Grizzly Fury

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.”