Badlands Bloodsport

17

“Jesus Christ with a wooden dick!” Slappy sputtered. “Hell, I don’t credit my own eyes. Derek, why’n’t you just get you a clout and feather and join them red devils? I told you to kill him, Fargo. Out here, when you give an inch you lose an ell.”

“Give over, you old gas pipe,” Derek snarled. “I’ve a mind to dust your doublet.”

Slappy’s fingers tapped the wooden grips of his six-shooter. “This is a territory, not a state. I just need to make sure the bullet’s in the front, tea sipper.”

Blackford, Ericka, and Rebecca climbed out of the wildly tilting conveyance. The left front wheel had also snapped with the axle. They all stood shivering in the cold, their faces drawn tight with apprehension and annoyance.

“Derek, that was rather clumsy,” Blackford pronounced.

“Clumsy?” Slappy repeated in an astounded voice. “Clumsy is when you knock the sugar bowl off the table. The man just ruint a six-hundred-dollar coach with padded leather seats. Busted the whole shebang. Ain’t gonna be no repairs out here.”

“I said give over, you rotter!” Derek snapped.

“All right, simmer down,” Fargo said, kneeling to look under the coach. “Slappy’s right. The axle cracked clear along the grain, and we won’t be able to brace it. And we’d need a wheelwright to get this thing moving again. Move your stuff into the mud wagon, folks. You’ll have to toss some of the clothes and such. And, Earl, you’ll have to ride in the fodder wagon with Jessica. That team on the mud wagon is worn down to the nub.”

“That’s a bit of an affront,” Blackford said. “I paid for this ill-fated expedition.”

“If you got a better plan,” Fargo said, “toss it into the hotchpot. Would you prefer to make your wife or sister ride out in the open? It’s bad enough that Jessica has to.”

“Quite right,” Blackford agreed, giving up his complaint.

“What about the teams on the fancy coach?” Slappy asked.

“Won’t do ’em any harm if we hitch ’em to the back of the other two wagons. That way we’ll have a rested team for later.”

Fargo didn’t really care about these petty details—his eye was on Derek, who was edging toward the fodder wagon and the weapons cache.

“The thing of it is,” Slappy carped, “that coach was gonna be our best cover out on the flat. Hell, that mud wagon ain’t even got no sides to it. Now we’ll have to lie on our bellies and cover up with our backs.”

“Derek,” Fargo said evenly, “clear back from that fodder wagon. You get within spitting distance and I’m sending you over the range.”

“Big, brave man when you hold the guns,” Derek retorted. “Let’s knuckle up and show all these ladies just how bloody tough you are.”

Fargo ignored him and helped Slappy unhitch the team. They were losing valuable time. The humans were in bad enough shape, but the horses were even more done in. There was graze out on the plain and likely a natural tank or two. And Fargo hoped to be as close as possible to the fort before those Cheyennes struck.

Eventually they were moving southwest again directly into a biting wind that blew stinging sleet into Fargo’s, Jessica’s, Slappy’s, and Lord Blackford’s faces. Fargo had ordered Derek to saddle a horse and ride out about fifty feet in front of him. The man wasn’t stupid enough to escape unarmed, on a weakened and exhausted mount, into the teeth of warpath braves.

“Fargo!” he called back. “So I’m the canary in the coal mine, what? The pioneer who takes the arrows?”

“No. I’m just keeping you where I can see you. Too bad Skeets didn’t do the same.”

“Yes, poor Skeets,” Derek said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Do you think he’s strumming a harp by now? Or perhaps shoveling coal for the Pit Master?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Fargo replied. “I wasn’t Bible raised.”

“Blimey! A heathen in buckskins. Tell me, mate, what do Jessica’s knockers look like? Does she have a better set on her than Rebecca?”

“Matter of taste, I s’pose,” Fargo said, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Oh, crikey! You tasted them, right enough, eh? Now, Rebecca, she’s a blonde, and they have those wispy curlicues down in the cellar. But I’d wager Jessie has got a bold bush you could hide a big dog in, what? Yes, I favor a big, thick bush. Those bushy bitches like to pump it all night.”

“All right,” Fargo said, “whack the cork. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been dealt a blind hand and the stakes have just been raised.”

“Now, there’s a bit of smashing frontier talk. Does it mean anything?”

“Yeah. It means we could have warriors on us at any time and we’ve lost our best cover thanks to your smashing driving.”

“Pity, that. We’ll all be killed and I’ll never have my chance to thrash you.”

Darkness began to fill the chinks in the rock walls around them. Within the next half hour the sun slowly set behind a flaming scarlet bank of clouds, soon leaving the night sky to a full moon and a wild explosion of stars.

Fargo heaved a sigh of temporary relief. They were debouching onto the naked plains now, and there would be one more night without an attack. He told Derek to halt and then reined around to join the others.

“Best spell the horses and let ’em take off some grass,” he said. “Slappy, ration out a sup of water to everybody and then give the team horses a drink.”

“What about your stallion and the remuda?”

