Badlands Bloodsport

10

Fargo was right about the surprise except that there were two of them.

The Cheyenne did not change their battle tactic of staying out of easy firing range and racing in charges north to south past the beleaguered white men. But although they had no knowledge of “germ theory”—a radical new notion ridiculed even among white men—they had learned well about the potent powers of putrefaction. To this end they stole swine from white men whenever they could. They had discovered that swine feces, smeared on the tip of a knife or arrow, could bring swift, screaming death even with the slightest penetration under the skin.

As arrows began to thuck into the mud wagon, Fargo smelled the foul stench and realized what was afoot. One struck only inches from his face, and he watched the arrow quiver for a few seconds with its suddenly interrupted energy.

“The arrows are contaminated!” he bellowed above the yipping din of the attack. “Poison! Cover down good!”

The situation was doubly hazardous because most arrows could not simply be pulled from the body as could a knife or lance. If they were embedded deep, the only recourse was to force the point through the other side because of the shape of the arrow point. That would drive the poison even deeper into the body and cause a virulent infection that could kill in mere hours.

For all these reasons Fargo cursed aloud as he jacked a round into the Henry’s chamber. At the blurring rate Cheyenne arrows were raining in, there would soon be hits for score. That meant precious ammo would have to be expended at a furious pace.

“Skeets, Derek!” he roared out. “Slappy! Horse or man, drop ’em now!”

The Henry kicked over and over as Fargo fired into the swirling dust, trying to lead and hit his targets. The two Big Fifty rifles pounded like cannons, while Slappy fired slower with his breechloading Springfield. Fargo briefly debated calling Aldritch and Lord Blackford out to join the battle, but decided against it—those weapons and ammo had to be kept as an emergency reserve.

Fargo had repositioned the horses for better cover, but nonetheless a nerve-rattling equine cry rose as an arrow threaded its way through obstacles and punched deep into the flank of the little strawberry roan reserved for the women. The animal was past saving, and Fargo feared the mare’s piercing cries might scatter the rest. Cursing at the loss of a bullet, he shot it through the head.

The increased rate of fire from the whites, however, was having some effect. Several braves had been wiped out of the buffalo-hide saddles, and Fargo could see at least two Indian mustangs down. Touch the Clouds blew a signal on his eagle-bone whistle, and Fargo hoped they were retreating. Instead, they only faded farther back out of range of their enemy.

As they did Fargo recognized the second nasty surprise: an ingenious Cheyenne invention known as the exploding arrow.

“Katy Christ!” Slappy shouted. “Them red devils’re using flaming arrows! The fodder wagon’s burning!”

Fargo knew better. Fire arrows could not be launched at this distance or the flames would be blown out. The Cheyennes had figured out how to lash rifle cartridges to an arrow tip with sinew after first prying off the bullet. A small wad of beeswax held the powder load in. When the arrow impacted, the tip punched into the percussion cap and ignited the powder. They often failed, but Fargo had seen them start fires.

The fodder had to be saved if they were to make it out of the arid Badlands. Fargo risked full exposure to beat the flames out with his hat. An arrow streaked past his face so close that the fletching razored the bridge of his nose.

More exploding arrows thwacked into the sides of the japanned coach and the mud wagon, but Fargo ignored them. Both conveyances were treated with creosote and unlikely to catch fire.

“Fargo!” Skeets called from the top of the fancy coach. “I’m down to a handful of reloads. Those bloody buggers are moving closer again!”

“We’ll have to settle for horses!” Fargo shouted back. “They’ve got plenty more in reserve, but if we kill enough now they’ll have to double up and leave the field. Slappy, Derek, put at the horses—it’s our only chance.”

All four shooters opened up with urgent purpose, dropping horse after horse. Soon, as Fargo had predicted, Touch the Clouds led his men to the northeast after gathering up their dead.

Once again Fargo tacked the Ovaro and rode out on the warriors’ trail, making sure they weren’t doubling back. By the time he returned, Derek stood before Slappy with his big fists doubled. “You worthless old wanker, I’ve a mind to dust your doublet.”

“Go piss up a rope, you wharf rat!”

Fargo swung down and tossed the reins forward. “The hell is this? You two didn’t get enough fight just now?”

“This skunk-bit coyote,” Slappy said, glowering at Derek, “is up to his murdering tricks! I caught him drawing a bead on you during the fight. When he seen me lookin’, he swung his muzzle back out onto the redskins.”

