Fargo frowned. He was letting himself be distracted. Moving on, he crept past a high pine and several oaks. Beyond rose a low knoll. He was about to climb it when he heard a thud from the other side.
Flattening, Fargo levered on his elbows and knees to the top. He removed his hat before he peeked over.
Three horses had been tied so they couldn’t wander off. None had saddles. Instead of leather bridles they had rope hackamores. On the hindquarters of one was the painted symbol of a knife.
That there were only three warriors was a mild relief. Three was better than twenty. Fargo scanned the woods but they weren’t anywhere near. Jamming his hat on, he slid back down and worked around to where he could see if anyone approached.
He lay on his belly in the high grass. He figured it would be a while before they showed but it was less than five minutes later that a warrior came out of the woods. He took a few steps and abruptly stopped.
The warrior tilted his head from side to side as if he sensed or suspected that something wasn’t quite right. He was armed with a lance. His features, his hair, his leggings and moccasins were those of the Blackfeet.
Fargo stayed still. Two of the horses were dozing. The third had raised its head and was staring at the warrior, its tail lazily swishing.
The Blackfoot slowly advanced. He scoured the knoll and the woods. He came to the horse nearest Fargo and reached for the hackamore.
Three swift bounds and Fargo had the Sharps’ muzzle pressed hard against the nape of the man’s neck. The warrior heard him and started to turn but Fargo was too quick for him. “Not so much as twitch,” he warned in English. In the man’s own tongue he said, “Not move.” He was a lot more fluent in the Lakota language and a few others but he knew enough Blackfoot to get by.
The warrior was surprisingly calm. He stayed still as Fargo sidled around and took a few steps back.
“Do you speak the white tongue?”
The warrior stared. He was in his middle years, thirty to forty, his eyes dark and penetrating.
“Do you speak the white tongue?” Fargo asked again.
“Little some,” the warrior said.
“Drop the lance,” Fargo directed, and motioned with the Sharps.
The warrior let it fall.
“Back away from the horse.”
Again the warrior complied.
“Why are you and your friends spying on me and my friends?” Fargo asked.
“What be spying?”
“Watching us,” Fargo said.
The warrior grunted.
“We have come in peace to your country,” Fargo said. “We are not your enemy.”
“Many guns.”
“All whites carry guns,” Fargo exaggerated. “Just as all warriors have a bow or a tomahawk or some other weapon. If we were here to make war we wouldn’t have brought the woman and her children.”
“Why come?” the warrior said, still with that surprising calm.
Fargo was about to explain when swift steps pattered behind him. He whirled but he was too late. The other two warriors were on him. He had no time to shoot. A shoulder caught him in the gut and he was lifted off his feet and slammed to the ground. Iron hands clamped on each wrist and the rifle was torn from his grasp. Bucking, he drove a knee into the back of the warrior on his right and the man cried out and his grip loosened. Fargo pulled free, twisted, and delivered an uppercut to the chin of the other. Heaving up, Fargo gained room to move. He swooped his hand to his Colt but he had forgotten about the first warrior. A blow to his back pitched him flat on his face and filled him with excruciating pain.
Fargo rolled, or tried to. The warrior was on top of him, seeking to pin his arms. With a powerful wrench Fargo made it to his knees. Pivoting, he flicked a right cross and a left jab.
Blackfeet weren’t accustomed to fisticuffs. The warrior was more startled than hurt and fell back with an expression of surprise.
Again Fargo clawed for his revolver. He almost had it out when the other two pounced. An arm clamped around his throat from behind and a knee gouged his spine. The other warrior grabbed hold of his wrist to keep him from raising the Colt any higher. Fargo tensed to throw them off.
Suddenly the first warrior was in front of him, holding a knife. The warrior pressed the tip to Fargo’s throat and said simply, “Stop.”
Fargo stopped.
“Let go little gun.”
Fargo raised his hand from the Colt. He considered himself as good as dead. He was girding to lunge at the one holding the knife when the warrior drew the blade away from his throat.
“How you called?”
“To the Lakota I am He Who Follows Many Trails,” Fargo said. “To the whites I am Fargo. Who are you?”
“Bird Rattler.”
Fargo recollected hearing the name before. “You are an important man in the councils of your people.” Which was as high a praise as a warrior could get.
“Why you here, white man?”
Fargo saw no reason to lie. “We are on a hunt.”
“For elk?”
“For bear,” Fargo said. “We are after a man-killer. The whites call her Brain Eater. She likes to bite open heads and eat out the brains.”
Bird Rattler lowered his knife all the way. He said something in his own tongue to the other two, too fast for Fargo to follow, and they let go of him and looked at him with interest.
“How you know bear she?”
“I’ve seen her,” Fargo said. “Her and another bear that is following her around.”
“Kiaayo kitsiakkomimm,” Bird Rattler said.
“The other bear is her lover?” Fargo translated. It made sense. Normally, male and female grizzlies had little to do with one another. But for about four months each year, April through July, the males sought the females out to mate. If the female was in heat, a male might linger in her vicinity for weeks.
Bird Rattler grunted. “We call female”—he paused as if trying to find the right white word—“Breaks Heads. We call male Little Penis.”
Fargo laughed. Then it hit him what the other was saying. “She’s attacked your people too?”
“Yes.”
Fargo could have slapped himself. It had never occurred to him—and it should have—that if the grizzly was attacking whites, it must also be attacking Indians. “How many has she killed?”
Bird Rattler slid his knife into his beaded sheath. He held up all the fingers and thumb on one hand and four fingers on the others.
“Nine?” Fargo said. “Damn. White and red together puts her tally at over twenty that we know of.” Another insight dawned. “Are you after her too?”
Bird Rattler grunted. “Me,” he said, and pointed at the other two in turn. “Red Mink. Lazy Husband. Others afraid. Say Breaks Heads bad medicine.”
“She sure as hell is,” Fargo agreed, and was struck by an inspiration. “I have an idea. How about if we join forces?”
“Forces?” Bird Rattler said.
“You’re after her. We’re after her. Why not work together and increase our chances?”
“You white,” Bird Rattler said. “White men not like red man.”
“Not all are that way. I’m not.”
“Me must talk,” Bird Rattler said, and led his companions out of earshot.
Fargo brushed himself off. His gut was sore but otherwise he was unhurt. He stared toward the Sharps. None of the warriors objected when he picked it up although Red Mink watched his every move.
The Blackfeet were arguing. Red Mink gestured sharply and Bird Rattler looked at Fargo and used a hand sign that signified, “No.”
Fargo was sure the Blackfeet would have killed him if the subject of the bear hadn’t come up. Lone whites who ventured into their territory were often never heard from again. He held the Sharps in the crook of his elbow as he normally would, and curled his thumb around the hammer, just in case.