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.”
8
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.