“He’s barmy,” Derek replied. “I was aiming at a savage.”

“You lying, pan-faced, shit-eating groat! You been scheming how to douse Fargo’s wick ever since him and Jessica . . .” Slappy glanced at the women. “Well, ever since him and Jessica.”

“P’r’aps if I box your ears you’ll walk your chalk, you worthless sack of suet.”

“Both of you come down off your hind legs,” Fargo cut in. “You’re slapping at gnats while tigers eat us alive. The next time those Cheyenne braves attack, we’ll have to toss rocks to keep them back.”

Rebecca looked as if she’d been drained by leeches. “Will they come back today, Skye?”

“I doubt it. The sun will be setting in about an hour. Is everyone all right?”

“Just scared witless,” Rebecca said. “Are we really and truly down to rocks?”

“It’s almost that bad,” Fargo admitted. “I want every man to count his bullets and give me the total. Aldritch, you and the earl will have to turn over your weapons. I want them in the hands of our best shooters.”

“Quite sound,” Blackford agreed. “That would be you and Skeets.”

“What about the hangman here?” Slappy interposed. “All he can shoot off is his mouth.”

Derek the Terrible took a step toward Slappy. “Hear! You’ll come off it, you old whoreson, or I’ll pound you to a grease stain.”

“Ease off,” Fargo snapped. “He’s twice your age.”

“You’re young and hale,” Derek said to Fargo. “Would you care to stand in for him?”

“If we make it to Fort Laramie,” Fargo promised, “you’ll be hearing harps. Until then all personal grudges are accounts payable.”

“Ah yes, by the street of by and by, we’ll arrive at the house of never. All this delay is for the sake of the women, is it, Sir Lancelot? Hiding behind petticoats doesn’t make you half a coward, now, does it?”

Ericka gave Derek a solemn look. “You needn’t pile on the insults, Derek. Mr. Fargo realized long ago that he is going to have to kill you. You haven’t the slightest idea what manner of man you are insulting and threatening.”

“Respectfully, milady, don’t be daft. I thought only Jessica had taken his hook. I can kill the frontier ‘widow maker’ here with one good blow.”

“He was a better man than you,” Rebecca interjected, “before he was even shaving.”

“Before he was in long trousers,” Jessica added.

Derek leered at her. “Or out of them, eh, trollop?”

“Fargo,” put in Aldritch, impatiently changing the subject, “we are nearly out of ammunition and still days away from Fort Laramie. Isn’t it time for the wit-and-wile business you mentioned, what?”

“Long past time,” Fargo agreed. “And I’m going to start tonight.”

* * *

By late afternoon a dry-weather sandstorm had blown in from the old Spanish land-grant country of the southwest, and Fargo knew they were safe from any more attacks that day. Derek and Skeets had set up one of the tents for the women, Blackford, and Aldritch.

Then they had sheltered in the fancy coach, Derek constantly watching Fargo where he sat with his back to a wheel of the mud wagon.

“Just a nip to wash your teeth,” Slappy said, handing Fargo a bottle of forty-rod.

Fargo knocked back a slug, grimacing as the cheap, potent whiskey set his throat and stomach on fire. “Christ! That’s panther piss.”

Fargo turned to look at Derek. Once again the hangman’s glance touched him and quickly slid away. Fargo pulled down his hat against the swirling, stinging dust. Slappy had tied a neckerchief around his nose and mouth.

“That Derek is built solid as a granite block,” Slappy remarked. “Jessica told me that back in England he lifts sandbags every day to keep his muscles strong.”

“The man’s a farmer’s bull,” Fargo agreed, raising his voice above the howling wind. “And what they call a pugilist. That’s a thirty-five-cent word for a man who uses a system to fistfight.”

“Uh-huh. So you best not get into a dustup with him. Just shoot the son of a buck or carve out his heart with your toothpick—you’re damn good with a blade, Fargo.”

“Oh, these old boys who double up their fists and dance around like they got red ants in their drawers don’t spook me none. One good roundhouse right followed by a haymaker will teach him about frontier brawling. Slappy, our bacon is in the fire, and we got to pay attention to things that matter most. You’re building a pimple into a peak.”

“Fargo, you been grazing peyote? That tea-sippin’ neck-stretcher ain’t no goldang pimple. He’s double hog-tied set on murderin’ you, and that’s pure-dee fact.”

