Flathead Fury

6

As quietly as he could, Fargo put himself together. No sounds came out of the encircling cottonwoods but he could not shake the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them. Fully dressed and lying on his side, he bent toward Birds Landing to warn her.

Suddenly a figure in buckskins glided into view, cat-footing stealthily toward them.

Fargo froze, hoping the man would think he was asleep. Then he saw that the stalker had a bow, and spied what could be the top of a quiver poking above the man’s right shoulder.

It was an Indian, not a white man.

Since they were in Flathead country, odds were the warrior was a Flathead, or Salish, a member of Birds Landing’s tribe. They were on friendly terms with whites but Fargo never took anything for granted. He had his thumb on the Colt’s hammer, ready to snap off a shot the moment the warrior raised the bow to unleash a shaft.

That was when Birds Landing stirred and muttered in her sleep in the Salish language.

The warrior stopped. He appeared to be staring intently at Birds Landing. When she did not stir or sit up, he edged forward.

Waiting until the warrior was almost to his saddle, Fargo sprang. The warrior’s hand flew to the haft of a tomahawk at his waist but before he could wield it, Fargo was on him. Fargo gave him a hard shove while cocking the Colt and declaring, “Don’t move or I will shoot!”

Fargo had no idea if the warrior spoke English. He did not want to kill him, if he could help it. It was bound to stir up trouble, which was the last thing the Flatheads needed, what with the promise of a reservation in the offing.

The warrior fell onto his back and stayed there. He made no attempt to draw the tomahawk or resort to his bow.

Birds Landing sat up with a start. “What is it? What is going on?” Her eyes fastened on the warrior and she exclaimed something in her own language.

The warrior calmly answered.

Rising, Birds Landing said to Fargo, “Do not shoot! He will not harm us.”

“How can you be so sure?” Fargo demanded.

“He is my brother.”

Fargo slowly holstered the Colt but kept his hand on it as the two Salish warmly embraced and addressed one another in their own language. He waited for Birds Landing to explain what her brother was doing there, and when it became apparent she had forgotten about him, he coughed and said, “Remember me? I want to know what your brother is doing here. How did he find us?”

Birds Landing tore herself from her sibling. “Forgive me. His name is Thunder Cloud. He was off hunting when Kutler and Tork came to our village, and when he learned what they had done, he came to Polson to find me. Since he dared not let himself be seen, he watched from a gully.” Birds Landing spoke to Thunder Cloud and he replied. “He says that he saw Indian women going in and out of the Whiskey Mill, and guessed that is where I must be. He was nearby when you rescued me.” She squeezed her brother’s hand. “He followed, and only now caught up.”

Fargo noticed how young Thunder Cloud was, and the look of dislike the warrior gave him. “Have you told him you and I are friends?”

Birds Landing hesitated. “He knows what we did and he does not approve. But he never likes it when I am with a man, whether the man is white or red.”

Just what Fargo needed. “What is he liable to do about it?” He was not fond of the idea of taking an arrow in the back.

After a brief, sharp exchange, Birds Landing said, “He will not do anything. He understands it is between you and me.”

The way the warrior was looking at him, Fargo was not entirely convinced. “Has he seen any sign of Durn and his men?”

Another flurry resulted in: “He says we have lost them. That they gave up and turned back toward Polson.”

That was good news in two respects. “Then we are safe,” Fargo said in relief, “and I can leave you here with your brother and get on with what I came here to do.”

“Leave me? So soon after—” Birds Landing caught herself. “Must you?” she asked simply.

“Yes.” Fargo had learned a lot so far, about how Durn was taking over Polson. But one thing he had not learned, and which the army would want to know, was how Big Mike Durn intended to take over the entire territory.

“If you go back, Durn will have you killed.”

“He is welcome to try,” Fargo said, and began gathering up his saddle blanket and saddle.

“I am worried for you,” Birds Landing said. “You are one and they are many.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Fargo walked to the Ovaro. Were it not for the brother’s glares, he might be inclined to stay the night. He threw on his saddle blanket and smoothed it out, then saddled up. Tying his bedroll and saddlebags on took no time at all. As he stepped into the stirrups, Birds Landing came over and held out her hand to shake, white fashion.

“I better not kiss you. Thunder Cloud would not like it.”

“He sure doesn’t like me much,” Fargo remarked.

“Do not take it personal,” Birds Landing said. “If we had not made love, he would like you fine.”

Fargo doubted it.

As if she had read his thoughts, Birds Landing said, “Then again, he is not all that fond of whites. He resents being forced to live on a reservation.”

A lot of Indians resented it, with good cause, Fargo reflected. In too many instances, a tribe was marched hundreds of miles to their new home, which often was in a region with too little game and not enough water, areas the whites did not want for themselves. The Flatheads were lucky in that respect; the government was permitting them to stay on their own land.

“Make yourself scarce until Durn has been dealt with,” Fargo advised. “He will not be riding roughshod over people much longer.” Fargo touched her cheek, then gigged the Ovaro. He swore he could feel the brother’s eyes bore into his back as the night engulfed him.

Fargo held the Ovaro to a walk. Once he was down out of the hills, he swung toward a trail that would take him into Polson from the south. All things considered, it seemed wise to ride in from a different direction.

The wilderness was alive with the cries of animals, predators and prey alike. None of the meat-eaters came anywhere near him, though, and he reached the trail without mishap.

