Rocky Mountain Revenge

by Jon Sharpe

  Many Clouds looked away and then back again. “It will always be yes. Even if I move into the lodge of a warrior, it will always be yes.”

  “I thought the Nez Perce don’t like that sort of thing,” Fargo mentioned. Jealous husbands were high on his list of things he could do without.

  “That does not matter. I will always be willing to lie with you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I still have to go where the wind takes me.”

  “I will not ask more than you can give. But I will say only this once that I wish it was different.”

  Fargo eased onto his elbow. He suspected she was having second thoughts but she surprised him by fiercely pulling him to her and giving him a kiss he felt in his toes. She had a way of moving her lips as she kissed that sent delightful tingles shooting down his body. They kissed and kissed, all the while he explored her luscious form, running his hands from her bosom to her knees, sculpting her through the doeskin dress. He cupped a breast and squeezed and Many Clouds cooed softly. He kneaded her thighs and she squirmed in rising ardor. He licked her neck and nibbled her earlobe and she did the same to him.

  A fish jumped in the stream. Nearby, the Ovaro cropped grass. A bee buzzed the blankets.

  No one else had come down the trail. The Nimipuu were busy preparing for the burials.

  Fargo gave himself over to his hunger. He hiked her dress and delved a hand under. Her skin was silky smooth and pleasantly warm. He slid his fingers over her perfect thighs to her nether mound. She was wet with need and moaned when he parted her nether lips. He rubbed her tiny knob and she arched her back and tried to devour his mouth with hers.

  Fargo inserted a finger and stroked. He nearly gasped when her fingers enfolded his member. She had gotten his pants undone without him realizing.

  “You like that,” Many Clouds huskily taunted.

  “And you like this,” Fargo said, sliding a second finger into her.

  “More than anything.”

  Here was a woman after Fargo’s own heart. He pumped and she ground into him. For a while he drifted on a tide of carnal pleasure and then she gripped him and said, “Please. I want you in me. Now.”

  Fargo was on the brink. Willing himself not to explode, he parted her legs.

  Another moment, he thrust in and up.

  Many Mounds stifled an outcry. Her nails dug into his shoulder and her ankles locked behind him. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  A splash Fargo took to be another fish. He rocked on his knees and she thrust to meet him. They went faster and harder until of a sudden Many Clouds opened her mouth wide and gushed. Fargo tried to hold off but he wanted it as much as she did. He exploded. The world swam, and together they coasted to an eventual stop and lay panting and sweaty and grinning.

  “That was nice,” Many Clouds said quietly.

  Fargo grunted.

  “Did you not think it was nice?”

  “Very,” Fargo said, wishing she wouldn’t talk.

  “The bear must think it was nice, too.”

  “Bear?” Fargo said sleepily. He thought she was joking but when he glanced over his shoulder a black bear was in the middle of the stream staring back at him.

  “What the hell?” he blurted, and grabbed for his Colt.

  “Do not shoot. If it was going to attack us it would have done so by now.”

  Fargo wasn’t so sure. Bears were about the most unpredictable critters on God’s green earth. This one was young, not more than a year or so old. Still, it had inches-long claws and sharp teeth and could kill as easily as a bear twice its size.

  He curled his thumb around the Colt’s hammer.

  “See?” Many Clouds said.

  The black bear had turned and was moving to the far bank. It climbed out, shook itself and sent drops flying, and gave them a last curious look before it melted into the forest.

  “That was an omen,” Many Clouds declared.

  “That you need to take a bath?”

  “You are poking fun, as whites say. But you do not see the world as my people do. For me that bear was a sign. This is the last time we will lie together.”

  “A while ago you said—”

  Many Clouds put a finger to his lips. “I know what I said. But now I know different.”

  “It was a bear, for God’s sake.”

  “You do not believe. That is fine for you. But do not insult me if I do. For me the world is more than what the eyes see and the ears hear.”

  Fargo rolled off her and onto his side. Some whites were the same. They saw everything as omens from above. To him, things happened, and that was that. “I’ll be around a while in case you change your mind.”

