Badlands Bloodsport

5

The odd little caravan wended its way slowly across the Great Plains, guided by Fargo and the generous, silvery light of a full moon in a star-shot dome of sky. Fargo always tried to avoid nighttime travel, for it was too easy for a horse to break its ankle in a gopher hole or injure a hoof on a jagged rock. But if he had to ride at night, let it be the plains, where a man could look farther and see less of anything but land and sky.

“Mr. Fargo?” Ericka Blackford called out of the coach when he dropped back to ride alongside, “We only decided on this western adventure because we had read that the wild Indians had signed a peace treaty back in—back in—”

“Back in 1851,” Fargo supplied. “The Fort Laramie Treaty. It was written on water from the start. The government negotiators made promises they never meant to keep. And some Indian chiefs, like Quanah Parker of the Comanche and Two Twists of the Cheyenne, never agreed to the terms. Others made their mark only for the presents. You folks shoulda done a little more reading.”

Fargo could have told them much more about Indian grievances, grievances he shared: about the ruthless despoiling of the continent, the damming of rivers, the western graziers starting to creep across the Mississippi and hog all the land for a few arrogant barons. But England was going great guns with an “industrial revolution” of its own, and he feared his words would fall on deaf ears.

“I daresay, you might have advised us more thoroughly before we entered this treacherous country,” Lord Blackford carped. “You were content to pocket the money and maintain that famous ‘stoic silence’ of yours.”

“Percy, that’s patently unfair.” Rebecca bristled at her brother-in-law. “I was standing beside you, in that dreadful mud flat of Pueblo, when Mr. Fargo warned all of us that the northern ranges posed dangers. You and Sylvester simply ignored him as if he were too stupid to know anything useful.”

Percy? Fargo thought, barely suppressing a bark of laughter. Wait until he told Slappy and Montoya.

“I’ve become aware, my dear,” came the irritated voice of Sylvester Aldritch, “that you go positively out of your way to defend Fargo. Isn’t that carrying noblesse oblige just a bit too far? The man wears buckskins and drinks his coffee black from an old tomato can.”

Fargo had noticed how Aldritch had tossed a loop around Rebecca, his link to royal blood. But if she considered herself roped, she hid it well. He recalled Jessica mentioning that Aldritch had made generous loans to Blackford—loans that “Percy” couldn’t pay back. Evidently Rebecca was the collateral.

“Skye Fargo,” Ericka spoke up with spirit, “is the only man among us who might possibly save our lives. We are not among the theater and soiree crowd now. How he drinks his coffee is nothing to the matter.”

“I say,” Blackford muttered.

“Mr. Fargo,” Ericka said, “I’ve read that the American Mormons and some others believe the wild Indians are descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel. Do you lend credence to that theory?”

“If that means do I believe it, ma’am, I honestly don’t know enough to have an opinion. But I’ve studied up on the Lewis and Clark Expedition, and one of their goals was to convince these Far West Indians they owe allegiance to a far-off power they couldn’t see. But it would be easier to put socks on a rooster than to control the red man from Washington City.”

Ericka laughed. “Is that approval I hear in your tone?”

“Well, sympathy, anyhow. Most folks consider land worthless if it isn’t peopled up and put to profitable use. The Indian sees it different and so do I. The value of a place goes down as settlement moves in.”

“Speaking as a successful merchant, Fargo,” Aldritch called out, “I assure you that your view is barmy, pure Luddite nonsense. Why, man, what this country requires are more manufactories, mines, and railroads.”

“Opinions vary,” Fargo said quietly.

“Fargo,” Skeets called down from the box of the coach, “will those buggers—excuse me, ladies—those Indians attack tomorrow?”

“I’m hoping we might get lucky on that point,” Fargo replied. “We killed about five of their horses and, cuss the luck, I killed a brave. They might ride back to their main camp along Crying Woman Creek to recruit. That’s good because it gives us time to get a little closer to Fort Laramie, but it’s bad because they’ll likely come back even stronger.”

“Who knows? Maybe they’ll have the devil of a time finding us.”

“Brady,” Ericka called out her window, “even I know that a wild Indian is a superb tracker. Besides, the grass is deep here and we’re leaving an obvious trail.”

“All true,” Fargo confirmed. “And don’t forget the Cheyenne scout following us right now.”

This remark occasioned a startled silence.

“Are you certain?” Blackford demanded.

“Certain sure. I’ve spotted him several times because he skylines himself against the moon.”

“But you assured us they don’t leave their camps after nightfall,” Aldritch said.

“Spying is different than fighting. If it’s important, spies will go out. This is bad cess for us—when a Cheyenne breaks a taboo, it has to be mighty dang important.”