Fargo was bone tired. He had been on the go all day without much rest. He intended to treat himself to a cozy bed and to treat the Ovaro to a stall in the stable. The prospect set him to grinning but his grin faded when a loud caterwauling fell on his ears. “It can’t be,” he said.

But it was.

Fargo went around the next turn, and there, staggering toward him while merrily singing off-key, was none other than Thaddeus Thompson, the ever-present bottle in hand.

Thaddeus took a swig, went to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and took a step back. “You again!”

“Small world,” Fargo said drily.

“What are you doing? Following me?”

“If I was, wouldn’t I be behind you?”

Thaddeus looked over his shoulder, and chuckled. “When I am this booze blind, I can’t tell front from back and sometimes up from down.”

“How are things in Polson?” Fargo asked.

Slurring his words atrociously, Thaddeus said, “There was a ruckus earlier. I heard that one of Big Mike Durn’s Indian girls got away, and he is none too happy.”

“You don’t say.” Fargo feigned innocence.

“Yep. Somebody knocked two of Big Mike’s toughs over their noggins and lit out with her.” Thaddeus tittered. “It serves him right, the murdering bastard.”

“Has Durn returned yet?”

“A couple of hours ago. Him and his men were plumb tuckered out, and he was growling at them fit to bite off their heads.”

“Have you heard who took the Indian girl?”

“No one knows. Of if Durn does, he hasn’t said.” Thaddeus wet his throat again. “Sally Brook is right pleased, though. I heard her tell Durn that it was too bad all those girls didn’t get away.”

“How did Durn take that?”

“How do you think? He stomped into his saloon as mad as an old bull. Sally takes an awful chance mouthing off to him, but she is the only one who can get away with it.”

Fargo looked forward to talking to her. “Want me to see you to your cabin, old-timer?”

Thaddeus snorted. “What the hell for? I’m not helpless.”

“What about that griz—” Fargo began.

“Old One Ear? Don’t start with him again. He is practically my pet.”

The mention sparked Fargo to ask, “That reminds me. Have you heard anything about Mike Durn having a pet of his own?”

“Is it a polecat?” Thaddeus rejoined, and cackled.

“I take it that is a no.”

“If he has one, no one has told me. Now be on your way. I have half a bottle yet to drink and the night ain’t half over.”

“Are you sure you can make it? You look fit to bounce off trees.”

“How do you think I stay on my feet?” Beaming, Thaddeus fondled the bottle and walked on by. His off-key singing again rose to the stars.

Shaking his head, Fargo clucked to the Ovaro.

The lights of Polson were a mile off when hooves pounded and half a dozen riders swept across the trail, blocking it. Fargo drew rein, his elbow crooked so his fingers brushed his Colt. He did not recognize any of them except the small man in the middle.

Tork hefted his Sharps, then said, “Well, look who we have here. Mr. Durn was wondering what happened to you. Where have you been?”

“None of your damn business,” Fargo said.

“Don’t prod me, mister,” Tork snapped. “We have about ridden our horses into the ground hunting for whoever took one of Mr. Durn’s squaws. He is of the opinion it might be you.”

“I better go have a talk with him. Where is he?”

“Back at the Whiskey Mill,” Tork answered. “We will escort you in. But first, hand over your six-shooter.”

“No.”

Tork bristled with, “There are enough of us that you will be lucky to get off a shot.”

“So long as the shot I get off is aimed at you,” Fargo called the little man’s bluff.

“You don’t scare me none,” Tork sneered. But he did not make an issue of it. “Go on ahead of us and we will follow.”

“I will do the following,” Fargo told him. “Less chance of a bullet in the back that way.”

“If you and me tangle, it will be head-on,” Tork predicted. “I am no coward.” He reined his mount around, bawling, “We will do as he wants, boys. He gets to go on breathing until Mr. Durn says different.”

A hardcase on the right spat on the ground. “I don’t much like how he tells us what to do.”

“I am the one telling you,” Tork said. “And I speak for Mr. Durn. Now spur that critter of yours or your neck will need a new head.” So saying, he trained his Sharps on the malcontent.

Fargo half hoped they would shoot one another but the other man did not have the backbone to buck Tork, and fell in with the rest.

On the ride back Fargo had plenty of time to think over what he was going to say.

Polson had quieted. Fewer people were on the street and some of the houses were dark. He let Tork’s bunch go in first. At the batwings he paused to check the lay of the saloon.

Big Mike Durn was at the bar. He was not alone. Seven of his men were drinking with him. Kutler was nowhere to be seen, but Grunge was there. About half the tables had card games going. Fewer maidens were mingling with the customers.

Fargo pushed on through.

Tork had reached the bar and said something to Durn, who turned with his elbows on the counter and regarded Fargo with his usual cold smile. The cardplayers paid little attention as Fargo wound among the tables and planted himself a good six feet from the ruler of the Polson roost. “What is this about me helping one of your girls get away?” he started right in.

“Mr. Fargo,” Durn said with feigned politeness. “Perhaps you would be willing to account for your whereabouts tonight.”

“I would not.”

“Might I ask why?”

“I will tell you what I told your cur,” Fargo said. “What I do is my own affair.”

“I ask you to reconsider,” Big Mike said.

“And if I don’t?”

Durn snapped his fingers. Instantly, Tork and Grunge and the others turned with their rifles leveled or their revolvers out and pointed.

Fargo froze.

“If you don’t,” Durn said, still acting polite as could be, “I will snap my fingers again and my men will turn you into a sieve.” His cold smile widened.

“It is your choice.”