by Jon Sharpe
The grizzly was a shade slow in perceiving its peril. It slammed into the log with the impact of a runaway wagon, a thousand pounds of sinew and bone and fat moving at thirty miles an hour. Its momentum catapulted it into a tumbling roll that carried it dozens of yards down the slope. In a cloud of dust and bits of debris, the giant bear slid to a stop and rose groggily to its four paws.
Fargo saw it all. He quickly reined back up the mountain, seeking to put as much distance behind him as he could in case the bear came after them.
The grizzly stood looking around as if in confusion. It gazed up at Fargo and the fleeing horses, uttered another roar, and went off down the mountain, presumably to find easier prey.
Fargo didn’t stop until he met the Nez Perce coming down.
“You all right!” Small Badger exclaimed in relief. “I much worried bear kill you.”
“You weren’t the only one.” Fargo patted the Ovaro and climbed down to examine Thunderhoof and the mare. Neither, amazingly, were any the worse for their hairsbreadth escape.
Kicking Bird was back on his horse. Other than deep furrows in its flank, the animal was unscathed.
Motomo addressed Small Badger, who translated.
“Him say what you do very brave. Him say only man who cares for horses try so hard to save them.”
“He keeps giving me compliments, I’m liable to blush.”
Small Badger blinked, and then laughed. He translated, and for the first time since they met, Fargo made Motomo smile.
The grizzly was almost out of sight. Small Badger stared after it and summed up their encounter with, “We lucky, yes?”
“Lucky as hell,” Fargo said.
They rested and pushed on. Toward sunset they stopped high on a broad shelf with a spectacular vista of the country ahead. Supper consisted of coffee and dried rabbit meat left over from the night before.
Motomo had been quiet all afternoon. Now he turned to Small Badger and went on for a good long spell.
“He want me tell you maybe him make mistake. Maybe you not have bad heart like he think you do.”
Fargo bit into a chunk of rabbit and chewed. “He doesn’t want me dead anymore?”
“He good father, Iron Will. He love son very much. When Running Elk killed, it wound him here.” Small Badger touched a hand to his chest over his heart. “It like part of him ripped out. You understand what he mean?”
“I savvy,” Fargo acknowledged. He’d never had a kid of his own but he’d heard folks say that losing one was a torment like no other.
“He think only that you to blame. He think only son must be avenged. Is that right word? Avenged?”
“It will do until a better word comes along.”
“What? Oh. That joke, yes?”
“Tell Motomo I’m grateful,” Fargo directed. Not having to worry about getting a knife in the back might help him sleep better.
Small Badger was gnawing on his lower lip. “Iron Will, it all right I ask you something?”
“We’re pards, aren’t we?”
“Were you afraid when bear was after you?”
“Scared as hell,” Fargo admitted.
“But you not show it.”
“I was too busy trying to stay alive. A month from now I’ll probably break down with the shakes.”
“I hope I brave like you if bear ever come after me,” Small Badger said sincerely.
Fargo told himself he should be used to it. Life in the wild was fraught with dangers, each a reminder that no one ever knew which day would be their last.
He’d learned not to dwell on the close shaves. A man could lose his nerve that way.
No, the smart thing to do was shut them from the mind.
Over the next hour the Nez Perce made small talk. Fargo listened with half an ear, his interest perking when Motomo suggested that one of them should look around for sign of enemies.
“Two should go,” Fargo amended. “Each can watch the other’s back.”
Small Badger stood. “I do it. Who want come with me?”
Fargo would as soon stay and drink coffee but the young warrior was his friend. “Count me in.”
Around them the twilight darkened. Soon night would fall.
Fargo made for the shelf rim thirty feet away, Small Badger trying to match his long strides.
“All right I ask you another question?”
“So long as it’s not personal.”
“What that be?”
“Things like how many women I’ve bedded or how many men I’ve had to buck out in gore.”
“Oh. I not ask that,” Small Badger assured him. “I want know why you make my cousin so sad.”
