âGentlemen, dinner will be served.â
When the girl withdrew into the kitchen, Howard shuttled his glance to Fargo and the others, brows ridged with annoyance and enervation. âShall we save the rest of the conversation for after dinner, gentlemenâ¦?â
Fargo set his glass on the decanterâs silver tray and followed the others into the dining room. The meal was medallions of venison with wild onions, potatoes and gravy, fresh bread, and spinach from the fortâs garden.
The food was good and rib-sticking, but Fargo was bored with the falsely-jovial dinner conversation and forced small talk. The men, including Prairie Dog, obviously had their minds on the Indians. All except Lieutenant Ryan, that was. The young soldier, obviously smitten by Valeria, offered several embarrassing questions about her schooling and travels and the possibility of their having mutual acquaintances back east, while his nearsighted gaze raked her opulent bosom. Valeria answered the questions politely, picking at her food and flicking her own oblique gazes across the table at the Trailsman, doing little to encourage the randy young officerâs pursuit.
After dessert of canned peach pie and coffee, the girl excused herself to help the cook, Mildred, clear the table and wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. Major Howard poured Fargo and the other men a fresh glass before retaking his chair with a sigh, and regarding the Trailsman with gravity from across the table. Pensively, he tapped the rim of his glass.
The others sat in their chairs like statues.
Howard said, âMr. Fargo, itâs with a deep reluctance and a heavy heart that Iâm ordering the assassination of one of my own men. Before he went crazy, Lieutenant Duke and I were very close. We played chess nearly every evening. He was a master of the game. He tended to idealize the Indians, seemed to fancy becoming one himself, but otherwise a sensible, likable young man.
âHowever, he has gone quite insane. And for some reason, he has become a shaman of sorts to Chief Iron Shirt, ostensibly encouraging the extermination of all whites from the region. I believeâand if Iâm wrong I take full responsibilityâthat without him, Iron Shirt will pull his horns in, and he and his Blackfoot allies will disappear back into the hills beyond Squaw Creek, where they live when theyâre not following the buffalo.â
Fargo glanced at Prairie Dog, who stared glumly down at his whiskey.
âI see your reasoning, Major.â Fargo flipped his spoon in the air. âAnd, while Iâm no regulatorânever been able to stomach the breed, in factâIâll take the job. But from what youâve told me, I think thereâs a real danger of turning the lieutenant into a martyr. We could rile those Injuns even more, paint this prairie red with white menâs blood for years to come.â
Lieutenant Ryan stared at Fargo, his spectacles reflecting the dancing candlelight. He looked as though heâd been slapped, but he nodded weakly. âItâs a risk we have to take. The major and I and Captain Thomas see no other options.â
Captain Thomas fingered a pimple on his left cheek, stifled a yawn. âAgreed.â
Major Howard sucked a fresh stogie. âAs it happens, you may not have to assassinate him yourself.â He glanced at Prairie Dog, who turned the corners of his mouth down. âYou may have seen Mr. Charleyâs fancy, German-made rifle. Good from five hundred yards, the scout tells me.â
âWhy did I have to go bragginâ about that piece?â Prairie Dog chuffed and turned to Fargo. âWell, there you have it. Youâre the scout, Skye. Iâm the assassin. Ifân you can get me within range of Iron Shirtâs encampment. Iâve been all over this country east of the creek, but rarely west. Besides, while my eyes are eagle-sharp, the hearing in my left ear is goinâ. Even