Fargo shook his head. “I hate to do it, but it’s root hog or die now. We only got enough for the pulling horses.”

“What about that blowhard Derek? I got to water that skunk-bit coyote, too?”

Fargo lowered his voice as he dismounted. “Definitely, old son. I told you why we want him alive.”

Even in the subdued light, Fargo could see his friend frown. “Uh-huh, but tell me the rest of your big idea.”

“Let’s put it this way—an idea is for thinking, a plan is for telling. Right now I got little to tell.”

“Ain’t you the mysterious son of a bitch?” Slappy grumped.

“Don’t go near him by yourself,” Fargo added. “He’s champing at the bit to lay hands on a weapon bigger than that Brasher.”

* * *

The Blackford party had been in motion for less than an hour when a hideous scream suddenly rent the fabric of the night, scattering Fargo’s thoughts like chaff in the wind.

Even swaggering Derek, riding out ahead of him in the silver moonlight, was impressed enough to lose his cocky tone. “What in bloody blazes was that?”

Fargo ignored him at first, busy orienting to the sound. It came from perhaps a half mile to the south, and as he sent his hearing out beyond the near distance he picked up the faint sound of sticks beating together in a monotonous rhythm. Eventually he spotted orange flames licking at the darkness. The sight stiffened the fine hairs on the back of his neck—out there in that maw of darkness lurked death, the King of Terrors.

“It’s the Cheyenne camp,” he replied. “They plan to dance all night, working themselves into a trance for the battle tomorrow.”

“Do the blighters always scream like that?”

“That’s for our benefit. They know we’re out here somewhere.”

Fargo quickly reversed his dust and told the rest what was happening.

“Trance dancing,” Slappy said from atop the mud wagon. “That means we’re in a world of shit, Fargo. When them crazy bucks get the glaze over their eyes, ain’t nothing can fright ’em. I oncet seen some tranced-up Sioux attack a garrison on the North Platte. They killed half them soldier blues and died to the last buck, no retreat.”

“The way you say,” Fargo agreed, “but lower your voice. These greenhorns are scared enough.”

“They’re scairt? Brother, I’m pissing icicles. I’d give a purty to be back in Arkansas agin pulling and burning stumps for my brother.”

“I s’pose you’re the one man meant to live forever, huh? You need to look on the sunny side of it.”

“That being . . . ?”

“If it goes bad for us, I’ll pop a Kentucky pill into your skull and you’ll never see it coming. Beats dying a long death in bed—or being roasted over a fire.”

“Say, you’re playin’ the larks with me, but that is a comfortin’ thought. You do good work, Fargo. You’ll do it, straight-arrow?”

“Straight-arrow,” Fargo promised. “But I don’t expect it to go bad for us.”

“But what if it does and they pop you over first?”

“Do it yourself, you damn fool. You got the stones for it.”

Slappy clucked to the team. “A’course, but I ain’t sure I got the mentality. My Colt Navy is mighty small-bore, and that means I got to pick exactly the right place.”

“Maybe six months ago,” Fargo said, “I hired on with this doctor from St. Louis to guard a caravan of medical supplies going to the Indian Territory. He was all het up over some new book he was reading—by Darwood or Darwin or somebody. Anyhow, this doc—who seemed like a smart fellow—told me about something he called the primitive brain.”

“The hell’s that? I just want to know what spot to shoot in my brain.”

“And that’s what I’m telling you, knot-head. This primitive brain is about the size of a small plum, he claimed, and we all got one. A bullet that goes into that kills you quicker than a man can spit. He said it’s the original brain from when men were apes in the jungle.”

Slappy hooted with laughter. “Fargo, does your mother know you’re out? When men was apes? You don’t swallow that bunk, do you?”

Before Fargo could reply, Ericka’s pleasant, amused voice spoke up from inside the mud wagon. “Mr. Fargo, evidently you forget this wagon has no sides. Rebecca and I have heard your entire conversation. I must say, your advice about where to shoot the brain doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

Fargo actually felt himself blushing with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, ladies. It was a fool thing to be talking about, anyway, but fool things are Slappy’s stock-in-trade.”

“Now, that’s God’s truth,” Slappy hastened to add, mortified himself. “Don’t you ladies worry none about Skye Fargo—he does nothing by halves. He means to win the horse or lose the saddle, and he’s had the same saddle ever since I knowed him. Don’t pay no never mind to our foolish talk.”

“We don’t mind,” Rebecca chimed in, her fair oval of face appearing outside the wagon to look up at Fargo. “It’s quite impressive that a rugged, handsome American backlander can discuss The Origin of Species. Many educated Londoners have never heard of it.”

“With me it’s all secondhand,” Fargo assured her. “Most of what I know is told to me by others.”

“Now, ladies,” Slappy scoffed gently, “don’t tell me you b’lieve this hokum about men being descended from apes?”

“Tell me, Mr. Hollister,” Erica said, “would you believe it of Derek?”

There was a stunned silence from up on the box. Then: “What was that feller’s name agin—Derwood?”