“Your cousin?”
“Many Clouds.”
Fargo stopped in his tracks. “Hell in a basket. Why didn’t either of you tell me? She never once mentioned she was related.”
“Maybe she think not important,” Small Badger said. “Her father my father’s brother.”
“That makes her kin to the chief. I’d say that’s important enough to let a man know.”
“My father not mind. Him say she be grown woman and you be grown man.”
“A wise gent, your pa.”
“I hope him do right to sell m’a min to rancher. Some Nimipuu not like it. They want only Nimipuu breed m’a min.”
“It should work out all right,” Fargo hedged. He wasn’t the one to judge, especially as he had a stake in getting the Appaloosas there. He came to the edge and peered down. Below, the forest canopy stretched for as far as the eye could see.
“I like to be bird,” Small Badger said.
“How’s that again?”
The young warrior flapped his arms. “So I fly over trees and over mountains and see all there is to see.”
“That’s some imagination you have.”
“Imagi-what?”
“It means you’re good at coming up with notions in that noggin of yours,” Fargo explained.
“Notions. Noggin,” Small Badger repeated, and grinned. “White men tongue strange as white people.”
“Most whites would say the same about you and yours.” It had been Fargo’s experience that few bothered to learn Indian languages because they wanted nothing to do with Indians.
Fargo scoured the dark expanse for the telltale glimmer of a campfire. He wondered if maybe the breeds had given up. Whatever they were up to, maybe they had decided it wasn’t worth it.
“No fire,” Small Badger confirmed.
Fargo turned to go back. Out of the corner of his eye he registered movement—someone rising up out of the tall grass—and he spun.
Speckled Wolf had the muzzle of his Sharps pressed to Small Badger’s temple. “Twitch a muscle and he dies.”
Fargo turned to stone.
“Smart man,” Speckled Wolf mocked him. “Now I want you to listen, and listen good. My friends have rifles trained on the other two at the fire. A yell from me and both are dead.”
“Why you do this?” Small Badger asked.
“Did I say you could talk, boy?” Speckled Wolf jabbed him with the barrel. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. This is between me and your friend, here. He’s the one Bell is paying. He’s the one who doesn’t give a damn about your tribe or your horses.”
“He be our friend,” Small Badger proudly declared.
“There you go again. Another word, and so help me I’ll split your damn skull.”
Fargo willed himself to stay calm. If the breed wanted them dead, he’d have shot them already. “What do you want?”
“The Appaloosas. Throw a rope over them and bring them here and put the rope in my hands and this boy and the other two live out the night. Try anything, anything at all, and I swear we’ll blow their brains out.”
“So you’re nothing but horse thieves,” Fargo stalled.
“Call it what you want but Bell isn’t getting his hands on that stallion and mare. I don’t have a lick of Nez Perce blood in me but I’ll be damned if I’l
l let that happen.”
“It would help if you would explain what this is all about.”
“You’re wasting time,” Speckled Wolf said. “Get the damn horses. If those other two want to know what you’re doing, make up some excuse.” He nodded at Small Badger. “Remember. One squeeze and the boy won’t have much left from the neck up.”
“I not boy,” Small Badger said.
“Hush, you dimwit.” Speckled Wolf gestured toward the campfire.
“Better hurry. This boy might try something stupid and I’ll have to kill him anyway.”
The same thought had occurred to Fargo. Holding his hands where Speckled Wolf could see them, he backed away. “I’m going. Give me five minutes.”
“You have two.”
Motomo and Kicking Bird were by the fire, talking. Fargo walked past them and over to the Appaloosas. He pulled out the picket pins and got the lead rope and looped it over Thunderhoof and then over the mare. As he was about to walk off, Motomo and Kicking Bird rose and came over. Motomo gestured at the Appaloosas and then at Fargo as if to ask, “What are you doing?”
Fargo had no time to explain. He went to go around.
That was when Kicking Bird stepped in front of him and put his hand on the hilt of his knife.
