“We’re edging out of it,” Fargo replied, “but the Lakota range wide. This cold weather is on our side, though. If they don’t have a score to settle, they prefer to be in warm lodges when the snow comes.”
“Is it coming?” Jessica asked, poking her auburn-curled head out of a window.
“Hard to say right now. There’s a blow making up to the north, but it could veer in any direction.”
“Will the Cheyenne pursue us through snow?”
“Right now they’d follow us into the white man’s hell carrying a parfleche full of firecrackers.”
“How many more days,” she persisted, “before we reach Fort Laramie?”
“At this pace,” Fargo said, “about two days. But I expect the Cheyenne war party to be nipping at our heels before then.”
“And what is your next bit of wit and wile, Fargo?” Lord Blackford asked. “We’re deuced low on ammunition, what?”
Fargo was acutely aware of that. He was down to five loads in his Colt and only seven in his Henry. Even counting the women’s muff guns—good only at close range—they would make a poor showing in the next attack.
“I’m still working on the wit and wile part,” Fargo replied. “But the next time we spell the horses, we’re going to stock up on rocks.”
“Rocks!” Aldritch and Blackford exclaimed in chorus. Aldritch added, “Have you gone utterly mad, Fargo?”
“Opinions vary on that. Sure, rocks. Derek and Skeets are brawny men, and me and Slappy have good arms. You gents may have to toss a few yourselves. You might be surprised what good weapons rocks can be.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Aldritch huffed. “Preposterous rubbish! I’m damned if I will fight like some denizen of biblical days.”
“Suit yourself,” Fargo said. “You’ll change your tune in a puffin’ hurry if those warriors capture you, but by then it’ll be too late—way too late.”
13
Touch the Clouds felt guilt gnawing at his belly. A secret guilt he had spoken of to no other brave. Now he looked across the fire at Swift Canoe, the Cheyenne brave who had trailed the white skins and spied on them until the war party from Crying Woman Creek had caught up with them.
“Tell me a thing, brother,” he said. “Are you eager to kill Son of Light?”
Swift Canoe, a closemouthed warrior who kept his feelings close to his heart, said nothing for several heartbeats. Then: “Truly I am not, brother. The Crow, the Lakota, the Arapahoe—their women sing his deeds. In the desolate country the yellow eyes call the Indian Territory, did he not help the Cherokees defeat a band of paleface murderers who stole their lands? True, he kills red men, but always honorably in fair battles. How many times has he stopped the bluecoat pony soldiers from killing Cheyenne women and children? He is a hard man, but honorable in his way.”
Touch the Clouds nodded. “As you say. I believe he has medicine—powerful medicine. And I fear that killing him could bring the worst hurt in the world onto our tribe.”
Swift Canoe remained silent now, gazing into the crackling, sawing flames. Behind the two braves, a dull orange ball of sun was easing toward the western horizon. About half of the scattered pony herd had been captured, and the rest of the braves were out walking down more.
“And yet,” Swift Canoe suddenly resumed, “did he not just kill another brave and scatter our ponies to the Four Directions?”
A smile briefly touched the grim seam of Touch the Cloud’s lips. “True. And it was done exactly as you or I might have done it. He thinks like a red man. As for the one whose name may not be mentioned—it is clear he tried to kill Fargo first. You saw where we found his lance.”
“It was not murder,” Swift Canoe agreed. “But now another Cheyenne warrior will never bounce his children on his knee.”
Touch the Clouds grunted affirmation. Still, the inward guilt gnawed at him like sharp incisors.
“I did not speak up for Fargo strongly enough at council. True, I reported that he is trying to keep these fools from the Land of the Grandmother Queen away from Uncle Pte, the buffalo. But I condemned him for his failure when it was clear he was tricked. We do not condemn a Cheyenne to severe punishment for failure—only for deliberate treachery.”
Swift Canoe averted his eyes, clearly uncomfortable. “Perhaps,” he suggested tactfully, “your time among the white skins has understandably softened your heart toward them.”
“Say you so? Tell me, was my heart soft toward them at the battle of Antelope Falls? Or at Eagle Rock? You were there. You saw me count first coup both times and take more paleface scalps than any other brave.”
“I saw it,” Swift Canoe agreed. “Your heart was a stone with no soft place in it.”
“As you say. Only Cheyenne blood sings in my veins. But there are things unseen in this world, law-ways not given by men but by Maiyun, the Great Supernatural. I tell you, buck, it is not affection but fearful respect that makes me say this: I am afraid that if we kill Son of Light, we may bring dark disaster onto our tribe.”
