Badlands Bloodsport

22

Slappy’s prediction was right: Dire hunger and the tempting smell of hot meat overcame the English aversion to eating horses. Lord Blackford sopped up the last of the savory drippings with a hunk of stale saleratus bread.

“Mr. Hollister,” he proclaimed, “I have dined in the most fashionable chop houses in London. But I have never enjoyed any meal so much as this one. My compliments to the chef.”

“If compliments means money, I’ll take it.”

“I dearly wish we had some water,” Jessica complained. “I’m thoroughly parched.”

“There’s water somewhere around here,” Fargo said, standing up to study the terrain with his field glass. “I’ve spotted plenty of small animals and birds, so there’s prob’ly a natural tank in the area. But we can’t look for it just now—our friends are coming back.”

His words startled everyone into a long silence. Then Lord Blackford spoke. “I say, how are they kitted out?”

“Unfortunately for us, damn good. They musta held mustangs in reserve—every brave is mounted. And most have arrows in their quivers. But on the good side of the ledger, they’re coming in at a trot, not a run. They mean to wait us out, not attack us.”

“How far out?” Slappy asked.

“They’ll be close in maybe thirty minutes. Ericka, let’s talk in the mud wagon.”

“Now, see here, Fargo,” Blackford protested. “You can’t—”

“Come down off your hind legs, Earl. ‘Talk’ is all I intend.”

Slappy couldn’t resist a dig at His Percyship. “Don’t fret none, milord, unless that wagon commences to rockin’.”

“Slappy, sew up your lips,” Fargo snapped. “These folks aren’t bull-whackers.”

“Well, I ain’t no elephant, neither, so what’s your point?”

Fargo dismissed him with a wave and retreated into the mud wagon with Lady Blackford for a ten-minute confab. When he stepped out, one of her sketches, mounted in pasteboard, was tucked under his arm. She remained behind in the wagon.

“Fargo, what’s the grift?” Slappy called out curiously.

Fargo ignored him, walking over to the fodder wagon to retrieve a long piece of wood he had snapped off the doubletree when the japanned coach was abandoned. Derek the Terrible said something unintelligible through his gag.

“Could be that old worm is about to turn, Derek,” Fargo told him cheerfully. “Just like you promised. If you believe in a Great Spirit, I suggest you get cozy with him mighty damn quick.”

Fargo walked over to join the others.

“Fargo, damn your bones, what’s on the spit?” Slappy demanded.

“You’ll all see the play soon enough,” Fargo promised. He handed the sketch to Slappy.

“Hell ’n furies, it’s Touch the Clouds, the heap big battle chief. Fine work, too. You aim to pull a flimflam on him with this?”

“Never mind. Handle this careful like, old son. Keep the drawing side turned in toward you until I ask for it. Rebecca,” he added, “would you mind sacrificing that pretty red scarf to the cause?”

“Of course not, Skye, but what—”

“You heard the man,” Slappy groused, shooting daggers at Fargo. “We ain’t fitten to know what his big play is. Him and Lady Blackford is the big nabobs.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lord Blackford snapped, surprising a grin out of Fargo. “I believe we owe the Trailsman our trust. I trust my wife also.”

“This gets my money,” was all Slappy said, shutting up as ordered.

Fargo lifted his right foot high enough to snatch the Arkansas toothpick from its sheath. He began whittling one end of the wood into a point.

“Ladies,” he said to Jessica and Rebecca, “don’t hide under the wagon this time. Stand right out in the open with Lord Blackford, and don’t look scared. Fear is weakness, and these warriors despise weakness in men or women. Set your lips hard and stare right at them, but don’t move a muscle.”

Fargo finished whittling the wood and flipped it around to tie the scarf on the other end with a short rawhide whang.

“Why, that’s a parley pole!” Slappy blurted out, alarm tightening his voice. “Fargo, has your brain come unhinged? You try to palaver with them red devils, they’ll sink air shafts through you.”

“You best hope not, on account you’re going out with me.”

A rare thing happened—Slappy was struck speechless. “Drop your gun belt,” Fargo added, unbuckling his own. “If we go out there armed, they’ll kill us for sure.”

