by Jon Sharpe
He idly wondered if Bell had driven a lot off to sell but didn’t bother to ask the two punchers. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to deliver Thunderhoof and the mare, collect his money, and be on his way.
Small Badger was unusually quiet. So much so that after a couple of hours Fargo turned to him and asked, “Cat got your tongue?”
The young warrior looked anxiously around. “Cat? Where? What kind is it?”
“That’s another white expression. It means you’re being awful quiet.”
“Oh.” Small Badger’s face clouded. “I not like it here, Iron Will. This place bad medicine.”
“Amos is an Indian hater. A lot of whites are like him. Don’t make more of it than there is.”
“This place bad medicine,” Small Badger insisted.
Fargo didn’t press the point. He felt a bit uneasy, himself. He blamed their reception.
Another surprise awaited him when they reached the ranch proper. The house wasn’t as big as he had imagined it would be. The stable and the bunkhouse weren’t painted and there was no blacksmith shop and only a few outbuildings. All in all, as ranches went it was middling.
Hank and Amos rode to the front porch and drew rein. Hardly had they stopped than the front door opened and out clomped a big man in a flannel shirt and chaps, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He looked at them and said, “You boys are off the range when you’re not supposed to be.”
Hank jerked a thumb at Fargo. “Blame him, Griff. He made us come.”
“That’s right,” Amos confirmed. “He was fixing to blow out our wicks if we didn’t.”
Fargo remembered Jim Stoddard saying that the ranch foreman was a man named Griff Jackson. A tough hombre, Stoddard had claimed.
That tough hombre now turned toward him. “That true, mister?”
“I told them I was working for your boss and Hank, here, went for his six-shooter,” Fargo elaborated. “Since I didn’t figure I could trust them not to shoot me in the back, I brought them along.”
“He tried to draw on you?” Griff Jackson’s features hardened and he lowered his big hand to his side so that it covered a Smith and Wesson in his holster. “You were told, Hank. The boss let all of you know he was expecting this hombre.”
“He has an Injun with him!” Hank bleated. “What else was I to do?”
Jackson’s jaw muscles twitched. “We’ll talk this out later. For now go to the bunkhouse and stay there.” Both cowboys went to rein around. “Not you, Amos. I want you to go remind the rest of the boys about our guests and tell them to be damn sure not to act up or they’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’re to head back out on the range and watch those cattle like you’re supposed to be doing. We lost a single head, it’s coming out of your hide. You got me?”
“Loud and clear.”
Fargo was struck by their fear; they were scared to death of this Griff Jackson. “We’ve come a long way,” he broke in. “Is your boss to home? I’d like to get this over with.”
The foreman nodded. “I’ll fetch him. Climb down and stretch your legs. I won’t be a minute.” He clomped inside.
Fargo stayed in the saddle. “This won’t take long,” he assured Small Badger, who sat his horse as if he were sitting on glass. “Relax. You just heard. That puncher acted on his own.”
“Maybe this be mistake.”
“I never took you for a worrywart.”
“Look at them,” Small Badger said, and nodded.
Fargo shifted. He hadn’t paid much attention to the hands. About half a dozen had been going about their daily duties. Every last one had stopped and was staring. Or, rather, glaring . They were looking at Small Badger as if they wanted to do as Hank had done. Before he had time to think about why, the front door opened again.
“Mr. Fargo! You made it!” Clarence Bell smiled and came off the porch and over to Thunderhoof. He ran his hand along the stallion’s neck and down its back and said in awe, “Magnificent. Simply magnificent. You have far surpassed my expectations.”
“I take it you’re pleased,” Fargo said drily.
“These animals are superb. I can’t thank you enough.” Bell offered his hand, and when Fargo took it, shook warmly.
“You have done more for me than you can possibly imagine.” He glanced at Small Badger and his smile faded. “Who is this?”
Fargo introduced his friend. “The tribe sent him to collect the rest of the money. There were two others but we ran into some trouble.”