  Many Clouds touched his cheek. “No. The bear has told us. It makes me sad that we will never touch again.”

  “Hell.”

  “Let me hold you and we will rest and then I must join my people.” Many Clouds nuzzled against him.

  Fargo stretched out on his back. Given how busy Gray Bear would be for the rest of the day, he might have to wait until tomorrow to bring up the subject of the Appaloosas. He closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, Many Clouds was shaking him.

  “We fell asleep. I must hurry.”

  Fargo rose onto his elbows. Judging by the sun, they had slept about an hour. She was smoothing her dress. Smiling, she bent and traced his chin with a finger. Then she turned and hastened up the path.

  Sitting up, Fargo hitched at his pants. He rolled up his bedroll and tied it on the Ovaro. Climbing on, he rode back. Hardly anyone paid attention to him. They were bustling about like so many bees. He went through the lodges to the open valley beyond, where the horse herd, consisting of hundreds of Appaloosas and others, was being watched over by several boys. It was an important responsibility and they took it seriously. Two reined over and used sign language to ask what he wanted.

  Fargo answered by holding his right hand at shoulder height, his palm out, his fingers up, and twisted his wrist quickly three times. It was the sign for “question.” He asked which stallion and which mare were the best in the entire herd.

  One of the boys signed that all Nez Perce horses were fine animals.

  Fargo chuckled and asked which of the many fine animals the boy considered the finest.

  The boy kneed his pony and beckoned. He wound among the horses and presently drew rein and pointed.

  Fargo whistled in admiration. He was a keen judge of horseflesh, and the stallion the boy had picked was superb. Over fifteen hands high, it had black and white spots on a roan background. Each hoof had white stripes and its eyes were rimmed white. Its mane was dark, its tail had a natural arch. The pinnacle of breeding for endurance and speed, here was an animal any warrior would give anything to possess.

  “Question,” Fargo signed. “Who own horse?” He figured it must be a prominent warrior. There were rich and poor Indians just as there were rich and poor whites, and the richest Indians nearly always owned the best animals.

  “Gray Bear.”

  A stroke of luck, Fargo reckoned. “Question. Horse have name?” Some tribes wouldn’t think of giving a name to something they might have to eat. Other tribes regarded their horses as highly as they did people.

  “Yes.” The boy raised his hands to his shoulders and flapped them up and down.

  Fargo was puzzled. “You call horse Bird?”

  The boy laughed. He held his right hand down below his waist, his hand closed, then suddenly snapped his hand up and popped his finger out.

  Fargo was more puzzled than ever. “You call horse Bird Fire?”

  “No.” The boy repeated the signs and then pointed at the sky.

  Then Fargo remembered. When used together, the signs for “bird” and “fire” actually stood for Thunder Bird, a giant bird that Indian legend had it caused thunder. Or the signs might stand for thunder, itself. “Question. You call horse Thunder?”

  The boy motioned impatiently and then bunched his fist, held it so his knuckles were to the
ground, and made chopping or clomping motions.

  At last Fargo understood. “You call horse Thunderhoof.”

  “Yes,” the boy confirmed, and took him to see two others. Both were exceptional but neither compared to Thunderhoof.

  Fargo asked the boy to point out the best mares and was shown four. Only two aroused Fargo’s interest. Neither had names, and neither belonged to Gray Bear.

  By then they were on the far side of the herd, near the end of the valley.

  The boy started around rather than to go back through.

  Fargo followed. It would be quicker. He glanced at the shadowed forest less than a hundred yards away and wasn’t alarmed when he spied movement. A deer, he figured, or some other animal. Then a black silhouette reared against the green, a silhouette with two legs. This close to the village, Fargo took it to be a Nez Perce.

  He started to turn toward the boy just as a rifle boomed and a slug whizzed past his ear.

  Fargo threw himself from the saddle. On horseback he was an easy target. In the grass he’d be hard to spot and harder to hit. Slicking the Colt from his holster, he banged off a quick shot at puffs of gun smoke.

