Badlands Bloodsport

With the pack leader gathering himself to leap at Fargo and rip out his throat, the Trailsman made a last-ditch effort to save his life. He knew well the sound an aggressive grizzly made, a deep-chested sound halfway between a bark and a grunt.

“Woof!” Fargo roared deep from his belly. “Woof! Woof, woof!”

The leader whined, uncertain, and backed off a few steps. Fargo roared even louder and, as one, the pack turned and loped over the ridge.

Fargo felt his legs trembling at this close brush with death, and he sank down onto his knees. “What I wouldn’t give right now,” he said aloud, “for a saloon with sawdust on the floor and girls topside.” He could see himself at the bar, elbows propped and his hat slanted back so he could guzzle Old Orchard as if he were a pipe to hell.

He had survived that scrape, but how long could he last out here without food and water? He still had his six-shooter, but it was as useless as a match underwater. He couldn’t even get away from snakes or brush the red ants off him—he felt their fiery bites all over his legs.

If he did somehow survive this, he vowed, Derek the Terrible and Skeets Stanton would never again lay eyes on Merry Old England.

Just then Fargo detected vibrations through his knees—the fast rhythm of galloping horses. In a few minutes he detected the dark outlines of two riders bearing straight toward him. Soon he recognized Skeets and Derek, their faces alabaster with fright. They reached him and hauled back, their horses skidding in the grass.

Derek glanced back over his shoulder. “Christ, Fargo, you were right! There’s wild Indians back there, and they came bloody near killing us!”

Skeets jumped down and began hacking at Fargo’s ropes with a bowie knife. “We only got away because they didn’t have their mounts near to hand. They’re coming, though. At least twenty of them. Cor! Them sodding savages raised a cry like banshees when they spotted us.”

“You goddamn fools,” Fargo said. “Tell me you did not shoot a buffalo.”

The two men exchanged a guilty look.

“We fired, but we didn’t kill any bison,” Derek replied, although he was clearly stonewalling. “And the noise from our guns scattered the rest of the herd.”

“Tell it straight,” Fargo demanded. “You’re holding something back.”

“Fargo, it was an accident,” Skeets said, his words tumbling out fast in his nervousness. “It was just after sunup and the light was bad. I saw what I thought was a small buffalo. Remember, you told us how hard they are to skin, what? So I—”

Fargo, suddenly turning pale, held up a hand to stop him. “Oh, Christ. That buffalo turned out to be an Indian hiding under a buffalo robe, right?”

Both men nodded. Skeets demanded, “What in Hades was that red bugger up to?”

“He was a herd spy. Never mind now. We are all in one world of shit. Let’s get back to camp before they catch us in the open.”

Fargo’s ankles were free and Skeets went to work on his wrists. “So, why did you stop for me?” Fargo demanded. “You had me out of the way.”

“Bloke, we don’t want you out of the way,” Derek said. “Montoya and the cook are no Indian fighters. You’re the only one among us who knows about redskins.”

“Climb aboard,” Derek said, extending a hand. “The red peril can’t be far behind us.”

Fargo’s legs had gone to sleep while tied, and he limped awkwardly toward Derek’s horse. “I’ll help for the sake of the women. But I have an account to settle with you two.”

“We never intended to leave you here, Fargo,” Skeets pointed out. “We just didn’t want you interfering with us.”

Fargo swung up and over, the exertion making his head pound like a Tewa tom-tom, and wedged himself into the stiff English saddle behind Derek. “I’ll keep that in mind. But, gents, you just stirred up a hornet’s nest when you crossed the fighting Cheyenne. Did you kill the herd spy?”

“Most likely,” Skeets admitted. “I saw a human leg pop out of the robe when he dropped. I hit him with a fifty-caliber ball—that will shock a man to death no matter where it hits.”

Fargo nodded. “The Cheyenne are big on blood vengeance. War is all they’ve ever known, and their little boys start practicing for mortal combat around age four. If you think the Romans and the Vikings and George Washington gave you a hard time, wait until you square off against these warriors. I druther face all the devils in hell.”

4

The two frightened Englishmen raced their horses at a gallop for the remaining few miles to camp. Fargo slewed around in the saddle to watch for pursuers, but none were visible.

“Maybe they won’t come after us,” Derek said hopefully. “We should have spotted them by now. Their horses weren’t that far away.”

“Maybe the sun will set in the east first,” Fargo said. “Plains warriors don’t just jump on their mounts and give chase like a white man’s posse. Killing is a serious business to them, and they’ll want to make sure their medicine is strong. They’ll paint and dance first—they know damn well we can’t get very far.”

“How long will that take?” Skeets demanded.