Rocky Mountain Revenge

by Jon Sharpe

  “I get to live?”

  Small Badger looked at Gray Bear, who went on at some length. “My t’o t, sorry, my father, speak for you with council. Him say you good friend to Nimipuu. Him say you always talk straight tongue.”

  “Thank him for me,” Fargo interrupted.

  Small Badger did, and then continued. “Him say he believe you not kill Running Elk. Him say it be three men warriors find. He think they try steal m’a min. Him say you should live.”

  “And?” Fargo prompted when the younger warrior stopped.

  “Motomo argue. Him say you bad man. Him say you kill son. He want you dead. Only few take his side. Most believe my father. It decided you not enemy. It decided you our friend.” Smiling, Small Badger produced his knife and moved around behind Fargo and cut him free.

  “I’m obliged.” Rubbing his wrists, Fargo asked the question uppermost on his mind. “But when do I get my guns back?”

  “I bring soon. First Father want know more about white man who want our horses.”

  Fargo told them everything he knew about Clarence Bell and the Circle B and Bell’s offer. “I have a thousand dollars in my saddlebags and the rest is yours when I bring him the Appaloosas.”

  Gray Bear asked if it was true that five thousand was a lot of money. Fargo said it was, even for a white man, and that in his opinion the rancher was being generous. Gray Bear remarked that he could do a lot of good for his people. He then asked if Fargo trusted Bell.

  Fargo chose his words with care. “He seems honest enough. But I hardly know the man.”

  “We get rest of money when him get horses, is that right?” Small Badger asked.

  Fargo confirmed that was how whites often conducted business.

  The chief and his son conversed. Finally Small Badger turned to Fargo and said, “Father say we sell you m’a min. One stallion, one mare. In morning we go look at herd and you pick.”

  “I already have,” Fargo said. “I’ve seen a mare I like and I’ll show her to you. The stallion I’d like to buy is Thunderhoof.”

  The young warrior gave a start. “Him Father’s horse.”

  “I know.”

  “Him father’s best horse.”

  “For five thousand dollars Bell should get the best.”

  Another long talk took place. Fargo could tell that Gray Bear wasn’t entirely happy with his choice.

  “Father must think on this,” Small Badger related. “Him give you decision in morning.”

  They rose to go.

  “My guns,” Fargo reminded the youth.

  “In morning.”

  Fargo hid his disappointment. The important thing was that he was on friendly terms again. He walked with them to the flap and then tied it and laid down to rest. He only intended to take a short nap but when he opened his eyes the lodge was plunged in gloom and the opening at the top was dark. He had slept much too long. He blamed Many Clouds.

  About to sit up, Fargo stiffened. He was sure he had heard someone move.

  Pretending to still be asleep, he rolled onto his side and mumbled, as sleepers sometimes did, and cracked his eyelids. The flap was still closed and he saw no one else. He figured to get a fire going and was set to rise when a gust of wind moved the flap and moonlight spilled in.

  A patch of shadow darker than the rest became the darkling form of a man in a crouch. Fargo figured it must be Motomo, come to avenge his son. He raised his pant leg high enough to palm the Arkansas toothpick.

  Fargo stayed on his side. He would let Motomo come to him. He held the toothpick behind his knee and marked the distance and when only a few feet separated them, he sprang up. “That’s close enough.”

  The warrior spat words in Nez Perce and attacked.

  A knife arced at Fargo’s neck. He countered with the toothpick. Steel rang on steel and they circled. Only then did Fargo see who it was. He had been wrong. It wasn’t Motomo. It was Alahmoot. “I didn’t kill the boy, damn you.”

  Alahmoot swept in quick and low, thrusting at Fargo’s groin. Fargo sidestepped. He stabbed at Fargo’s ribs. Fargo dodged. He swung again and the blade clipped a whang on Fargo’s buckskins.

  They resumed circling.

  Fargo was averse to killing him. He had just gone through hell to get the Nez Perce to sell him a couple of horses. Killing a warrior now might ruin any hope he had. Accordingly, when Alahmoot lunged, seeking to disembowel him, Fargo twisted aside and slashed.