“Why do they fear the night so much?” Rebecca asked, her face a pale oval in the moonlight as she looked up at Fargo.

“The night belongs to Wendigo, the red man’s Devil. After dark is when Great Rolling Head, and Rawhead and Bloody Bones, prey on the Cheyennes. Those are the Cheyenne bogeymen. A Cheyenne will face almost any danger during the day, but superstition cripples all of them at night.”

“Why, it’s primitive nonsense,” Aldritch put in. “Great Rolling Head, indeed.”

“Sylvester, they are primitive,” Ericka reminded him. “They subsist from century to century without ever changing their customs. They have seen the white man’s wheel, but they choose not to harness it.”

“They’re all murdering savages,” he snarled. “That’s not primitive—it’s criminal.”

“Most Indians are thieves,” Fargo allowed, “but very few are outright murderers. In fact, most tribes are peaceful. After the War of 1812 the American government set up the Indian Territory just west of Missouri and Arkansas. I’ve spent plenty of time there. The Cherokees, the Choctaw, the Delaware, Shawnee, Miami, Kickapoo, Seneca, Creek, Seminole, you name ’em—all once warlike but now peaceful. That’s in spite of the fact that they live on worthless land and eat rations that are moldy and full of weevils.”

“Those are not the free-ranging western tribes,” Aldritch protested. “Did not these Cheyenne hooligans try to murder us today?”

“You got that bass-ackwards,” Fargo assured him. “They didn’t send out the first soldier—only the second. Skeets and Derek opened the ball when they killed that herd spy. I’ll grant you that their sense of justice is mighty hard. But they aren’t just killing us for sport.”

“A distinction without a difference,” Blackford grumped.

So much for the Quality, Fargo thought as he dropped back to ride alongside the mud wagon driven by Derek the Terrible.

“Why, hello,” Jessica greeted him, looking out the open side at him. “I was beginning to wonder if I was too common for your company.”

Fargo touched his hat. “There’s only two classes in the American West, muffin. The Quality and the Equality.”

She tittered. “You aren’t half a liar, are you? But it’s kind chivalry.”

“No empty chivalry—it’s the truth.”

“Well, I might believe you. But Sylvester and His Lordship will not.”

Although there were plenty of horses on the lead line behind the fodder wagon, Slappy and Montoya had lost their saddles to thieves in Pueblo and now Slappy rode in the wagon.

“Speaking of His Lordship,” Fargo told Slappy, “I just found out his front name. It’s Percy.”

Slappy shook with laughter. “Percy? That’s what you name a cat, not a man!”

“Actually,” Jessica corrected, “it’s Percival.”

Slappy hooted. “Oh, well, then pardon me all to hell for snickerin’. There’s a manly handle, sure enough.”

Derek, who had a case on Jessica, now called back resentfully: “Percy ain’t a bit more sissified than Skye, if you cogitate on it. I have never met a man named Skye.”

“You ain’t never hanged one, neither, huh?” Slappy taunted him. “Derek . . . another weak-sister English name.”

“You’d best curb that rough side to your tongue,” Derek warned, “before I bloody well slice it out of your head.”

Fargo suddenly felt a wicked impulse. “What about Slappy—that can’t be your real front name?”

Fargo already knew the real name. Slappy was silent a few moments, gazing into the moonlit darkness on the other side of the mud wagon.

“It’s Eb,” he replied.

“Eb? That must be bobtail for something.”

“Damn you to hell, Fargo! It’s Ebenezer and you know it.”

Derek laughed so hard he almost fell off the box. “Ah yes, another good weak-sister name from England.”

Despite this moment of levity, Fargo knew the waters were boiling between him, Derek, and Skeets. Both men knew he would be dealing them misery for their dirty trick yesterday, and Fargo still wasn’t convinced they had ever intended to turn him loose. But for now they knew they needed him to survive just as Fargo needed their firepower. The moment they were out of danger, however, Fargo fully expected a bullet in the back—and Derek seemed most likely to pull the trigger.

“Skye?” Jessica called out to him. “Will we girls have a chance to stretch our . . . limbs before we make camp?”

“We’ll have to spell the horses,” Fargo replied.

“Well, I want to walk out a bit, but I’m afraid to go alone. Mightn’t you accompany me?”

“Seems the gentlemanly thing to do,” Fargo agreed.

“Do you have a pimp, Jess?” Derek called down, his voice tight with anger. “Or can I apply for the position?”

Slappy sniggered. “The position, hangman, ain’t yet been worked out.”

“Both of you coarse bumpkins,” Jessica snapped, “can just put a stopper on your gobs. I’m only talking about a walk.”

