Badlands Bloodsport

11

About an hour after sundown, the dust storm blew itself out and the air turned still and chilly, with occasional hard gusts of knife-edge cold. Fargo tacked the Ovaro while Slappy, muttering curses to himself, saddled one of the sorrels with a low-cantled, high-pommeled English saddle stiff as a board.

“This son-of-a-bitch saddle don’t give a man room for his oysters,” he complained after he awkwardly forked leather. “Why, hell, they’re crammed up into my gut bag. And I can’t adjust the mother-lovin’ stirrups.”

Fargo grabbed a fistful of mane and swung up onto the hurricane deck. “Caulk up. The English been making saddles since before America had a plow horse.”

“All right, Sir Fargo, you want to swap for thissen?”

“Hell no.” Fargo reined the Ovaro around to the north. “I ain’t the fool who let his saddle get boosted in Pueblo. Besides, this one is shaped to my ass and my horse’s back.”

Moonlight was generous and assisted by an endless explosion of unclouded stars. The two men held their mounts to a walk, Fargo carefully studying the ground around them. When he found likely spots—loose rock tumbles or openings under low rock shelves—he would dismount and carefully inspect the dry ground.

Finally they hit pay dirt. Fargo had bent low to study the ground around a clutch of rocks with an opening in their base. He discovered fresh, corkscrew tracks made by a rattler.

“How you gonna get the damn thing out?” Slappy whispered. “Shout fire?”

Fargo took a sturdy leather drawstring bag from his saddle horn. Rebecca had been using it for rock samples. “There’s only one way to get it,” he replied, his heart already thumping. “I’ve done it once or twice in starving times. I have to hope it’s cold enough to make it sluggish. Then I reach in quick, hoping I can grab it behind the head, and yank it out.”

“Hell and furies! That’s the only way?”

“That’s the way of it, old son, if we want it alive. Even if I pull that off without getting snakebit, we got the horses to fret. We’ll hobble them downwind, and maybe we can get the snake into this bag before they see it, but they’re bound to smell it once we set out. Rebecca gave me something to help with that, but it might not work. So keep a tight rein, and if you have to, make the bit cut deep to keep that sorrel from breaking.”

“Katy Christ, Fargo,” Slappy said, impatient nervousness edging into his tone, “ain’t there some easier way to scatter them Injin ponies? Why’n’t we just cut the rope corral and ki-yi ’em like them cow nurses in Texas do with cattle?”

“Ki-yi a cat’s tail. First off, that fool plan announces we’re there and gets us shot to sieves by arrows. Second, Indian horses are well trained, and they might run off a hundred yards or so, but they won’t panic and break. Only two things will scare the bejesus out of a horse and that’s a bear or a rattlesnake. You man enough to catch and toss a bear?”

When the horses were in place, Fargo took out a handkerchief and a bottle of French perfume Rebecca had lent him. He dampened one corner of the handkerchief and, speaking gently to calm the Ovaro, quickly swabbed each nostril with the rose-scented perfume. The stallion reacted violently, fighting the hobbles and snorting hard to blow out the stench.

Fargo treated the sorrel likewise, with the same results. Then, with Slappy holding the leather bag open, he returned to the clutch of rocks and dropped to his knees. Fargo hesitated a minute, gathering his courage, and then his right arm shot into the opening. He felt the snake immediately, a huge mass of coils, but failed to locate the deep poison pits that marked the head. With failure not an option, he rolled the dice and yanked the reptile out of its den.

“Christ, Fargo, you’ve got it near its tail!” Slappy shouted. “Drop the son of a bitch!”

And in fact the green-spackled rattler’s chiseled head was swinging toward Fargo’s throat. But because of the chill, the cold-blooded serpent was not reacting with its usual reflexes, and in a deft move Fargo brought his left hand up and grabbed it just behind the head in the nick of time to avoid feeling its fangs sink into his jugular.

Slappy measured out a loud sigh. “Fargo, you are the world-beatingest man. I got cold fingers squeezing my heart.”

“Me, too,” Fargo admitted. “But an empty hand is no lure for a hawk, eh? Quick, let’s get these rattles sliced off before our mounts hear them. This bastard is strong. Must be six feet long.”

Fargo had been suppressing the rattles by squeezing them tight with his left hand. Now Slappy gingerly took over that job while Fargo slid the Arkansas toothpick from its boot sheath. Fargo always kept the blade well honed, but even so it was like trying to cut through tough leather. Finally the rattles dropped off and Fargo threw the snake into the bag, quickly drawing it shut.

“Christ Almighty,” Slappy said, “it’s cold enough to see our breath and I’m sweatin’ like a coal miner.”

Fargo took a moment to orient by the polestar, and then both men hit leather and struck out to the northeast holding a long lope.

“I just thought of something,” Slappy called over. “That Ovaro of yours has the best nose for danger of any horse I ever knowed of. But you ruint it with that fancy toilet water.”

“No help for it,” Fargo replied. “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”

Slappy glanced at the leather bag tied to Fargo’s saddle horn. “Uh-huh, well, just ’cause we caught that snake don’t mean we can sneak up on an Injin camp.”

“Stow it, calamity howler. Like I said, it can’t be helped. If we don’t buy some time by scattering those horses, we’ll all be dead as dried herrings. If you got a better plan, trot it out.”

“Not just this minute, no.”

“Well, Ebenezer, if one comes to you, let me know.”

“Huh! Ebenezer is a powerful sight better than Percival,” Slappy grumped.

“It’s not so bad,” Fargo agreed. “Good, strong name. But I can see why you’d bobtail it to ‘Eb.’ How’d you get Slappy out of all that?”

“Seen it in a nickel novel and liked it. It’s a rare man out West what hangs on to his real name like you do. Was it your ma or pa that named you?”