  Alahmoot hissed and leaped back, blood misting from his forearm. He pressed it against his side to stanch the spray and came in again.

  Fargo avoided a stab at his throat and another at his stomach. Pivoting, he streaked the toothpick and opened the warrior’s thigh. More blood spurted.

  Alahmoot grimaced in pain and tottered.

  Fargo hoped that would do it. He motioned at the flap and said, “Get the hell out while you can.” He knew the warrior didn’t speak English but his meaning was clear.

  Alahmoot’s shirtsleeve dripped blood and a dark stain was spreading down his leg but he bared his teeth and lanced his blade at Fargo’s neck. Once again steel met steel. Fargo, tucking down and under, cut Alahmoot’s other leg, and cut it deep.

  The warrior staggered. He lowered his knife and looked down at himself.

  “Give up, damn you.”

  Hatred twisted Alahmoot’s features. He said something under his breath and turned and limped to the flap. He looked back at Fargo and motioned with his knife across his throat. The meaning was clear. It wasn’t over. Alahmoot would kill him yet. The warrior slipped out, leaving a dark smear.

  Fargo wiped the toothpick clean on his pants. Holding on to it, he went to the entrance and warily peered out. A warrior stood a few yards away, his back to the lodge. Either Alahmoot had snuck past him or the warrior had let Alahmoot slip inside knowing full well what he intended.

  Fargo found where the ties had been cut. He retied them and set about rekindling the fire. A stack of wood against the far side ensured he wouldn’t want for fuel. Soon crackling flames were spreading warmth. He sat facing the entrance, the toothpick in his hand, until the flap bulged and Many Clouds called out.

  “Let me in.”

  Fargo admitted her. This time she had brought roast elk and potatoes and a biscuit made from flour and berries. “Are you trying to fatten me up so I’ll take to lodge life?” he joked.

  “There is an idea.”

  After their lovemaking and his fight with Alahmoot, Fargo was hungry again. He dug in with relish.

  Many Clouds sat. She put her hand on the ground and then raised it and stared at her palm. “This is blood.”

  Fargo chewed lustily.

  “Fresh blood.”

  “I had a visitor.” Fargo elaborated, and when he was done she angrily rose to her feet.

  “I will go talk to Gray Bear. He will not be happy. The council decided you were to be spared.”

  “I’d be obliged if you didn’t,” Fargo said.

  “But Alahmoot tried to kill you. He will try again, or Motomo will. My people must know so they can be stopped.”

  “No. It will only make Motomo madder. I’ll deal with him in my own way and my own time.”

  “I do not understand,” Many Clouds confessed. “I offer you our protection. Refuse, and you might not make it out of these mountains alive.”

  Fargo chuckled and bit into a piece of juicy elk meat and said with his mouth full. “What else is new?”

  11

  Some whites liked to say that Indians didn’t know the value of a dollar. They joked that Indians traded prime pelts for pennies or gave up thousands of square miles of land for a few trinkets and blankets. They overlooked the fact that the Indians were often tricked, and that the Indian concept of land was not the same as the white man’s.

  But early on, the Indians learned how dearly the white man dearly loved his money. They learned that with it they could obtain guns and steel knives and pots and pans and all the wonderful things the white m
an possessed that they didn’t.

  Gray Bear was no fool. He understood that five thousand dollars was a considerable sum and could benefit his people greatly. It was the reason he gave for showing up at the lodge at first light with the stallion Thunderhoof and an exceptional mare. He also brought the Ovaro.

  Fargo couldn’t be happier, especially after Small Badger gave him the Colt and the Henry. He checked that both were loaded and twirled the Colt into his holster. He shoved the Henry in the saddle scabbard. From his saddlebags he took the thousand dollars and gave it to Gray Bear.

  “I’ll do my best to get those horses to Clarence Bell safely,” Fargo pledged.

  Small Badger, who was translating, smiled. “We get them safe together. Father want me take two warriors go with you.”