  The boy had reined around in alarm. He let out a yell, nocked an arrow to his bowstring, and galloped toward the woods.

  “No!” Fargo shouted.

  The boy didn’t heed. He jerked his bow up and drew the string back but before he could let the shaft fly the rifle boomed a second time and the top of the boy’s head exploded. Like a disjointed doll he flopped from his mount.

  Fargo whipped erect and fired twice at the silhouette and then dropped flat.

  There was no answering shot. He crawled to the boy and parted the grass, and swore. Rolling onto his side, he plucked cartridges from his belt and reloaded.

  Distant yells and the drum of hooves told him help was on the way but it would take them a minute to get there. In the meantime, he would be damned if he would let the killer get away.

  Pumping his legs, Fargo zigzagged toward the trees. He was careful not to rise too high so he didn’t share the boy’s grisly fate.

  No shots thundered.

  Fargo was a stone’s toss from the tree line when a horse nickered and the undergrowth crackled. He ran faster and rose and glimpsed not one but three figures on horseback, swiftly fleeing.

  One of the riders glanced back.

  Fargo stopped cold in his tracks. “It can’t be,” he blurted. He raised the Colt but the vegetation swallowed them. Frustrated and bewildered, he hurried to reclaim the Ovaro.

  Several boys and a pair of warriors had arrived and were hunched over the body of the slain horse guard. They straightened as Fargo came up and the huskiest of the men stepped in front of him and raised a hand for him to stop.

  “I know who did this,” Fargo said. “I need my horse so I can go after them.” He went to walk on but the warrior pushed him, hard, and he nearly fell. “Damn it, let me by.”

  Fargo had no time for this. He went to go around but the other warrior had slipped behind him and seized his arms. “Let me go, damn it.” He reckoned they must think he was to blame.

  The next instant a knife was pressed to Fargo’s throat.

  7

  His wrists hurt from the rope but otherwise Fargo felt fortunate to be alive.

  He gazed through the opening at the top of the lodge and listened to a commotion outside. The sun had gone down and the sky was darkening. He rolled onto his back and sat up. His hat was next to him. With his arms bound behind him he couldn’t very well put it on.

  The flap parted. Gray Bear entered and came over and sat cross-legged.

  Small Badger kindled the fire and moved next to his father.

  “How you be, friend?”

  “Hungry,” Fargo said.

  Gray Bear went on at some length in the Nez Perce tongue. His son listened attentively, and then translated.

  “My father come from council. Some warriors think you shoot Running Elk.”

  “I tried to tell them,” Fargo said. “It wasn’t me. It was someone in the trees.”

  “Warriors only see you. They say they hear shot and ride fast and find body and you come out of woods.”

  “The killer was already gone.” Fargo had tried to explain but the two warriors who took him captive didn’t speak English. He would have explained in sign but they had tied him up and angrily hustled him to this lodge and thrown him in and left.

  “You see Running Elk’s killer?”

  “I caught a glimpse.”

  “Was it Blackfoot? Or maybe Sioux? Nimipuu have many enemies,” Small Badger said.

  “I didn’t get a good enough look,” Fargo lied. The Nez Perce wouldn’t take kindly to the truth; namely, that Running Elk had been slain by a man out to kill him.

  Gray Bear spoke and once more his son served as interpreter. “My father want know why you were at horses?”

  “Didn’t you tell him I came here to buy a couple of Appaloosas?”

  “Not yet, no. I sorry. I busy other things.” Small Badger talked to his father at considerable length and the chief replied.

  “He say it strange you want m’a min and someone kill horse guard.”

  M’a min was the Nez Perce word for their famous breed. “Ask him to have someone go look in the trees. They’ll find sign. It will prove I am telling the truth.”

  Gray Bear called out. The flap moved and a warrior poked his head inside.

  Gray Bear said something and the warrior promptly ducked out again.

  “Father do as you want. He send men to where Running Elk shot.”

  “Tell him I’m obliged.”

  Father and son talked, and Small Badger said, “Who this white man you want buy horses for?”