“Hostiles?” Bell guessed.
Briefly, Fargo told him about the half-breeds.
“You say they were the same three who tried to steal your Ovaro that day Jim Stoddard found you? They must have followed you to Nez Perce country just to get back at you.”
“There was more to it than that. They were dead set against you having these Appaloosas. Any idea why?”
“None whatsoever. I’ve never heard of any Speckled Wolf. I can’t begin to guess their motive.”
Fargo happened to notice Griff Jackson on the porch. Was it his imagination or did the corners of the foreman’s mouth lift in a sly smirk? “We’d like to get our money and be on our way.”
“Nonsense,” Bell said. “You must be hungry and tired. I insist you accept the hospitality of my home. Bed your Ovaro in the stable and wash up at the bunkhouse and come have supper. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve been through.”
“And Small Badger?”
Clarence Bell gave the young Nez Perce a closer scrutiny. “You two became close on the ride here, I take it.”
“I’ve known him longer than that. This is Gray Bear’s son. I told you about them at Sweetwater Station.”
“Ah. Yes, you did. So when you called him a friend you meant exactly that.”
Fargo thought Bell’s comment was strange. “If he wasn’t I wouldn’t have said it.”
“Well then, he’s invited to supper as well.”
“Mr. Bell?” Griff Jackson said.
“You heard me. Both of them. Tell the cook to set an extra plate out. It should prove entertaining.”
Fargo held out his hand. “I’ll take the rest of my money. You also owe Small Badger for the Appaloosas.”
The rancher laughed. “Honestly, now. Do you truly expect me to carry that much cash around in my pocket? I’ll pay both of you what is due at supper. In the meantime, why don’t you tend to your horses and wash up as I suggested? By then it will be almost mealtime.”
Fargo reached for the lead rope.
“Leave the Appaloosas. I’d like to admire them a while.”
They were halfway to the stable when Small Badger leaned toward Fargo and stressed yet again, “I not like this place.”
“No one has taken a shot at you, have they?” Fargo poked fun. “And Bell invited you to supper.”
“Yes. But him not want to. I see it in his eyes.”
“I’ll go by myself then. You can stay with the horses.”
Jim Stoddard came out of the stable carrying a bridle. He spotted them and gave Fargo a friendly smile. “You made it in one piece.” He looked toward the ranch house. “And you brought the Appaloosas, I see.”
“We brought them,” Fargo amended, and clapped Small Badger on the back.
“That’s right. I plumb forgot. Mr. Bell only paid them part of the money.”
“He’ll pay the rest soon enough,” Fargo said.
“You did what no one else could do,” Stoddard praised him. “Thanks to you the Circle B will prosper.”
“Don’t forget your cows.”
Stoddard winced as if he had been hit. “The ranch needs more than them. Now that Mr. Bell is the first white man to get his hands on a breeding pair of Appaloosas, he’ll have . . .” Stoddard stopped. “Listen to me, running off at the mouth. I have work to do.” He touched his hat brim and started to walk off but stopped. “Fargo?” he said quietly.
Fargo looked at him.
“I
like you. So consider this a word to the wise. There are more important things in life than money.” With that, he jangled off.
“Why him say that?” Small Badger wondered.
“I’ll ask him the next time I see him.” Fargo entered the stable and found empty stalls for both their horses. The Ovaro went in willingly but when Small Badger tried to coax his Appaloosa, the horse balked. Small Badger pulled on the reins but the Appaloosas refused to be budged.
“Him never do this before.”
“Could be he doesn’t like being hemmed in,” Fargo speculated. The horse wasn’t used to four walls and a roof.
“I keep him outside.”
Fargo stripped his saddle and saddle blankets and bridle. In a bin were some oats, on a peg the bucket he needed. As he was leaving the stall it occurred to him that Small Badger hadn’t come back. He went out, the Henry in the crook of his elbow.
The young warrior and his Appaloosa were gone.