“With savages all about?” Derek pressed on. “Bull! You heard what that trapper in Santa Fe said about what they do to white women. They strip them naked, tie them to a tree, and stone them to death. Cor! And then the red buggers behead them and scoop the brains out to make soup.”

“If I was taking a stroll on the prairie with you, Derek, would you complain about this brain soup?”

“All right, then, duck,” Derek fumed. “But with me you’d be safe.”

Fargo laughed, tipped his hat to Jessica, and dropped back beside the fodder wagon. “How’s them two horses you patched up?” Fargo asked Montoya.

“After you cut the arrow points out, I rinsed the wounds with whiskey and covered them with bear grease. That will keep the flies off. A horse is an odd creature, Fargo. One little crack in a pastern can ruin it for life. Yet I once saw a Sioux arrow penetrate a horse in its right side and fall to the ground on its left. And that sabino continued to graze as if nothing had struck it!”

Montoya paused and then added in a more somber tone, “This matter with the Cheyennes—it is deadly serious, verdad?”

“Verdad.”

“You said we must use wit and wile to defeat them. What does that mean?”

“It means we can’t shoot our way out. I’ve checked all the ammo in this party, and there’s just not enough. We’ll have to use mentality, not bullets. I can’t chew it any finer than that right now. The red man sees and thinks about the world around him in a different way from us. That difference is going to be our hole card, but I haven’t turned it up yet.”

“This is—how you say?—thin,” Montoya said.

“Yeah,” Fargo agreed. “Mighty thin.”

* * *

By the time false dawn glowed in the east, the Blackford party had reached a stretch of low sand hills. These led, only a few miles to the south, to the heart of the Badlands marking the border between the Dakota and Nebraska territories.

Fargo halted the conveyances and addressed the nine men and women in his charge. “We’re going to stop right here in the midst of the hills. I don’t think the attacks will start until tomorrow, but in case I’m wrong all this loose sand and hilly terrain will make an attack difficult.”

“Is that Indian spy still out there?” Skeets demanded.

“He’ll be with us from now on. The Cheyenne believe in keeping their enemies close.”

“Fargo, how long will we be staying in this desolate sand?” Blackford complained. “Our water is low. And I’ve already got these blasted fleas all over me.”

“Only long enough to grab a few hours of sleep. I know of a seep spring just ahead where we can let the horses tank up and fill our water bags. Then we’re going to jog south toward Fort Laramie.”

“South?” Aldritch interposed. “Why, man, that will take us right into this Badlands we have been skirting for days.”

“No help for it,” Fargo said bluntly. “If we try to swing around it to the west, we’ll add days to the journey—days we can’t survive in constant battles.”

“Rubbish! We don’t even know if the savages will attack us again,” Aldritch said. “You could certainly be wrong, now, couldn’t you?”

“And if they do,” Blackford said with arrogant petulance, “it will most likely be because Fargo caused one to break his neck when he shot his horse out from under him.”

“No, Your Percyship,” Slappy cut in wickedly, “it’s on account your bootlick murdered one disguised as a buff.”

Fargo had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at the “Percyship” gibe. It was still too dark to see Blackford’s reaction, but either Derek or Skeets snickered.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, you uncouth mudsill,” Blackford retorted hotly. “I’m paying your wages.”

“That’s a hoot. More like, Aldritch loaned you the money to pay ’em.”

“Stow it, Slappy,” Fargo ordered curtly. “We’ve got enough enemies as it is. We don’t need to turn on each other.”

“That’s good advice, Ebenezer,” Derek called from the box of the mud wagon.

“Chuck the flap-jaw, you egg-sucking groat!”

“Mr. Fargo,” spoke up Ericka, who had emerged from the fancy coach, “this Badlands—I have read that it is some of the most grotesque topography in America. Are you certain we can pass through it?”

“Confident, ma’am. I’ve traversed it several times with army mapmakers. I’ve crossed worse terrain in the Snake River lava beds and out in the Salt Desert of Utah. I even know of a water source.”

“How can we sleep right now,” Rebecca spoke up, “if we don’t know for certain whether there’ll be an Indian attack?”

“That’s no problem,” Fargo assured her. “Me, Montoya, and Slappy will go turnabout on guard. The Cheyenne believe bravery is born in the east, out of the sun, and they always attack from that direction. In this open terrain an attack won’t be a surprise.”

Fargo knew, from talking to Ericka and Rebecca, that they had read up far more on the American West than had Blackford or Aldritch. The question he had been dreading now cropped up.

“Mr. Fargo,” Ericka said in her lilting voice, “is it not true that the Lakota tribes are considered ‘battle cousins’ of the Cheyennes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this region around us—what tribe inhabits it?”

Fargo sighed. “Right now, Lady Blackford, we’re standing in the heart of Lakota country.”