Black Hills Badman by Jon Sharpe

a rope, just as they had with the black bear. Fargo climbed on the Ovaro, deftly tossed a loop over the bay’s saddle horn, then had the stallion slowly walk backward. Owen was ready, and the instant the saddle rose high enough, he pulled the senator out from under it and helped him to stand.
    “At last,” Keever said gruffly. He brushed at his expensive clothes and picked pieces of grass from a sleeve. “Which one of you will let me ride his horse to camp?”
    “You can ride double with me if you like,” Owen offered.
    “What about my saddle?”
    “Lichen will bring it back with him.” Owen chuckled and winked at Fargo. “Damn. Here I am, doing your work. I would make as good a top dog as you.”
    “We’ve been all through that,” Fargo reminded him.
    Owen rubbed his jaw. “That we have. Still, I should get a raise, all the extra work I do.”
    The senator was smoothing his hair. “I can remedy that. From here on out I’ll pay you a third more than you have been getting.”
    “You sure are generous,” Owen said sarcastically.
    “You know what I’m after. You want generous? Find it for me.”
    “Find what?” Fargo asked.
    “How many times must I repeat myself? I want a buffalo and a grizzly to add to my trophies and make this trek worthwhile.”
    They rode slowly. Owen was in a talkative mood and went on about the weather and how hard it was proving to find buffalo and how maybe they should save shooting a buff for last and instead penetrate deeper into the Black Hills after a griz.
    “These hills are special to the Sioux,” Fargo brought up.
    “Oh posh,” Senator Keever said. “We have only seen a few Indians since we crossed the Mississippi River. I was led to believe the plains are crawling with them.”
    Owen pointed. “There’s some for you.”
    Six warriors on horseback were far off to the northwest, heading north. Their backs were to them.
    “Sioux, you think?” the senator asked.
    Fargo swung down and instructed them to do the same. Owen and Lichen quickly complied but Keever stayed on.
    “Here you go again. Making a fuss when they don’t even see us.”
    Owen grabbed the senator’s leg and yanked, nearly unhorsing him. “Get off, you simpleton.”
    “I am growing severely weary of your insults,” Keever said. But he dismounted.
    Fargo kept one hand on the Henry. It bothered him, the one warrior before and now these six. A village must be near, in which case they should pack everything up and get the hell out of there. He mentioned it to Keever.
    “Give up because we’ve seen a few Indians? Why, I’d be the laughingstock of the Senate.”
    “There are worse things,” Owen said. “Like being the laughingstock of the cemetery.”
    Fargo began to wonder why Keever put up with Owen’s constant prodding. But he put it from his mind. He had something more important to think about: the Sioux. “I’m going to follow them,” he announced.
    “You’re loco.”
    “I don’t see the point,” the senator asked. “Let them go their way and we’ll go ours.”
    “I’ll shadow them and find out if their village is nearby,” Fargo explained. “If it is, we’re lighting a shuck whether you like it or not.” He forked leather. The six warriors were almost out of sight. “Take Keever back,” he directed Owen, “and keep your eyes skinned.”
    Owen grinned. “Says the gent out to part company with his hair.”
    The senator cleared his throat. “I really must protest. You’re taking a rash risk. We’ve avoided them so far and we can keep on doing so if we use our heads.”
    “I am using mine.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro. He stayed at a walk. The warriors were in no hurry and he wasn’t anxious to get any closer than he already was. Half an hour crawled by, then an hour. The six were barely visible. The terrain became hillier and more broken, typical of the Black Hills, or Paha Sapa , as the Sioux called them. To the Sioux they were sacred.
    Fargo had lived with the Sioux once.