Beyond Squaw Creek (7 page)

“We've discussed the matter thoroughly, Mr. Fargo,” interjected Captain Thomas, adjusting his spectacles. “Believe me, we do not take the matter lightly.”

“We considered the possibility of sending you through the Indians' lines for help,” added Lieutenant Ryan. “The problem is…and as you doubtless know…the Indians
have
no lines. We've sent four men to tackle the same job…”

“And all four were sent back,” Prairie Dog piped up when the lieutenant's voice began to quiver and fade, his cheeks blanching. “At least, their
heads
and
hearts
were sent back, dangling from their saddle horns.”

Now, that was a bit of information the old cuss had been holding on to.

“I don't guarantee I'd make it, but I made it here, and I know the country,” Fargo said. “If I traveled at night…”

“Even if you made it through,” Howard said, “the help you sought wouldn't make it here in time. The Indians have been moving closer to the fort every day. At night, their council fires are quite visible in the hills beyond Squaw Creek. I'm guessing that in two, maybe three—”

The major paused when Valeria poked her head in the door. “Gentlemen, dinner will be served.”

When the girl withdrew into the kitchen, Howard shuttled his glance to Fargo and the others, brows ridged with annoyance and enervation. “Shall we save the rest of the conversation for after dinner, gentlemen…?”

Fargo set his glass on the decanter's silver tray and followed the others into the dining room. The meal was medallions of venison with wild onions, potatoes and gravy, fresh bread, and spinach from the fort's garden.

The food was good and rib-sticking, but Fargo was bored with the falsely-jovial dinner conversation and forced small talk. The men, including Prairie Dog, obviously had their minds on the Indians. All except Lieutenant Ryan, that was. The young soldier, obviously smitten by Valeria, offered several embarrassing questions about her schooling and travels and the possibility of their having mutual acquaintances back east, while his nearsighted gaze raked her opulent bosom. Valeria answered the questions politely, picking at her food and flicking her own oblique gazes across the table at the Trailsman, doing little to encourage the randy young officer's pursuit.

After dessert of canned peach pie and coffee, the girl excused herself to help the cook, Mildred, clear the table and wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. Major Howard poured Fargo and the other men a fresh glass before retaking his chair with a sigh, and regarding the Trailsman with gravity from across the table. Pensively, he tapped the rim of his glass.

The others sat in their chairs like statues.

Howard said, “Mr. Fargo, it's with a deep reluctance and a heavy heart that I'm ordering the assassination of one of my own men. Before he went crazy, Lieutenant Duke and I were very close. We played chess nearly every evening. He was a master of the game. He tended to idealize the Indians, seemed to fancy becoming one himself, but otherwise a sensible, likable young man.

“However, he has gone quite insane. And for some reason, he has become a shaman of sorts to Chief Iron Shirt, ostensibly encouraging the extermination of all whites from the region. I believe—and if I'm wrong I take full responsibility—that without him, Iron Shirt will pull his horns in, and he and his Blackfoot allies will disappear back into the hills beyond Squaw Creek, where they live when they're not following the buffalo.”

Fargo glanced at Prairie Dog, who stared glumly down at his whiskey.

“I see your reasoning, Major.” Fargo flipped his spoon in the air. “And, while I'm no regulator—never been able to stomach the breed, in fact—I'll take the job. But from what you've told me, I think there's a real danger of turning the lieutenant into a martyr. We could rile those Injuns even more, paint this prairie red with white men's blood for years to come.”

Lieutenant Ryan stared at Fargo, his spectacles reflecting the dancing candlelight. He looked as though he'd been slapped, but he nodded weakly. “It's a risk we have to take. The major and I and Captain Thomas see no other options.”

Captain Thomas fingered a pimple on his left cheek, stifled a yawn. “Agreed.”

Major Howard sucked a fresh stogie. “As it happens, you may not have to assassinate him yourself.” He glanced at Prairie Dog, who turned the corners of his mouth down. “You may have seen Mr. Charley's fancy, German-made rifle. Good from five hundred yards, the scout tells me.”

“Why did I have to go braggin' about that piece?” Prairie Dog chuffed and turned to Fargo. “Well, there you have it. You're the scout, Skye. I'm the assassin. If'n you can get me within range of Iron Shirt's encampment. I've been all over this country east of the creek, but rarely west. Besides, while my eyes are eagle-sharp, the hearing in my left ear is goin'. Even if I knew the country, my poor hearing could cost me my hair not a mile from the fort.”