“He’s pee doodles compared to the Cheyenne braves who are sworn to torture and scalp every one of us. Slappy, if I have to I’ll just jerk it back and kill Derek for cause. We’re under territorial law here, and he forfeited his rights when he threatened to kill me. I’ve made some allowance for the fact that he’s an ignorant foreigner, but he’s on a short tether.”

“Fargo, get shut of them blinders! He ain’t just threatened to kill you, he’s put you under the gun—I seen it.”

“All right, I agree. But aiming a weapon and firing it are two different animals. I’m telling you he ain’t the main mile right now—any one of those Cheyenne braves makes Derek look like a schoolboy with a peashooter. There’s only one of him but a shit house full of braves.”

Slappy rubbed his chin, mulling it over. “All that shines, Fargo. How many feather-heads are we fightin’?”

“That’s got me treed. They ride so fast, and kick up so much dust, it’s nigh on to impossible to get a count. I think we’ve killed five or six, seriously wounded a few more. There’s at least a dozen still able-bodied, maybe more.”

“Do they hold a reserve force?”

Fargo shook his head. “A Cheyenne war leader has limited power over his men. They’re not like the white man’s army. All the braves want to join a battle—there’s no glory or coup feathers in holding back, and a brave without coup feathers can’t even get married. It’s likely, though, they brought a good-sized pony herd with them and there’s a small handful of braves standing herd guard.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s your big plan for tonight?”

Fargo grinned wickedly. “That would be our big plan.”

“Now, hold your horses, Trailsman. My shining times are long behind me. Hell, I been slinging hash for the last ten years. You know my calves are gone to grass.”

“You won’t need your calves, just your guts. Look, my plan calls for two men. Who else can I choose? Montoya is dead and Aldritch and Blackford ain’t got the courage of a rabbit.”

“What about Skeets? He was in the army and he’s showed real backbone.”

“He’s all right,” Fargo agreed. “But he’s a city fellow from England, where they got no rattlesnakes.”

“No rattle—?” Slappy cocked his head and gazed asquint at Fargo. “The hell has rattlesnakes got to do with the price of cheese?”

Again Fargo’s wicked grin. “Nothing, chum. But rattlesnakes are one thing you’ll find aplenty in this God-forgotten hellhole, and after dark I plan to catch one.”

“Bully for you. I can cook anything. But I ain’t never caught a rattlesnake in my life, and I don’t aim to start in the Badlands.”

“You won’t need to catch it—just hold on to it.”

“Fargo, you jo-fired son of Satan! What in the hell cockeyed, harebrained scheme have you cooked up?”

Fargo ignored the question, glancing past Slappy and through the swirling maelstrom of blowing dust. Derek had climbed out of the coach and now stood in his favorite stance, feet wide apart and thumbs hooked into his shell belt.

“You two cow pies wouldn’t be talking about me, now, would you?” he called out above the howling of the wind.

“I don’t spend much time talking about a man,” Fargo replied, unfolding to his feet, “after I decide to kill him.”

Derek hadn’t expected this, and for a few moments he was speechless. Fargo followed up by coiling for the draw. “You’ve got a fancy Remington with mother-of-pearl grips. Go ahead and jerk it back. We’ve been going round and round, and I’ve had my belly full of it. You’re useless as an Indian fighter, and we all know you mean to kill me for dallying with a woman who wouldn’t piss in your ear if your brains were on fire. So I’m calling your hand right now.”

“You aren’t much of a coward, are you, Fargo? You know I’m no gunfighter.”

“Any man who roams the American West wearing a fancy rig like that, especially with a cutaway holster tied to his thigh, is setting himself up as a gunfighter. Now let’s see the fire behind all that smoke.”

“Ballocks! You just want to shoot me because you’re afraid to fight me with your fists. You know I’ll beat you senseless, you bloody poltroon.”

“Oh, I’d rather shoot you,” Fargo agreed cheerfully. “That’s the frontier preference. As to a dustup: I’ve whipped lumberjacks, bull-whackers, and prizefighters. It’s just that you’re not worth busting up my hands. And I druther not mess up this handsome face of mine. You’ve noticed how it pleases the ladies, huh?”

“In a pig’s ass!”

“No need to drag your mother into this, limey,” Slappy put in. “And what the hell is a poltroon?”

But Derek had climbed back into the coach.

“That’s more like it, Fargo,” Slappy approved. “You made him crawl under the porch. But I want to hear more about this business with a rattlesnake.”

“Well, now,” Fargo said, “as to that . . .”