Flathead Fury by Jon Sharpe

be fine.”
    Fargo walked to the Ovaro. Were it not for the brother’s glares, he might be inclined to stay the night. He threw on his saddle blanket and smoothed it out, then saddled up. Tying his bedroll and saddlebags on took no time at all. As he stepped into the stirrups, Birds Landing came over and held out her hand to shake, white fashion.
    â€œI better not kiss you. Thunder Cloud would not like it.”
    â€œHe sure doesn’t like me much,” Fargo remarked.
    â€œDo not take it personal,” Birds Landing said. “If we had not made love, he would like you fine.”
    Fargo doubted it.
    As if she had read his thoughts, Birds Landing said, “Then again, he is not all that fond of whites. He resents being forced to live on a reservation.”
    A lot of Indians resented it, with good cause, Fargo reflected. In too many instances, a tribe was marched hundreds of miles to their new home, which often was in a region with too little game and not enough water, areas the whites did not want for themselves. The Flatheads were lucky in that respect; the government was permitting them to stay on their own land.
    â€œMake yourself scarce until Durn has been dealt with,” Fargo advised. “He will not be riding roughshod over people much longer.” Fargo touched her cheek, then gigged the Ovaro. He swore he could feel the brother’s eyes bore into his back as the night engulfed him.
    Fargo held the Ovaro to a walk. Once he was down out of the hills, he swung toward a trail that would take him into Polson from the south. All things considered, it seemed wise to ride in from a different direction.
    The wilderness was alive with the cries of animals, predators and prey alike. None of the meat-eaters came anywhere near him, though, and he reached the trail without mishap.
    Fargo was bone tired. He had been on the go all day without much rest. He intended to treat himself to a cozy bed and to treat the Ovaro to a stall in the stable. The prospect set him to grinning but his grin faded when a loud caterwauling fell on his ears. “It can’t be,” he said.
    But it was.
    Fargo went around the next turn, and there, staggering toward him while merrily singing off-key, was none other than Thaddeus Thompson, the ever-present bottle in hand.
    Thaddeus took a swig, went to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and took a step back. “You again!”
    â€œSmall world,” Fargo said drily.
    â€œWhat are you doing? Following me?”
    â€œIf I was, wouldn’t I be behind you?”
    Thaddeus looked over his shoulder, and chuckled. “When I am this booze blind, I can’t tell front from back and sometimes up from down.”
    â€œHow are things in Polson?” Fargo asked.
    Slurring his words atrociously, Thaddeus said, “There was a ruckus earlier. I heard that one of Big Mike Durn’s Indian girls got away, and he is none too happy.”
    â€œYou don’t say.” Fargo feigned innocence.
    â€œYep. Somebody knocked two of Big Mike’s toughs over their noggins and lit out with her.” Thaddeus tittered. “It serves him right, the murdering bastard.”
    â€œHas Durn returned yet?”
    â€œA couple of hours ago. Him and his men were plumb tuckered out, and he was growling at them fit to bite off their heads.”
    â€œHave you heard who took the Indian girl?”
    â€œNo one knows. Of if Durn does, he hasn’t said.” Thaddeus wet his throat again. “Sally Brook is right pleased, though. I heard her tell Durn that it was too bad all those girls didn’t get away.”
    â€œHow did Durn take that?”
    â€œHow do you think? He stomped into his saloon as mad as an old bull. Sally takes an awful chance mouthing off to him, but she is the only one who can get away with it.”
    Fargo looked forward to talking to her. “Want me to see you to your cabin, old-timer?”
    Thaddeus snorted. “What the hell