“We’re jacking our jaws too much,” Fargo replied evasively. “Let’s just listen—there’s danger ahead.”

The weird and grotesque topography of the Badlands surrounded them everywhere, dark, monstrous forms looming at them. Now and then Fargo reined in to make sure they were following the right trail. The unshod hooves of the galloping Indian ponies had left clear prints in the brilliant moonlight.

After about an hour in the saddle, the two men rounded the base of a tall butte and spotted several fires sawing in the cold wind gusts. They reined in immediately and nudged their mounts behind a tumble of boulders. Remembering Fargo’s warning, Slappy spoke just above a whisper.

“There ain’t no trees around here. Where they gettin’ the wood for all them fires?”

“Buffalo chips,” Fargo said. “They collect them out on the plains every time they can just like you do. Look, you can see the ponies just to the right of the camp. They’ve made the usual rope corral with stakes at the four corners. There’ll be guards out. We can’t leave our horses this far back. Once the whoop goes up, they’ll run us down—Cheyennes like to bet on footraces, and they’re the fastest runners among the tribes.”

“But what about the Wendigo? Will they run off into the dark?”

“As long as they can see those campfires, they’ll chase an enemy. And if I manage to scatter their horses, those braves will be mad as badgers in a barrel.”

Fargo licked a finger and held it up to determine the direction of the wind.

“I don’t like this,” he finally announced. “Those gusts are coming from several directions. If I can’t stay downwind of those horses, the white-man smell will set them off and warn the feather-heads.”

“Mebbe we best shit-can the whole plan.”

Fargo shook his head. “We can’t, old son. Time is on the wing. I don’t think we can survive one more attack tomorrow. Not as low as our ammo is.”

“I can’t gainsay that,” Slappy said. “We’re caught twixt a stampede and a flood. How we gonna work this deal?”

“I’m a simple man and I favor simple plans. We’ll muzzle our horses and blindfold ’em to calm them. Their nostrils should still be full of the perfume smell, so they shouldn’t whiff the herd. We’ll lead them closer—see that little ridge overlooking the camp? You’re going to wait there with the horses. But we don’t hobble them. Hold their reins tight with your left hand and keep your scattergun in your right. If I give the hail, fire both barrels into the air—a shotgun blast at night should be heap bad medicine.”

While Fargo spoke he had sat on the ground to yank off his boots. “Reach into my left saddle pocket,” he told Slappy, “and hand me my scouting shoes.”

“Well, I’m a Dutchman!” Slappy said moments later. “You can’t mean these damn fool contraptions?”

He pulled out two oddly shaped, sponge-and-leather shoes.

“Nothing foolish about them, chum. I had them made by the sutler down at Fort Defiance. With these on I can catch a weasel asleep. C’mon—let’s see if I can’t get you killed.”

* * *

Fargo moved low and fast, the leather bag heavy in his left hand. He’d left his Henry in his saddle scabbard, knowing damn good and well he wouldn’t shoot his way out of this one. These were not drunken vigilantes looking to fit a man for a California collar—they were warriors trained from childhood to fend off attacks, and they would protect their horses like a she-grizz defending her cubs.

Fargo had spotted one herd guard walking slowly around the rope corral. He could hear, on sudden gusts of wind, snatches of conversation from the camp. Fargo timed his movements with the wind, but at the moment that very wind was his worst enemy—he could feel it on his face, shifting directions.

Bent low, he moved in closer, feeling his heart pounding in his ears. He was about twenty yards out with his Arkansas toothpick in his right hand—he meant to slice the rope first and then quickly toss the bag into the midst of the horses. The drawstring was loose and the angry reptile would immediately emerge. Horses had not only a keen sense of smell but excellent night vision—all it needed was one mustang to spot or smell the rattler and the alarm would go up.

It was all clear in Fargo’s mind. He waited for the guard to pass by in front of him, and the moment he did Fargo scuttled forward to carry out his plan. But ten yards or so from the rope, disaster struck when the wind suddenly shifted and gusted from behind him.

The mustangs caught his scent—the dreaded stench of the enemy—and began to whicker and mill. This brought the herd guard back to Fargo’s side of the corral, where he spotted the intruder immediately. He raised his stone-tipped lance and Fargo cursed, realizing his hand was forced. He shucked out his Colt, thumbed it to full-cock, and drilled the guard through the heart, sending him to the ground in an ungainly heap.

Yipping cries and war chants rose from the nearby camp, and Fargo’s every instinct told him the die was cast—his only chance was to flee now. But that would only delay the inevitable cruel fate to come, and he took the extra few seconds to slash the rope and pitch the bag into the midst of the agitated horses. Even as he turned to flee, however, the first arrows and lances sought his vitals.

Elbows and knees pumping like pistons, he bolted toward the ridge. The fleet braves were right on his heels, raising a bloodcurdling clamor. Without looking back, Fargo fired his Colt over his shoulder, but it had little effect on the fired-up warriors.

“Slappy!” he shouted. “Spark your powder!”

The thundering boom of both barrels of the scattergun halted his pursuers, and Fargo made it to the ridge unscathed. By then the mustangs had detected the snake and were scattering to the four directions.

Slappy had removed the blindfolds from the horses, and Fargo vaulted into the saddle, reining the Ovaro around.

“You done ’er, Fargo!” Slappy gloated. “I figgered you for a dead’un, but by God, you flummoxed them redskins good!”

“This is no time to recite our coups. In some of the warrior societies, the braves tie their ponies to their wrists when they’re on a campaign. There’s likely a few ponies in the main camp, and some braves just might chase us, Wendigo or no. Let’s tear up some landscape. After what I just pulled, we don’t want to get captured. Those red sons will spend three days killing us, and when they finish even the buzzards will puke at sight of us.”