought of Jed Crow and Tennessee. “I aim to anyway.” He rose and moved around in front and knelt. “Here comes the hard part.”
“Get it done.” Badger set himself and clenched his jaw.
Fargo gripped the arrow close to the tip. It was slick with blood. He wiped his hand on the grass and gripped it again. Bunching his shoulders, he said, “Here we go,” and slowly began to pull. Sometimes arrows didn’t cooperate and had to be dug out; this one slid out as easily as he could hope.
Badger shook, and swore. “That wasn’t so bad,” he claimed.
“I’ll patch you up,” Fargo offered.
“Before you do,” Badger said weakly, “one more thing.”
“You want to save the arrow as a keepsake?”
“No,” Badger said. “I want you to kill Sagebrush Sadie, too.”
22
Fargo was halfway up the mountain, leading the chestnut, when the column swept into the valley and clattered along the creek. He drew rein to watch.
Emmett Badger was where he’d left him, and weakly waved an arm to get their attention.
At a barked command from Colonel Carlson, the troopers came to a halt. The colonel was the first off his mount and at the scout’s side.
Tending to Badger would delay Carlson a while, giving Sadie and her friend time to reach the village and warn the Bannocks.
Fargo wasn’t about to turn back, though. He had a score to settle. Gigging the Ovaro, he continued his ascent.
California Jim and Lone Bear were where he had left them, seated at a small fire, California drinking coffee, the Panati leader chewing on a piece of jerky California must have given him.
“Took you long enough, pard,” California remarked with a chuckle. “You must have chased that critter plumb to Wyoming.”
Fargo climbed down and poured himself some coffee. “We need to talk,” he said, looking directly at the Bannock.
“You sound mad,” Lone Bear said.
“Mad as hell,” Fargo confirmed. “Tell me about Sagebrush Sadie.”
Lone Bear frowned. “Oh,” he said. “Her.”
Fargo waited, and when the old warrior just sat there, he prodded him with, “She told me that she lived with a tribe once. Was it yours?”
Almost reluctantly, Lone Bear said, “She first come our village one winter ago. She have good heart. We let her stay.”
“And?” Fargo said when Lone Bear didn’t go on.
“She meet warrior. She like him. Him like her. They spend all time together.”
“Thunder Hawk,” Fargo said.
“You know him?”
“I met the bastard.”
“Not call him that,” Lone Bear said. “Thunder Hawk my son.”
Fargo straightened. “The hell you say.”
“What’s he got to do with anything?” California Jim interrupted.
“Thunder Hawk is the leader of the renegades,” Fargo said. “He’s to blame for Crow and Tennessee.”
“Your own son?” California said to Lone Bear. “So that’s why Colonel Carlson threw you in the guardhouse. To get your son to stop the killing.”
Sorrow deepened the wrinkles on Lone Bear’s aged face. “Me tell Thunder Hawk not kill whites. Me tell him it bad medicine.”
“What’s he trying to prove?” California asked. “He sure as hell can’t lick the entire U.S. army.”
“Him do it for her,” Lone Bear said.
“For Sadie?” Fargo said.
Lone Bear grunted. “His head in whirl over her. Him do anything she want.”
“Son of a bitch,” Fargo growled. He saw it all, yet could hardly believe it. “You didn’t try to stop them before they shed any blood?”
Lone Bear answered so quietly, they had to strain to hear him. “One day son come to me. Him say he go kill whites. Me say no, that whites leave us be, we leave whites be. Him not listen. Him and others attack what you call wagon train. Him kill other whites, too. All for her. For Sadie.”
“So no one would suspect when she sent for us and Thunder Hawk started picking off her fellow scouts one by one,” Fargo said.
“What’s this?” California said.
“Sadie wrote the letters that brought us here,” Fargo explained, “so Thunder Hawk could do us in.”
“Sadie wants all of us dead? What on earth for?”
“We’re men.”
“How’s that our fault?”
“With us out of the way, she figures she’ll get a lot more work.”
California’s eyebrows tried to crawl up his forehead. “She’s having us killed off to fill her poke?”
“More or less,” Fargo said.
“Has that gal been chewing locoweed? I can’t hardly believe it.”
Fargo grunted. The notion was preposterous, but then people did preposterous things all the time.
“I’ll have to hear it from her own lips,” California said. “And even then . . .”
Draining his cup, Fargo stood. “Saddle up. We have some hard riding to do.” And some hard killing, he almost added.
Lone Bear acted befuddled. At first he had them ride north but then he changed his mind and said it must be to the west and later he changed his mind again and said the village must be to the south.
Fargo went east. Soon they came to a ridge that overlooked a verdant valley. And there, winding away, was a long line of Indians on horseback and on foot.
“We found them, by-God,” California Jim declared.
Lone Bear wasn’t nearly as glad.
As was customary, the main body was made up mostly of older men and the women and children. Their lodges had been torn down, and along with their possessions, tied to travois being pulled by horses and dogs.