14
Fargo resorted to sign language. He signed simply, “Move.”
Kicking Bird took his hand off his knife to sign back, “Question. Where you go?”
Fargo signed, “Must hurry,” and again went to go around. Once more Kicking Bird moved in front of him.
Motomo appeared confused. “Question. Why you take horses?”
Fargo was wasting precious seconds. Speckled Wolf had only given him two minutes. He tried a different tack. He signed, “I speak future time.” There was no sign for “later” in the way the term was used by whites. He started to lead the horses off.
Kicking Bird and Motomo exchanged looks and Kicking Bird did as he had done before.
His fingers flying, Fargo signed, “Half-breed have Small Badger. Kill quick I no go.”
The two Nez Perce showed their shock. Fargo gripped the lead rope and took a step and Kicking Bird moved to block him but Motomo gripped Kicking Bird’s arm and pulled him back. Kicking Bird resisted but only for a moment. He stopped and motioned for Fargo to keep going.
Fargo thought it prudent to sign, “Stay here. Half-breed shoot Small Badger you go.” Thankfully, the two warriors had the presence of mind to listen. But Kicking Bird fingered his knife hilt.
It had taken more than two minutes but no shots rang out. Fargo found Speckled Wolf and Small Badger where he had left them and held out the lead rope.
“Glad you didn’t shoot him.”
Speckled Wolf motioned toward the campfire. “I saw them try to stop you. And I don’t want this boy dead. I want the Appaloosas.”
“I’d like to know what this is all about.”
“You are not to blame for any of it,” Speckled Wolf told him. Taking the rope, he backed away, his Sharps trained on Small Badger. “Don’t follow us. If you do you or us will die.”
“You can’t expect to get away with this,” Fargo said.
“We do what we have to. You would understand if you had been born like me, half and half. It is the red half of me doing this. The white half would just let him do it.”
“Let who do what? I don’t savvy.”
“I don’t have time to explain.” Speckled Wolf was a silhouette in the gathering darkness. “Heed me, scout. Don’t come after us. It is best for you and it is best for us and most of all it’s best for these two horses. I would shoot them rather than let you take them to Clarence Bell.”
“Do you know him?”
“Better than you do.”
On that puzzling note, the breed melted into the night, taking Thunderhoof and the mare.
Small Badger reached for an arrow in his quiver and took a step. “Come. We catch before he go far.”
Fargo grabbed his wrist. “You heard him. They’ll kill the horses. Is that what you want?”
“We not let him take them,” Small Badger insisted. “Must stop any way we can.”
“We have to do it smart. We can’t go rushing off.” Fargo gazed into the dark. “We’ll wait until morning. The tracks will be fresh. They can’t possibly lose us.”
Small Badger was trying to tug free but stopped. “All right. I not like but we do as you want.” He paused. “Why you think they take m’a min? What this all mean?”
“I wish to hell I knew.”
Motomo and Kicking Bird listened to Small Badger’s account in growing anger. A heated dispute took place. Kicking Bird was mad that they hadn’t tried to stop the horse thieves and wanted to go after them right that instant. It took some persuading to calm him enough for him to see reason.
Fargo hunkered by the fire and sipped coffee. There was nothing he could do until daylight. He went over everything Speckled Wolf had said and could come to no conclusions other than he was more certain than ever the half-breeds weren’t killers. They weren’t renegades. They weren’t bad men. Which made what they were doing all the more mystifying.
Small Badger squatted across from him. “They say they do as you want but Kicking Bird not happy. Him think we do wrong letting them have horses.”
“He’d rather you were shot?”
“No. But my father tell him to keep m’a min safe. He feel . . . responsible. That is good word, yes?”
“I don’t aim to let them get away with it,” Fargo enlightened him. “We’ll catch them. But when we do, I don’t want them killed.”
“They steal Appaloosas, they die.”
“Don’t you want to know why? I sure do. They didn’t take the Appaloosas for themselves or to sell for money. There’s something else going on here.”