Fargo threw back his whiskey and set his glass on the oilcloth. “I appreciate the meal and the whiskey, Major, but I'm ready for bed.” He glanced at Prairie Dog. “Clean old Betsy tonight, and let's ride out a good two hours before first light tomorrow.”

“Throw down here, Mr. Fargo,” Major Howard offered. “I have an extra bedroom upstairs. It would be my honor.”

Fargo glanced at the ceiling and fought back a blush. Valeria would be rooming up there. No point in risking a bullet from the major in the middle of the night.

The Trailsman slid his chair back, rising. “The sutler's cot's right cozy.”

“Brunhilda.”

He glanced at Prairie Dog scowling up at him. “Huh?”

“The Schuetzen's name is Brunhilda.” The old scout grinned. “German, don't ya know? And don't you worry—she'll be cleaned, oiled, loaded, and ready to go!”

Chuckling, Fargo excused himself, and went into the kitchen. Valeria wasn't there—only the housekeeper, singing softly to herself while shelving clean plates above the range.

Fargo thanked the woman for the good cooking and headed outside into the still prairie gloaming, the drum roll of “Twilight Tattoo” rising from the parade ground. He hitched his cartridge belt high on his hips and peered west.

Beyond the far stockade wall, the sky glowed umber though the sun had set an hour ago. His keen ears picked up the heartlike thump of war drums, barely audible above the nearer strains of “Tattoo.”

The Trailsman stepped off the major's porch and began tramping west along the parade ground's north edge. To his right, several men moved out of the officers' quarters, some flanked by their wives, to peer pensively west, toward the flickering firelight and the eerie, primitive drum cadence.

On the south side of the parade ground, noncoms and enlisted men wandered out of their barracks, muttering curiously, some smoking or holding tin coffee cups, suspenders hanging off their shoulders, hair tussled by the warm spring breeze.

Fargo approached the stockade wall where soldiers were clumped along the shooting ledge, staring west and whispering. He climbed a ladder and moved left along the ledge, toward three young soldiers huddled together, speaking in low, enervated tones. One held a quirley to his lips as he and the others peered over the wall's sharpened log tips.

“Put out that cigarette, soldier,” Fargo admonished.

The three privates jerked their heads toward him with a start. The quirley dropped to the floor of the ledge, sparking, and the lanky private crushed it under the heel of a scuffed brogan.

Peering west, Fargo said, “One of you boys have a spyglass?”

The soldiers shuffled around to his left, and then a brass-chased binocular was thrust at the Trailsman's shoulder. He grabbed it, extended it toward the glow, and adjusted the focus.

“How long you been hearing the drums?”

One of the privates sniffed and whispered, “Just a few minutes, sir. It started about the same time our boys laid in with ‘Tattoo.'”

“We seen the fires before,” said one of the others, “but we haven't heard the drums. They must be movin' closer.”

Fargo aimed the glass at the umber glow and, twisting the canister slightly, brought up three separate red smudges amongst the dark brown hills about two and a half miles west. The sky above and behind the hills was green with the fading dusk, but the fires stood out on a hill shoulder swathed in brush and gnarled trees.

Fargo couldn't see much from this distance, but the shadows flickering before the fires were no doubt the silhouettes of dancing Indians.

A war dance.

A young man's voice trembled. “Y-you think they're going to attack the fort, sir?”

“They might just be trying to make you soil your trousers, but I'd keep my eyes peeled.” Fargo reduced the spyglass and gave it back to the soldier. “Stay awake and don't fire any quirleys. The Injuns'll use 'em for target practice.”

Fargo moved back along the shooting ledge, descended the ladder, and tramped off between the guardhouse and the infirmary, heading for the stables. He'd check to make sure the Ovaro was well cared for and not getting into trouble, then, since he had to be up before dawn, bed down early in the sutler's storeroom.

He found the stables dark and untended, the Ovaro in the rear paddock with about five other horses, all geldings. While the other horses munched hay or drew water or milled along the corral slats, the pinto stared tensely west, flicking its ears at the war drums that Fargo could no longer hear.

“Easy, boy,” Fargo said, dropping a loop over the pinto's head and giving a gentle tug. He'd stable the horse for the night to make sure it was well rested by morning. “They're a long way off…for now,” he added as the horse clomped through the open double doors and onto the hard-packed floor of the barn alley.