They were flanked by warriors in their prime, ready to ward off an attack.
Fargo rode down out of the tall timber and came up on the exodus from the rear. Almost immediately a warrior spotted them and yipped a warning, and a dozen peeled away and charged to intercept them.
Drawing rein, Fargo shifted, gripped Lone Bear by the arm, and swung him off. Then he placed his hand on his Colt.
California had his rifle across his saddle. “They don’t look none too friendly,” he observed.
“Don’t shoot unless I do,” Fargo said, and bent toward Long Bear. “Whether we do or we don’t is up to you. They start anything, a lot of women will mourn for their husbands tonight.”
Lone Bear stepped in front of the Ovaro and spread his arms.
The warriors slowed.
Fargo willed himself to stay clam. One slip in judgment and there would be a bloodbath. “Nice and easy does it,” he said.
“I hear you, pard,” California replied.
Lone Bear greeted the warriors. A husky Bannock responded. By the end of their exchange, the expressions of the warriors were friendlier.
Lone Bear turned. “Me tell them how you take me from blue coats.”
Fargo kept his hand on his Colt.
“Me say you friend. Me say you come warn them blue coats coming.”
“Only Sadie and Thunder Hawk already did,” Fargo said. “I want to know where they got to.”
Lone Bear and the husky warrior talked some more. “They warn and go away.”
“Which direction?”
Smiling, Lone Bear pointed to the south.
Fargo refrained from calling him a liar. He was Thunder Hawk’s fath
er, after all. “You’d best join your people. The blue coats aren’t that far behind.”
Lone Bear stepped to the husky warrior’s mount and the man swung him up. “Me thank you,” he said. “You like Sagebrush Sadie. You have good heart.”
Fargo let that pass. He sat there as the Bannocks wheeled and rode to rejoin the exodus.
California grinned. “That went better than I reckoned it would.”
“This is where we part company.”
“Say that again?”
“The Bannocks aren’t out of danger. Carlson might still catch up to them, and there could be a massacre. It’s up to you to prevent it.”
“How?”
“Simple. You tell him about Sadie and Thunder Hawk. Make it clear as you can that Thunder Hawk and his friends are behind the killings, and no one else. The rest of the Bannocks are innocent.”
“He’s liable to call me a liar to my face and I’ll have to hit him.”
“Tell him he’ll hear it from Sadie herself if I can bring her in alive.”
“I knew it. You’re going after them and you don’t want me along.”
“It’s best I do this alone.”
“I’m not an infant, you know.”
“Never said you were.” Fargo raised his reins. “You’re wasting time. Good luck.”
“Give ’em hell, pard.”
Fargo touched his spurs and didn’t look back to see if California was doing as he asked.
Once he was above the valley, Fargo looped to the west. He figured the renegades—and Sadie—wouldn’t bother hiding their sign. They didn’t expect anyone to come after them.
Once he found their trail, he would stay after them until hell froze over. They had a lot to answer for, and he would damn well make sure they did.
As he searched, he climbed, so that when evening fell, he was miles above the valley, so high up that a vast vista of peaks and slopes stretched in all directions.
He made cold camp on an open bench where there was grass for the Ovaro.
Stars sparkled to life and the night came alive with roars and howls and shrieks.
Fargo sat and scanned the ink below and was rewarded with flares of light to the southeast. That had to be the Bannocks. Presently he saw more to the south; Colonel Carlson and the column.
He went on scanning. Eventually he would spot what he was looking for. Unless they’d made a cold camp, as he had.
Over an hour went by and he was beginning to think he was out of luck when he spied a solitary fire to the southwest.
It was small, and well hidden from prying eyes, except from above.
“Got you,” Fargo said.
Pulling his blanket tight around him, he curled on his side and was asleep within moments. The chill wind, the chorus of bestial cries, were as a lullaby to a civilized townsman. He slept soundly until near the crack of the new day, and was in the saddle with the blush of the rising sun.
Time to begin settling scores.
23
It was the middle of the morning when Fargo found where they had camped. Tracks of unshod horses and moccasin prints confirmed they were Bannocks. He made it out to be nine warriors.
A single set of shod hoofprints showed that a white was with them.
Sagebrush Sadie and her lover had headed out early, to the south.
Fargo didn’t push to catch up. He had a long, hard track ahead. It wouldn’t do to ride the stallion into the ground.
When he did overtake them, he had no illusions about whose side Sadie would take.
He was glad California Jim was with the soldiers. He could count on two hands the number of truly good friends he had, and California was one of them. He liked the old scout, liked him a lot, and would hate for him to come to harm.
He’d seen a lot of killing in his time, done for every reason under the sun. Greed, lust, hatred, or for the sheer thrill of killing.
This was a new one. He kept thinking there had to be more to it than Sadie killing off her competition. He’d like to find out what before it was all over.