  “I can do it on my own,” Fargo objected. He was thinking of Speckled Wolf’s bunch.

  Gray Bear replied through his son. “You want m’a min, we go too. We help protect horses. We bring back rest of money from rancher.”

  That stopped Fargo in his mental tracks. He had no hankering to ride all the way back with the payment. “Who are the other warriors?”

  “Motomo is one.”

  “Are you loco?”

  “The other be a warrior called Kicking Bird. Alahmoot want come but him hurt legs somehow.”

  “Why in hell take Motomo? The man wants me dead.”

  “It only way council agree. Motomo not trust you. He go so be sure you not cheat Nimipuu.”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I know and Father know but others not so sure. This way all of us are happy.”

  Except Fargo. It was bad enough he’d have to watch out for the breeds. Now he’d need eyes in the back of his head to keep Motomo from sticking a knife between his shoulder blades. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  “You want Appaloosas, they must go,” Gray Bear insisted through Small Badger.

  Fargo saw no way out short of returning to Bell empty-handed. “I reckon you leave me no choice.”

  “I sorry, friend.”

  Gray Bear had been looking at the ground and at the flap. “There be blood all over,” his son translated.

  Fargo made a show of acting surprised. “So there is.” “Blood not here last night.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Father want know if Alahmoot pay you visit?”

  “I didn’t notice,” Fargo said again.

  They were to leave when the sun was a hand’s width above the horizon. Small Badger and his father excused themselves so Small Badger could get ready.

  Fargo made coffee. He was expecting a visitor, and sure enough, Many Clouds showed up wearing a doeskin dress that molded to her enticingly. He offered her coffee but she politely refused, and held out her hand.

  “I only came to say how good it was to see you again. I will miss you.” She lowered her voice. “I also came to warn you not to trust Motomo.”

  “As if I would.”

  “There is much whispering in the village,” Many Clouds said ominously. “The whispers say you will not live to reach the rancher.”

  Fargo thanked her for the warning. She embraced him, and her lips brushed his neck.

  “If you are ever again near Nimipuu land, come see me.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Bowing her head, Many Clouds hurried out.

  Fargo was in the saddle, holding the lead rope to the Appaloosas, when Small Badger and the other two warriors rode up. Small Badger was smiling and eager for adventure. Motomo glowered. Kicking Bird was introduced and gave no clue to his feelings.

  The village turned out to see them depart. Many patted Thunderhoof and the mare, acting as if they were saying good-bye to dear friends.

  At last, to Fargo’s relief, Small Badger gave the word and they headed out. The chief’s son took the lead.

  Fargo looked back only once. All the Nez Perce had gone on about their daily routines except for Gray Bear, who stood watching them until he was a speck in the distance.

  At midday they rested. Again, about three. Not once did Thunderhoof or the mare give Fargo trouble.

  That night they camped on a shelf flanked by spruce. Kicking Bird got the fire going. Motomo sat apart, and glared.

  “He’s not fixing to do that the whole way, is he?” Fargo said to Small Badger. “A man could get tired of it real quick.”

  The young warrior addressed Motomo, whose angry retort brought a flush of red.

  “What did he say?”

  “I have no right tell him how to look at you. Him say you have bad heart. Him say he watch you day and night.”

  It was going to be a long ride, Fargo reflected. Still, he had Thunderhoof and the mare, and in two weeks or less his job would be done and he could light a shuck for Denver and treat himself to women, whiskey and cards. Life didn’t get any better than that.

  About ten they were ready to turn in. Motomo argued that Fargo shouldn’t help stand watch because he couldn’t be trusted. Small Badger said that he trusted Fargo as much as he did his own father. Kicking Bird put an end to the dispute by saying that they would get more rest if all four of them took turns.

  It seemed to Fargo that his head barely touched the ground than he was awakened. The night was peaceful, and he sat at the fire sipping coffee until his turn was over.