Puzzled, Fargo headed for the ranch house. Laughter brought him to a stop.
He walked to the corner of the stable. From the rear came more gruff glee. He moved faster. Behind the stable was a corral. In it, eleven horses milled about. Past the corral were several punchers. Fargo couldn’t see what they were doing but he did see Small Badger’s Appaloosa.
“. . . you stinking redskin. Get up so I can keep knocking you down until you can’t get up anymore.”
The tough wore a high-crowned hat and jeans. He had his fists balled and was standing over Small Badger, smugly waiting for him to rise. The other two hands were grinning in sadistic approval.
Fargo gave them no warning. He walked around the corral and over to the cowboy who had hit Small Badger. The man looked up and started to turn and Fargo smashed the Henry’s stock against his jaw. Not once but twice, each blow so swift the puncher had no hope of warding them off. As the man fell Fargo pivoted and drove the Henry’s barrel into the gut of the second cowboy, doubling him over.
“You son of a bitch!” The third puncher galvanized to life and clawed for his revolver.
Fargo struck him just once and the hand crumpled. Spinning, Fargo slammed the Henry over the head of the man he had slugged in the gut. All three were down. Stepping back, he leveled the rifle in case any of them had some fight left.
Small Badger blinked in amazement. Blood trickled from his mouth and his lower lip was puffy. “Thank you,” he said.
Fargo reached down and pulled him to his feet.
“That one hit me.”
“He give you a reason?”
“Him say he hate my kind more than anything.”
“Another damn Indian hater.”
Small Badger gingerly touched his pulped lip. “They see me when I come out. They act nice. They say they have something to show me.” He grimaced. “We still go to supper?”
Before Fargo could answer, Griff Jackson came around the corral, his hand on the butt of his Smith and Wesson. “There’s going to be hell to pay for this.”
17
Fargo spun and trained the Henry on the foreman but Jackson ignored him and walked up to the cowboys. His face red with fury, he kicked each of the unconscious men in the side.
“Damn them to hell.”
For a moment Fargo thought Jackson was going to draw and shoot them but the foreman controlled his temper and stepped back.
“I heard the tail end of what the Injun just said. These jackasses shouldn’t have done that.”
“Friendly hands you’ve got working for the Circle B,” Fargo said.
Jackson’s fingers flexed over the Smith and Wesson. “I hadn’t gotten to these three yet to tell them you were Mr. Bell’s guests. They were acting on their own.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Look, mister,” Jackson said testily, “some people can’t stand redskins. They’d as soon shoot an Injun as look at him. Your friend should count himself lucky they didn’t do worse.”
Fargo indulged in a rare threat. “The next time one of your punchers lays a hand on my friend, they answer to me.”
“Do what you have to,” Jackson said. “Anyone who doesn’t listen to Mr. Bell deserves to be toes up.”
Some of Fargo’s anger evaporated. “Let’s go,” he said to Small Badger, and strode off.
“I told you this place bad medicine.”
“We’ll eat, we’ll get our money, and we’ll light a shuck, and if we never see the Circle B again, it will be fine by me.”
Clarence Bell opened the front door to Fargo’s knock. He had changed into a white shirt and dinner jacket. “Mr. Fargo. And your friend. Come in, please. We have time for a drink before supper is served.”
“Small Badger,” Fargo said to him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My friend has a name. Use it.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Look at his face. Three of your hands were about to stomp him into the dirt.”
“What’s that? I gave orders that you were to be given special regard,” Bell declared. “Who were the men involved? I’ll send for my foreman and have him deal with them.”
“He already is.”
“Well, then. All is well.” Bell closed the door and ushered them to a parlor that contained a settee, chairs and a liquor cabinet. He opened the cabinet and took out a bottle. “Only the best. A glass for me and a glass for you, I take it. But what about your . . . sorry, what about Small Badger?”
“I speak the white tongue,” the young warrior said.
“Do you, now? How commendable. If more Indians had your initiative there wouldn’t be as much blood spilled.”
