Black Hills Badman

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE

Something wasn’t right. Fargo slowed to a walk. He didn’t think they had seen him, but then again, all it would take was one warrior with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s to look back at just the right moment.

His skin prickling, Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. He would go on a little ways yet, and if he didn’t spot them, turn back.

The last Fargo saw of the six, they were winding between a pair of wooded hills. Both hills were about the same size and shape, and reminded him of a woman’s breasts. He grinned at the notion, and thought of Rebecca Keever, of her full bosom and winsome figure.

The next moment Fargo promptly lost his grin when the trees to his right and the trees to his left disgorged shrieking warriors brandishing lances and notching arrows to sinew strings.

He had ridden right into a trap.