He reminded himself there were no depths people wouldn’t plumb.
Put in terms of the wilds around him, when all was said and done, the human animal was the most vicious of all. When it came to sheer, wanton savagery, the two-legged wolves of the world beat their four-legged counterparts all hollow.
Fargo wondered if he should include himself. After all, he’d done more than a little killing in his time. Almost always in self-defense or to protect others. He wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. Although in this instance, he had no intention of turning Thunder Hawk and the other hostiles over to Colonel Carlson. The army would throw them into prison for the rest of their lives, which some might say was fitting.
Not him. Why should they go on living when they’d denied life to so many men, women, and children.
That last was abominable; women and children. An enemy out for your hide was one thing. Innocents who had never done anyone harm, another. It was why he’d gone to warn the Bannocks about Carlson. Their women and children didn’t deserve to suffer for the atrocities Thunder Hawk and his friends committed.
He would see to it that justice was done. Some might say he didn’t have the right to set himself as judge, jury, and executioner. But that wasn’t it at all. He was setting right their wrongs by avenging those who couldn’t avenge themselves.
Fancy words, but it all came down to one thing. He was going to kill the sons of bitches.
Along about noon Fargo stopped to rest the Ovaro. His quarry was still heading south. Toward the fort. Toward the settlement. That worried him. With most of the troopers out in the field searching for them, the smart thing for the renegades to do was find a hidey-hole and lie low for a spell. Instead, it appeared they were out to add more victims to their list.
And then it hit him. There were barely two dozen soldiers left at Fort Carlson. It could be that Thunder Hawk was going to do unto the colonel as the colonel had planned to do unto the Bannocks.
Fargo picked up the pace. He was still a day and a half out, with a lot of rugged terrain to cover.
To cut that down, he rode until midnight, slept barely four hours, and was on the move in the dark before sunrise.
He kept telling himself it couldn’t be. Attacks on military posts were rare. But Thunder Hawk knew a skeleton force had been left, and it would boost his prestige among his tribe. A warrior who attacked a fort. The Bannocks would sing his praises around their fires for many winters to come.
Fargo was almost to Salt Valley when he spied vultures. He also saw ribbons of smoke rising toward the carrion eaters.
“No,” Fargo spoke for the first time since parting company with California Jim, and brought the Ovaro to a gallop.
Even though he suspected the renegades were long gone, he shucked the Henry from his saddle scabbard as he neared the fort and levered a cartridge into the chamber.
“No,” he said again.
The headquarters, the barracks, the guardhouse, and another building had been burned to the ground. All that were left were charred timbers.
Bodies were sprawled everywhere; soldiers, women, and a child who had tried to flee across the parade ground.
Fargo felt an icy fist close on his chest. At the same time, his veins filled with molten fire.
The sutler’s still stood, and smoke was rising from the chimney. Two troopers were on the front porch, one at either end, and when the near one saw him, the man let out a yell.
As Fargo drew rein, Captain Mathews emerged.
Faces pressed to the windows—other soldiers, women, children.
Mathews was hatless and his uniform was smudged and torn, his face that of a man who had been through hell and back again.
“You,�
� he said.
“Which way did they go?”
“South,” Mathews said, and gazed out across the carnage. “They snuck through the grass and hit us so hard and so fast—” He stopped. “I never thought they’d attack the fort. I wasn’t prepared—” He stopped, and swallowed, and said softly, “God.”
“They won’t get away with it.” Fargo raised his reins.
“Hold on.” Mathews straightened. “I should take you into custody for what you did.”
“You won’t.”
“What makes you so damn sure?”
Fargo gestured. “This.”
Mathews gazed at the bodies again, and seemed to age ten years. “I got as many as I could save into the sutler’s. There are gun ports. We were able to hold them off.”
“It was the best you could do.”
Mathews looked at him. “Have you seen any sign of the colonel?”
“If he took my advice he’s on his way back,” Fargo said. “He should be here in two or three days.”
“That old Indian,” Mathews said, “he had nothing to do with this, did he?”
“No.”
Now it was Mathews who gestured. “Did they do this because they thought we had him locked up?”
“The ones who did this did it because they like to kill whites. Plain and simple.”
“Hell,” Mathews said. He clenched his fists. “I can spare a trooper to go with you.”
“They might circle back. You’ll need every man you have.”
Mathews managed a wan smile. “Give those bastards hell.”
Fargo reined around. A vulture was alighting near the dead child, its wings spread wide to slow its descent. Snapping the Henry to his shoulder, he aimed and squeezed. At the blast, the bird did an ungainly flop onto its back, flapped wildly a bit, and was still.
“We should have seen to the bodies,” Mathews said. “I was worried the savages were waiting for us to show ourselves.”
With a nod, Fargo departed. He was thinking of the settlement, Salt Creek, and the men, women, and children who called it home. They’d be easy pickings. Easier, even, than the soldiers.