Black Hills Badman

13

Fargo learned long ago that when a woman made up her mind that she wanted to share herself with a man there was nothing a man could do but give in to the inevitable. Not that he ever refused a pretty face and an enticing body. He was eager to explore her delights, but there were a few things he wanted to know first. “Why were you following those two white men?”

“It is said they are with other whites. That a white woman and a white girl are with them.” Sweet Flower gazed in the direction the pair had gone. “I have never seen a white woman. I would very much like to.”

Fargo remembered a tale he once heard about how the first white woman to venture west attended a rendezvous during the fur trapping days and was a sensation with the Indians. Curiosity was as common a trait as skin. He asked his other question. “I thought you were an Oglala?”

“I am.”

“The village back there is Miniconjou.”

“I am visiting my sister. She is the wife of a Miniconjou warrior and I have not seen her in several winters.”

Taking the Ovaro’s reins in one hand and Sweet Flower’s hand in the other, Fargo went deeper into the trees. She didn’t resist. She was looking up at him with a strange look on her face.

“What?”

“I am wondering how it will be. I have never been with a white man before.”

“You honor me.”

“I want to because of your hair.”

About to reach for her, Fargo stopped. “What?”

“She touched his jaw, and grinned. “I would like to kiss and rub a face that is not smooth.”

“You sure are female.”

Sweet Flower looked down at herself. “What else would I be? If I were male I would not have this body.”

Fargo kept on walking. They needed a nice secluded spot for their tryst. It wouldn’t do to have Lakota warriors stumble on them in the midst of their passion.

“I have a question.”

“I have ears.”

“Have you laid with many Indian women?”

“One or two,” Fargo answered. The total was more like thirty or forty. He lost count long ago.

“Have you been with an Oglala woman before?”

Fargo tried to recollect. He was sure he had but she might take exception so he hedged by saying, “I have heard that Oglala women please their men better than any other.”

Sweet Flower smiled. “My mother taught me that a woman must always excite the man. The more excited he is, the more he pleases the woman.”

“Your mother was wise. You can excite me all you want.”

“It will be strange. You are different from anyone I have ever touched.” Sweet Flower ran her hand over his beard. “I hope all your hair does not blunt my desire.”

“I have met many women who like it.”

“I thought about you last night and I think making love to you will be like making love to a bear. My grandmother told me once that she thought white men must be part bear because they are so hairy.”

“We can stop talking about hair now.”

“Do you like mine?”

Fargo was no fool. If she were bald he would say what he now said. “You are beautiful.”

“Thank you. You are beautiful too.”

“Whites say men are handsome.”

“Handsome or beautiful, I like men most when their clothes are off. I have sometimes thought that it would be better if we all went without clothes.”

Fargo almost asked if she had been kicked in the head by a horse when she was little but he doubted she would appreciate the joke. “There are whites who think like that. They go around bare-assed naked.” He used the English words.

“Bare-assed naked?” Sweet Flower slowly repeated it. “I will remember that, and when I meet whites from now on, I will let them know I like to be bare-assed naked. Would that be nice to do?”

“They will think you are the friendliest female alive.”

“Good. Thank you for your advice.”

By then they were far enough in and hemmed by so many trees and the undergrowth that Fargo felt safe in tying the Ovaro and leading Sweet Flower to a patch of grass. He stopped and faced her. Admiring the twin peaks that poked at her doeskin dress and the swell of her shapely thighs, he remarked, “You really are beautiful.”

She ran her fingers through his beard. “And you really are very hairy.”

“You hair a man to death, do you know that?”

“And you say strange thing but I like you anyway.” Sweet Flower rose on the tips of her toes and lightly kissed him on the lips. “Kissing you is no different from kissing a man without hair.”

“One more word about hair . . .”

“Which word do you want? I have many words.”

“I want your body instead.” Fargo pulled her close and fused his mouth to hers. For all her talk about wanting him, she was tense and unsure of herself. Gradually, though, she relaxed. When he ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom, she uttered a tiny moan.

Fargo kissed her ear, the side of her neck, her throat. He slid a hand over her hip to her breast and cupped it. At the contact she trembled slightly, and moaned louder.

Suddenly her hand groped him, low down. Caught by surprise, Fargo stiffened in more ways than one. She cupped him and stroked him and soon had him as hard as iron. Not to be outdone, Fargo pressed his hand against the junction of her thighs. She gave off heat like a stove.

It reached the point where Fargo eased her to the grass and stretched out beside her. He managed to do it without breaking their kiss. Cupping her other breast, he squeezed it through her dress. Her hands rose and removed his hat so she could run her fingers through his hair.

Fargo hiked at her doeskin. It fit so tight that getting it high enough took some doing.

Sweet Flower grew impatient. She pushed him back, sat up, and quickly shed the dress over her head. Carefully placing it next to them, she laid back down and spread her arms.

“I am bare-assed naked,” she said proudly.

“You are still wearing moccasins,” Fargo teased, and damned if she didn’t sit back up and take them off.

“There. Now I am bare-assed naked, yes?”