  Fargo told them about Clarence Bell. He left nothing out. It was obvious the chief wasn’t happy about the idea, and the first question Gray Bear posed through his son confirmed it.

  “What we need with money? We trade for things we need.”

  “This white man is offering enough to buy guns and steel knives for every warrior and blankets and pots and pans for every woman,” Fargo mentioned. “All for a stallion and a mare.”

  Small Badger translated.

  Gray Bear bowed his head and was silent for a while. Finally he looked Fargo in the eyes and began a speech.

  “Father say what you ask no white man ever ask before. Other tribes want breed our horses but we only trade geldings. We keep stallions. Only Nimipuu breed m’a min.”

  Fargo had expected this.

  “M’a min . . . what is word?” Small Badger scratched his hairless chin. “M’a min special to Nimipuu. We breed many winters to make strong, make fast, make best horse we can.”

  “So the answer is no?”

  Small Badger put the question to his father. “Him say he must think. It big thing, what you ask.”

  Fargo appreciated as much, and said so, adding, “Tell your pa not to base his decision on me. It doesn’t matter to me if the man gets his horses. Say no and there will be no hard feelings.”

  “We still be friends?”

  “If you want to be.”

  The young warrior clasped Fargo’s arm. “You save me. You stop other whites from . . . how you say it?”

  “Stringing you up by the neck.”

  “Yes. Stringing me. You and I be friends all time,” Small Badger said sincerely.

  The two left.

  Fargo lay near the fire and pondered. It would be easy to escape. A few strokes of the Arkansas toothpick hidden in his boot, and all he had to do was find the Ovaro and light a shuck. But he could forget the Appaloosas. It would also cost him Small Badger’s and Gray Bear’s friendship. He elected to stay put.

  The fire had burned low when the flap parted again and in came his friends.

  “Father say tell you warriors find tracks,” Small Badger reported.

  “Man climb on horse then ride fast. Him join two others.”

  “There were three of the
m?” Fargo feigned surprise.

  “We know you not shoot Running Elk.”

  Fargo shifted and wagged his bound wrists. “Cut me free and I’ll go after the bastards.”

  “Not yours to do,” Small Badger said. “Them kill Nimipuu. Nimipuu go after them. Nimipuu catch them. Nimipuu kill them.”

  “Let me help.” Fargo had a personal reason that he wasn’t about to share. “I’m a fair hand at tracking.”

  Small Badger passed on the request. “Father say him let you know.” He began prying at the knots. “I free you now. I sorry this happen. Everyone mad Running Elk shot. They not know you good man like I do.”

  As much as Fargo wanted to go after the shooter, common sense dictated he must wait until daylight. He rubbed his wrists and said, “I’m still hungry. Any chance I can get some food?”

  “I have woman bring,” Small Badger said. He addressed his father and went to the flap. “I be back.”

  Gray Bear sat staring at the ground.

  Fargo wondered what the chief was thinking about. He imagined that both father and son had gone against popular sentiment and stood up for him when the rest of the band wanted to hold him to account for the boy’s death.

  The silence was awkward. Off in the village a dog barked. Someone began playing a flute.

  When the flap parted Fargo looked up, expecting it to be Small Badger. Instead, it was a warrior he had never seen before, a well-muscled man in his middle years. He came over to Gray Bear and the two had a brief exchange. The new-comer was angry. Twice he nodded at Fargo.

  Small Badger returned. He seemed surprised that the other warrior was there. He listened to what the man had to say, and then turned. “This be Motomo, father to Running Elk. In the white tongue his name be He Who Goes First.”

  Fargo nodded.

  Motomo glared.

  Small Badger said something to him and that set off a long argument. It ended when Motomo gestured at Fargo as if plunging a blade into his body.

  Gray Bear spoke.

  Motomo stared sullenly at Fargo with raw hate in his eyes.

  “What is that all about?” Fargo asked.

  “Him still think you kill his son. Him think you not come to buy Appaloosas. Him think you come to steal. When Running Elk try to stop you, you shoot him.”