Leading the horse into a corner stable a good distance from the other stabled stock, Fargo wondered what kind of nightmares the pinto would have tonight if it knew where they'd be heading before dawn.

He'd filled the stock troughs, gave the horse's neck a good-night pat, and was backing out of the stall when he heard the crackling rustle of a foot on the straw-covered floor. Fargo moved his hand from the stable door to his pistol grips, wheeling on his heels.

“Skye?” It was Valeria's silky voice. She stood a few feet from the stable, silhouetted by a sashed window behind her.

The Trailsman sighed, dropped his hand from his pistol grips. “Shouldn't sneak up on a man. Especially with Injuns about, beatin' on war drums.”

She stepped forward, into a shaft of ambient light, and extended a burlap sack. “I brought some food for tomorrow—some venison, which Mrs. Hildebrand jerked herself, and buttermilk biscuits. A couple pieces of pie for you and Mr…. uh”—she smiled, green eyes slitting beguilingly—“Prairie Dog.”

“Hell,” Fargo said, taking the bag by the twisted, twine-wrapped neck. “I'm much obliged. You must be feeling a little more neighborly since this afternoon.”

Crossing her hands before her, she dropped her chin demurely. “Yes, I wanted to apologize for my demeanor. I've been through a lot lately, as you know, and I'm afraid my nerves are stretched a little taut.”

Fargo dropped the bag to his side. “Apology accepted.”

She stared up at him.

“Was there something else, Miss Howard?”

“No.” She backed away slowly, continuing to stare up at him. “No…I just wanted to apologize and wish you luck on your mission. I overheard you and Father and the other men in the dining room. It sounds terribly dangerous.”

Fargo moved toward her, his broad shadow falling across her willowy, high-busted frame. She wore the same low-cut dress as before, a thin veil draped carelessly across her shoulders. Unlike before, she wore no corset, and her nipples pushed out from behind the cloth like bone buttons. “That all you came for?”

“What on earth do you mean?” Even shaded by the Trailsman's broad shadow, Valeria's green eyes flashed angrily. “What happened before, Mr. Fargo, was entirely due to my…my
disorientation.
”

“In that case, you wouldn't want to repeat it.”

Her breasts rose and fell sharply. She glanced around, then returned her gaze to Fargo's. There was little conviction in her voice. “Of course not. What do you take me for?”

Fargo pulled her taut against him and ran his hands down her sides to her hips. Lifting her skirt, he reached beneath the fine material, ran his palms along the backs of her smooth thighs and warm, naked buttocks.

His face only inches from hers, he grinned. “Disoriented enough to forget to wear underwear when you visit a man in a horse barn?”

He engulfed her in his arms. A gasp escaped her lips as Fargo closed his mouth over hers. As he kissed her, he peeled the dress off her shoulders and caressed her breasts, the nipples rising and pebbling against his palms.

“Not here,” she groaned. “Good Lord—it's a
barn.
”

“Few hotels hereabouts.” Fargo crouched, picked her up, then swung around, pushing through the open door of the stable beside the Ovaro's.

Kneeling, he lay Valeria down in a low mound of hay. She rose quickly, scampered onto her knees, thrusting her hands at the buckle of his cartridge belt. Fargo sagged back in the hay as the girl tossed his gun belt aside, unbuttoned his buckskins, and began pulling the breeches down his thighs while probing around inside his underwear for his shaft.

She'd no sooner found what she was looking for than her lips slipped over the head and her tongue began its beguiling work as her mouth slid slowly down toward his crotch, her red hair cascading across his thighs.

As her head moved up and down, Fargo leaned back on his elbows. She worked him until he was grinding his molars and digging his heels into the hay. She lifted her head suddenly and scowled up at him, pouting, lips glistening.

“You bastard!”

Bare breasts jostling, she straddled him, lifted her skirts, and, holding the base of his member with one hand, lowered herself slowly, groaning and sighing until she sat snugly atop his thighs, plundering her silky, wet depths with his iron-hard shaft.

“I once had dignity,” she moaned, rising on her haunches as she lowered her mouth to his, nibbling his lips. “I've let you turn me into a wanton
hussy
, and I won't even be able to
enjoy
you anymore, because you'll be dead in a few short
hours
!”