“As bare-assed as bare-assed can be.”

Sweet Flower grinned and plucked at his buckskins. “Now it is your turn. You must be bare-assed naked too.”

Fargo envisioned being caught with his britches off by some unfriendly warriors. “How about if I just take off my shirt?”

“It would not be right for you to wear clothes when I am bare-assed naked,” Sweet Flower replied. “If you will not be bare-assed naked with me, I will put my dress back on and go.”

Fargo proceeded to strip. He made it a point to put his gun belt within easy reach. As he turned to Sweet Flower, she placed her hands on his chest.

“This is strange.”

“What is?”

“You have a lot of hair on your head and a lot of hair on your face but you do not have much on your body.”

Fargo sighed. “Hair and bare-assed naked. Next you will want to talk about flying pigs.”

“Pigs? I am sorry. I do not understand. I have seen pigs. They do not have much hair. All they have is skin. Does that make them bare-assed naked? Or can only people be bare-assed naked? And how can they fly when they do not have wings? I am confused.”

“Shoot me now and put me out of my misery.”

“Sorry? You are hurting?”

“Only between my ears.” Fargo kissed her before she could say anything else. He hoped that was the end of the hair business but when he slid his mouth lower and nuzzled her neck, her hand found his manhood and groped around it as if she were searching for something. Then she giggled.

“You do not have much hair there, either.”

“Please tell me we are done with hair.”

“What you do have is soft and crinkly like my own.”

“God in heaven.”

“God? That is the white word for the Great Mystery. I do not think the Great Mystery has hair.”

Fargo rose onto an elbow and cupped her chin. “Sweet Flower?” he said softly.

“Yes?”

“Say the word hair one more time and you can make love to yourself.”

“You sound upset.”

“I am, as the whites would say, pissed, and when a man is pissed, it spoils his mood.” Fargo went to kiss her.

“I am sorry I pissed you. I have never made love to a white man and I do not know how white men like to do it.”

“Without talking. We like to make love to women who keep their mouths shut the whole time.”

“Even when we kiss? What if I want to suck on your tongue?”

“One. Two. Three. Four—”

“Why are you counting?”

“I need the practice. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.” Fargo stared at her.“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Is there anything else perfectly stupid you would like to say?”

“But you just told me to keep quiet so I do not piss you. I wish you would make up your mind how you want me to be. I am confused.”

Enough was enough. Fargo spread her legs and eased onto his knees between them. He touched the tip of his pole to her slit. Then, without any other foreplay, he rammed up into her. “Piss this.”

Sweet Flower came up off the grass with her back in a bow and her luscious lips parted wide. She grabbed him by the back of his head, pulled his face to hers, and gave him a kiss the likes of which few women ever had. Her hands were everywhere, exploring, kneading, caressing.

Now this was more like it, Fargo thought. He pinched a nipple and nipped her earlobe. He sculpted her other breast. All while he rocked on his knees and slowly thrust his hips.

Sweet Flower moaned. She cooed. She breathed molten air. Her nails dug into his shoulders deep enough to draw drops of blood. Her legs rose and her ankles locked behind him.

Fargo took his time. He was in no rush to get back to camp now that he knew the senator’s party wasn’t in any danger. It had surprised him that the Lakotas would even think of signing a peace treaty, but stranger things had happened.

A loud moan from Sweet Flower signaled her release. Her eyelids fluttered and she churned her bottom.

Her climax was an earthquake that shook Fargo to his core and set off his own eruption. He rammed into her again and again, pounding her until he had no energy left to do more than sink down on top of her and rest his cheek on her breasts. He closed his eyes.

After a while Sweet Flower asked, “Did I make you happy?”

“You would make any man happy.”

Sweet Flower smiled and playfully pulled at his beard. “This tickled me. I almost laughed a few times.”

Fargo didn’t care to get her started on hair again so he didn’t respond.

“If I ask you for a favor, will you do it?”

Half dreading it would be something silly, Fargo said, “That depends on the favor.”

“I still want to see the white woman and her child. I heard Little Face and the one called Owen mention them. I would like to see the kind of clothes they wear and how they do their hair.”

Fargo was more interested in something else. “They were talking and not using sign language? I did not know Little Face speaks the white tongue.”

“The one called Owen speaks Lakota.”

This was news to Fargo, too. Owen must have had previous dealings with the Sioux. “Where did you hear them talk?”

“They were in Little Face’s lodge. I only heard a little. It is not polite to listen outside lodges.”

“How do your people feel about the treaty?”

“The what?”

“A man has come from the Great White Father to talk peace with the Lakotas. The White Father wants the Sioux to sign a paper that says the Sioux will never again kill another white.”

“No one told me this. All I heard them talk about was the—” Sweet Flower stopped, and stiffened.

Fargo looked up. She was staring over his shoulder at something behind him. He twisted to see what she was seeing—and his gut balled into a knot.

Not ten feet away stood several warriors. Two had arrows nocked to their bowstrings, the strings pulled back, the shafts ready to fly.

The third warrior was Little Face, the Lakota who hated him.