“My what?”
“Your desire to do as whites do. Most Indians couldn’t be bothered to learn English.”
Fargo broke in with, “That works both ways. Most whites can’t be bothered to learn Indian tongues.”
Bell removed three glasses from the cabinet. “Why should we? Fifty years from now the white man will control every square foot of land between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean. All the tribes will be on reservations or will have been exterminated.”
“What that mean?” Small Badger asked Fargo.
“Wiped out.”
“Nimipuu never be wiped out,” Small Badger told their host. “Nimipuu strong.”
“Arrows and lances are no match for rifles and revolvers,” the rancher responded. “But come. I didn’t invite you here to talk politics. We’ll eat, drink and make merry.”
Fargo had to hand it to him. The meal was fine fare. It began with the before-supper drink and then a bowl of soup. Fargo wasn’t much of a soup eater but he was famished. He smeared four slices of bread with butter and dipped them in the broth. Next came the main course: thick slabs of juicy beef, potatoes with the skins on, tomatoes and succotash. For dessert there was hot apple pie.
Fargo washed the food down with four cups of steaming-hot coffee. He even added cream and sugar.
Small Badger didn’t eat nearly as much. He spooned small portions and only nibbled at his steak.
“You don’t like white food?” Clarence Bell asked as the meal was winding down.
“Food fine. I just not eat a lot. Have a long ride tonight.”
“It’s dangerous to be abroad after sunset. The two of you are welcome to stay in the bunkhouse and leave first thing in the morning.”
“Your hands would love that,” Fargo said.
“If I say you can sleep in my bunkhouse, you damn well can. I run the Circle B from top to bottom and I don’t tolerate dissent.”
“What is that?” Small Badger wanted to learn.
“It’s where no one gets to do as they want,” Fargo translated. “They only get to do as he wants.”
Bell sat back and swirled the coffee in his china cup. “You make it sound like a bad thing. If you ran your own ranch you would see things differently.”
He sipped and delicately set the cup down. “I’m trying to carve order out of chaos, to
build a ranch where none has ever existed. It’s not bad enough that I must contend with nature’s tantrums. I must also deal with hostiles and predators and a host of other problems.”
“No one is holding a gun to your head,” Fargo said.
“True. I came here of my own free will and I stay because I want to. And I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed.”
“The Appaloosas should make it easier.”
Bell was about to take another sip but stopped and smiled. “Yes. Yes, they will. I’ll have the only herd other than the Nez Perce. It should fill my coffers considerably.”
“Coffers?” Small Badger said.
“It will make him rich,” Fargo explained.
“It not make my people rich.”
Clarence Bell laughed. “You’re red, for God’s sake. Indians don’t have a head for business. Not like whites do. Your people keep most of the Appaloosas for yourselves. You only trade or sell them when there is something you need. Me, I plan to let the whole world know. I’ll advertise back East. I’ll praise the Appaloosa to high heaven. I’ll make them out to be the best horse ever bred, and before you know it, everyone in the country will want one. Other breeders, too. But I’ll never sell a stallion that isn’t gelded. I, and only I, will have Appaloosas to sell. No one else.”
“My people have them,” Small Badger said.
“Yes, but you’re hardly competition.” Bell raised the china cup in a salute. “My personal feelings aside, I must thank you for being so reasonable. I’ll never forget what your tribe has done for me.”
“I tell my people you thank them.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. You do that.” Bell chuckled. “The irony is too delicious for words.”
“Irony?” Fargo said.
“Yes. That it should be Indians, of all people, who have become my salvation. If there is a God he has a wicked sense of humor.”
“I’m not sure I savvy.”
“Don’t you? No, I suppose you haven’t figured it out yet. Very well. What better to talk about while we let our food digest. Then we can get to the payment you are due and I can get on with running my ranch.” Clarence Bell shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “The thing is, you see, that I hate Indians with every fiber of my being.”
“What?”