“They are breeds. They not think like we do.”
Long ago Fargo had learned that whites weren’t the only ones who looked down their noses at those with mixed blood. A lot of Indians did the same. “They’re men like you and me.”
Small Badger swapped words with the other two, and then said, “All right. We be patient. We let you find out why they take m’a min. Then we kill them.”
Fargo slept surprisingly soundly. He was up well before sunrise and had the Ovaro saddled and ready.
The three Nez Perce were glum. Kicking Bird, in particular, was in a foul temper and anxious to be off.
The trail was plain as a trail could be. Fargo started at the rim and read the sign as he went.
Speckled Wolf had led Thunderhoof and the mare into the trees. There he had been joined by Rooster and Ferret Killer. All three climbed on their mounts and headed to the southeast, the last rider leading the Appaloosas.
Fargo hoped he would come on where the breeds had camped for the night but they had pushed on through. Speckled Wolf knew the Nez Perce would be after them and was trying to get as far ahead as possible. Not that it would do him any good. Unless there was another storm, the breeds were as good as caught. Fargo reckoned on overtaking them by the middle of the afternoon, if not sooner.
Small Badger, for once, had little to say until Fargo stopped about midday to rest their animals. Pacing back and forth, he complained, “Father be mad at me if we lose Thunderhoof and mare. I not be good son in his eyes.”
“We’ll get them back,” Fargo vowed.
“That not all we do. Breeds must die.”
“You’re getting awful bloodthirsty in your young age.”
Small Badger stopped pacing. “It more than that. My people have many enemies. Enemies who want take our land if they think we not protect what is ours.”
“No one will ever know but us,” Fargo said, but his young friend wasn’t listening.
“Nimipuu must be strong. When enemies come our country, we drive off. When enemies raid our villages, we raid them. When enemies kill Nimipuu, Nimipuu kill enemies.”
Fargo didn’t press the point. Arguing would be useless. No tri
be would let their horses be stolen or one of their own be killed and not seek vengeance.
Climbing back on the Ovaro, he took up the hunt.
The sun crawled high on its westward arc. Around them the woodland abounded with game. Deer bolted with tails erect. Chipmunks chattered from rocky nooks. A startled grouse took wing, the beat of its wing loud in the thin mountain air.
It was past two when Fargo drew rein on the rim of a tableland. A mile below were three riders. The first man led two horses with familiar markings.
“It them!” Small Badger cried, and raised his reins to give pursuit.
Fargo wheeled the Ovaro in front of his mount. “Not so fast. I want your word first.”
“My word?” Small Badger repeated in puzzlement.
“Yours and theirs,” Fargo said with a nod at Motomo and Kicking Bird.
“I want your promise you won’t kill them unless it can’t be helped.”
“We already agree not to kill them until you find out what you want to know.”
“Remind them.”
Motomo asked something and Small Badger replied. Both Motomo and Kicking Bird looked angrily at Fargo and Motomo said something else.
“He say he do as you want but he not happy.”
“What about Kicking Bird?” Fargo didn’t like how Kicking Bird was fingering the hilt of his knife.
Before Small Badger could translate, Kicking Bird reined sharply away and galloped after the distant figures. Small Badger called to him but Kicking Bird didn’t stop.
“Hell.” Fargo resorted to his spurs. He had been afraid it would come to this. Unless he could catch Kicking Bird, blood would flow.
After him pounded Small Badger and Motomo.
Fargo had been doing a lot of hard riding of late but the Ovaro held up well. The stallion always did have more stamina than most. It proved it yet again by flying as if its hooves were endowed with wings. The terrain, though, was thick with trees and dotted with boulders and logs and tangles. Overtaking Kicking Bird would take hard riding.
Fargo tried his best. He called on all his experience and skill but he was still well behind Kicking Bird when Kicking Bird broke into the open, uttered a war yell, and strung an arrow to his bowstring.