Slappy muttered under his breath, but followed suit, dropping his rig atop Fargo’s. “Skye, I sure’s hell hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” Fargo said, walking east to meet the inevitable trouble. “Brother, so do I.”

* * *

Fargo rammed the parley pole into the ground and he and Slappy stood on opposite sides of it, shading their eyes to watch the line of braves move closer in the midday sun. Both men thrust their right hands into the air, palms forward, sign talk that they held no weapons.

“Fargo, happens you get me kilt,” Slappy said, “I’ll hunt you down in hell.”

“I’ll likely be there,” Fargo replied. “But they’ll kill us anyway, and I never fold if I can take a chance on a wild card.”

“That shines,” Slappy agreed grudgingly. “You never was one to sit and twiddle your thumbs. But I’m pure-dee clemmed if I can figure your play.”

“Stop your damn caterwauling,” Fargo said. “Those three gals back there ain’t showing yellow. Why should you? You’ll savvy the play soon enough, but don’t shoot yourself in the foot. Just stand there with a granite face and hand me that sketch when I ask for it.”

“A’course, but why the hell do you even need me out here? You can hold the damn thing.”

“You did some good shooting during those attacks, and red John notices the good shooters. I want you out here so they don’t think you’re going to kill Touch the Clouds from hiding.”

Slappy puffed up with pride. “I am a dangersome son of a bitch, ain’t I?”

“Savage as a meat axe,” Fargo said in a sarcastic voice.

Both men fell silent as the line loomed closer, then slowed their ponies to a walk as they studied this curious sight. Touch the Clouds halted the group and they counseled among themselves for perhaps five minutes. Then, as one, each brave notched his bow or aimed his trade rifle at the two white skins.

“Well, Trailsman, we’re gone beavers,” Slappy muttered.

“Put some stiff in your spine,” Fargo muttered back. “They’ll satisfy their curiosity before they kill us.”

“Well, there’s some pumpkins! I got time to piss before I die.”

Fargo proved right. Touch the Clouds, flanked on either side by two braves, rode forward to parley.

“If this is a cunning white man’s trick,” Touch the Clouds greeted them in his heavily accented English, “I will flay your soles and make you walk on hot embers before I kill you. If you have straight words, I have ears.”

“Only this,” Fargo replied. “You have killed some of us. We have killed some of you. Both sides fought bravely, no man showing the white feather. Now I will help you to save your tribe.”

Touch the Clouds translated this foolish statement to the four braves with him. None altered their stoic faces, but contempt was clear in their eyes.

“Save our tribe?” Touch the Clouds scoffed. “Fargo, are you crazy-by-thunder? We can take you now like a bird’s nest on the ground. I have no ears for such foolish words.”

Fargo rolled his head over his right shoulder, indicating the fodder wagon. “The man from the Land of the Grandmother Queen, the one who killed your herd spy and violated Hunt Law, is in that wagon. I have tied him up. He is yours to take back to your tribe.”

Fargo counted on the fact that the Cheyennes had not seen the actual shooting. Touch the Cloud’s next words confirmed this.

“Give? Would you make me a squaw? Fargo, you sing the brave-heart songs, and I will take no joy in killing you. But we are the fighting Cheyenne and we will take! We saw two men fleeing, two men in long black coats and foolish round hats. How can we know which one did the killing? We mean to capture both and kill all those who have sheltered them.”

“You won’t have any trouble capturing the other. Just ride back through the malpais following the trail made by bluecoats. You will find his dead body.”

“You speak bent words. We did not kill this man.”

“No, he was killed by the man in the wagon. It was over a woman.”

Touch the Clouds translated again for his companions, and this time contempt hardened all five faces.

“Over a woman?” Touch the Clouds repeated. “Truly, now I will believe you. White men kill with no respect for the importance of dying.”

“Yes, the red man is noble,” Fargo said, scorn sharpening his voice. This was no time to show submissive weakness. “I have seen a Cheyenne warrior grab a white baby by the ankles and dash its brains out against a tree. Is this the respect you speak of?”

A sudden anger squall rose in Touch the Clouds’ face. “I have spoken, hair-face. Your ‘offer’ is cowardly and foolish. Only we can save our tribe. You will die where you stand!”