Free Beyond Squaw Creek by Jon Sharpe Page A

sure, but we can certainly put you up better than that!”
    Fargo hiked a shoulder as he accepted the glass. “I like bein’ out of the way.” He sipped the whiskey, which was better than that in the sutler’s saloon. “Prairie Dog here filled me in on the Indian trouble, Major. I know from being out there myself that you’re pretty well surrounded. Any ideas about how you’re gonna get yourself out of this bailiwick?”
    The major flushed slightly as he glanced at the other two officers. They and Prairie Dog stood before Fargo in a loose semicircle. Returning his gaze to the tall Trailsman standing before them in smoke-stained buckskins and with a no-nonsense scowl on his rugged features, the major chuckled. “You like getting to the point, don’t you? Well, shall we have a seat, gentlemen? I’d been going to save this part of the conversation until after we’d dined, but since Mr. Fargo would like to skin the cat now, let’s skin it now.”
    Fargo sat in a bullhorn rocking chair near the front window. When the lieutenant, the captain, and Prairie Dog had taken seats around him, the major refilled their glasses and sat in a cowhide chair to Fargo’s right. He jerked his gold-buttoned tunic down sharply, cleared his throat, and propped a low-heeled cavalry boot on a knee.
    Since Prairie Dog had already briefed Fargo on the situation, Howard merely summarized the trouble from the start of the uprising to present, adding nothing Fargo didn’t already know, including his suspicions about the insane Lieutenant Duke.
    â€œWhich leads me to the reason I’d like to extend your contract, Mr. Fargo,” the major said, puffing his stogie, a sheepish cast entering his eyes as he shifted his gaze to the two other officers.
    The major paused as if for dramatic effect, and Fargo frowned impatiently. He could occasionally tolerate coyness in a woman, but not in a man. “And that is…?”
    Howard returned his gaze to Fargo, flinched slightly at the coldness in the Trailsman’s stare, and nervously flicked ashes into the stone tray on his chair arm. “We’d like you to hunt him down and kill him.”
    Fargo was genuinely shocked. “ Kill him?” He’d thought the man was going to ask him to try and run the Indians’ gauntlet and seek help from an outlying fort, possibly Fort Buford or from one of the fledgling Canadian outposts on the other side of the border. “It seems to me, from what I’ve heard so far of this Lieutenant Duke’s relationship with Iron Shirt and the rest of his band, the last thing you’d want to do is martyr the man.”
    â€œWe’ve discussed the matter thoroughly, Mr. Fargo,” interjected Captain Thomas, adjusting his spectacles. “Believe me, we do not take the matter lightly.”
    â€œWe considered the possibility of sending you through the Indians’ lines for help,” added Lieutenant Ryan. “The problem is…and as you doubtless know…the Indians have no lines. We’ve sent four men to tackle the same job…”
    â€œAnd all four were sent back,” Prairie Dog piped up when the lieutenant’s voice began to quiver and fade, his cheeks blanching. “At least, their heads and hearts were sent back, dangling from their saddle horns.”
    Now, that was a bit of information the old cuss had been holding on to.
    â€œI don’t guarantee I’d make it, but I made it here, and I know the country,” Fargo said. “If I traveled at night…”
    â€œEven if you made it through,” Howard said, “the help you sought wouldn’t make it here in time. The Indians have been moving closer to the fort every day. At night, their council fires are quite visible in the hills beyond Squaw Creek. I’m guessing that in two, maybe three—”
    The major paused when Valeria poked her head in the door.