“Easy,” Fargo grunted. “It doesn't bend that way!”

“Shut up and despoil me!” She rose quickly, descended slowly, digging her fingers into his shoulders while peppering his face with hot, wet kisses. “Ohh…you
bastard
!”

When she came, she threw her head back, breasts out, and shook as though lightning-struck. The shuddering tickled him deep in his loins and ignited his own explosion, his juices firing like bullets rattled from the maw of a repeating rifle.

She shook even more violently, mouth wide, her fingernails on the verge of opening wounds in his shoulders. Her knees were clamped viselike against his ribs.

A horsy snort rose above and behind her, and Fargo opened his eyes. The Ovaro stared down at him from the opposite stall, a slightly incriminating, ironic cast to his gaze.

Fargo shrugged. The girl sagged down atop him, pressing her breasts against his chest and burying her face in his neck. “Oh, Skye…do you
have
to go out there tomorrow?”

“I accepted the assignment.”

“You've seen how dangerous it is.”

“I reckon if Lieutenant Duke isn't defused, he'll lead those Indians right up to the gates of this fort and beyond.”

She lifted her head, listening. Clear and thin on the air came the deep-throated throbbing of distant drums. Valeria shivered and placed her hands on either side of the Trailsman's broad face.

She turned his head from side to side for emphasis, a sharp, beseeching tone in her voice. “You come back to me—do you hear? I know what I said before, but the fact is I'm smitten and I don't care if you know it”—she quirked the corners of her mouth, and her eyes glistened in the gray shafts from the windows—“or take advantage of me.”

He smoothed the rich red locks away from her cheeks. “I'll give it my best shot.”

She kissed him, began to rise. “I told Mrs. Hildebrand I was just stepping out for some air. I'd better get back before Father sends out a search party.”

She winked and tossed her hair back from her shoulders. Crouching, bending those fine, creamy legs, she retrieved her dress from the stable floor, then turned to the horse staring at her with brazen interest. Chuckling and clutching the dress to her breasts, she placed a tender kiss on the Ovaro's nose.

The horse snorted and brushed a hoof against the stall partition.

Valeria laughed. “You and your horse are cut from the same cloth, Mr. Fargo.”

Valeria turned away from both Fargo and the horse, shook out the dress, and dropped it over her head. When she lowered her chin to begin buttoning up, Fargo pulled his pants up, climbed to his feet, snaked his arms under hers, and took her tender orbs in his hands once more, nuzzling her neck.

She pressed her hands over his and relaxed against him, tipping her head to one side.

In the distance, a man yelled and a rifle report rent the quiet night.

Valeria gasped. The Trailsman lifted his head, pricking his ears.

More shots and shouts followed by an Indian war whoop.

Valeria whipped around toward Fargo, covering her breasts with her hands. “Oh, my God—they're attacking the fort!”

“Stay here!”

As the Ovaro nickered and jerked its head up and down, Fargo grabbed his cartridge belt, wrapped it around his waist, donned his hat, and bolted out the stall door.

“Skye, don't leave me!”

Fargo turned back to her. Valeria faced him, hands cupping her breasts. Outside, rifles and pistols popped and boomed and the shouting and whooping rose to a cacophony.

Fargo grabbed his pistol from its holster, spun the cylinder. He wished he had the Henry that he'd left in the sutler's storeroom. “Stay down and don't come out till I tell you it's clear!”

He wheeled and ran to the near end of the barn, pushed through the double doors. An arrow whistled past his right ear and twanged into the door behind him.

Fargo flinched, raised his revolver toward the dark, painted brave standing fifteen feet in front of him who was reaching behind his back for another arrow. Fargo's .44 roared, and the Indian flew back against the wall of another stock barn.

Fargo turned right, shot two more braves running toward him from the north, laying them both out with single rounds through their chests, and peered toward the fort's north stockade wall—or the short stretch he could see from between the stock barns.

Three soldiers stood on the shooting ledge, yelling and firing their rifles over the wall's sharpened log ends. One had just turned away to reload his rifle when his head snapped toward his right shoulder, a bloody arrow point jutting from the side of his head.

As the soldier fell from the shooting ledge, the Trailsman broke into a hard sprint for the wall. Ahead, another soldier screamed as an arrow thumped into his neck, driving him back off the ledge to hit the ground on his back, writhing.