  Motomo was to stand watch next. Fargo went over to wake him, and stopped short. Motomo was lying on his belly with his arm under him. Motomo’s knife sheath, Fargo noticed, was empty. Instead of bending down and shaking him, Fargo poked Motomo’s leg with a boot. He had to do it three times before Motomo rolled over. In Motomo’s right hand was the knife.

  “Fixing to stab me by mistake, were you?” Fargo said, and went to his blankets.

  It proved hard to get back to sleep. Fargo could feel Motomo’s eyes on him.

  Eventually he dozed off but his rest was fitful.

  A pink band heralded the new dawn.

  Small Badger had been unusually quiet the previous day and started off the morning by hardly saying three words. Fargo was curious why and came right out and asked him as they got under way.

  “I worry a lot,” the young warrior confessed. “I worry Motomo try kill you. I worry you kill Motomo. I worry something happen to Thunderhoof or mare. I worry I not get back to village with money.”

  “That’s a heap of worrying,” Fargo agreed with a grin.

  “It not funny. Father give big . . .” Small Badger paused. “What be that white word? I remember. Father give me big responsibility. I must not let Father down.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Fargo sought to reassure him. “You have the makings of a fine warrior.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I don’t say a thing just to flap my gums.”

  “That true. You say what you mean and mean what you say.” Small Badger smiled. “You best white I know. You much like Nimipuu in how you think.”

  “In a few ways, maybe.”

  “In here.” Small Badger touched his chest. “And it here that count.”

  The sun shone and the birds sang and by the middle of the morning Small Badger had relaxed enough to gab up a storm about everything from the best time of the year to hunt mountain sheep to the best way to cure a buffalo hide. Fargo was almost sorry he got him to loosen up.

  They stopped to rest their mounts. Small Badger came over to pat Thunderhoof and admitted, “I will miss him very much. I thought maybe one day Father give him to me.”

  “You should have said something sooner,” Fargo said. He might have asked for a different stallion.

  Small Badger affectionately ran his hand over Thunderhoof’s neck. “As you say, five thousand lot of money. Father say we go trading post. Every warrior have new rifle, every woman have whatever she want.”

  “Money does have its uses.” Fargo thought of a certain fallen angel, and chuckled. She charged more than most but a night with her was worth every cent and then some.r />
  “I not realize,” Small Badger said. “Money always seem strange to me. Now I see why whites like it.”

  “Whites couldn’t get by without it. For some, it’s all they think of.”

  “Those who like be rich, yes?” Small Badger gazed over the stallion at him. “How come you never want be rich?”

  Fargo motioned at the vista of virgin forest and towering peaks. “These are my riches.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I like the wilds more than I do a big mansion or fine food or a fancy carriage.”

  “Like I say, you much like us.” Small Badger looked past Fargo and his eyes narrowed. “What you want?” he asked in English, forgetting himself. Then he posed the question in his own tongue.

  Motomo walked up and patted Thunderhoof. He answered, sneering at Fargo as he did.

  “Him say him not agree with father about selling horse,” Small Badger translated. “Him say if up to him, you not leave village alive.”

  “Tell him the only reason he’s not dead is his son.”

  Both Small Badger and Motomo were puzzled by the remark.

  “How that be? Him and I not savvy.”

  “I liked Running Elk. He was a good kid and treated me decent. He didn’t deserve to die like that. It was partly my fault.”

  Small Badger was startled. He translated, and Motomo appeared surprised.

  “How you mean it your fault?”

  To suit his own purpose, Fargo had decided to tell them everything. “Those men you saw in the cottonwoods. I ran into them a while back. They tried to steal my horse. I made the mistake of letting them live but didn’t reckon on ever seeing them again. Then they showed up out of the blue near your village that day and took a shot at me. Running Elk thought they were after your herd and tried to stop them and they killed him.”

  Small Badger translated. Motomo had him ask the most obvious question. “Why them follow you?”

  “I don’t know,” Fargo admitted. “I aim to find out, though. Once I do, Motomo is welcome to them.”

  Motomo said something that brought a flash of anger from Small Badger.

  “Him ask if I think you speak with straight tongue. I tell him you always speak with straight tongue.”