Badlands Bloodsport

“Not long. This isn’t a full-bore war, it’s a vengeance quest. They won’t have their sacred Medicine Arrows with them, and it’s likely their shaman is back at the main camp, so it’ll be a simple deal. Maybe an hour or two.”

“Too bad it ain’t later. Savages won’t attack after dark, eh?”

“That’s bunkum. Plenty of tribes, like the Comanches and Apaches, prefer to attack at night. But the Cheyennes are one of the most superstitious tribes, and they won’t leave their clan circles at night.”

Fargo didn’t bother to add, “But they will fight like demons from sunup to sundown.” Soon the camp circle loomed into view as they topped a low rise, and minutes later Montoya and Slappy hurried forward to greet Fargo. The three women, too, heard the riders approach and emerged from their tent.

“Mr. Fargo!” exclaimed Rebecca Singleton, Ericka’s younger sister—a willowy blonde with the most fetching sapphire-blue eyes Fargo had ever seen. She gingerly removed his hat. “La! The back of your head is matted with blood! What happened?”

Fargo grinned and hooked a thumb toward Derek. “Oh, the hangman there took a freak to conk me on the cabeza. I’ll settle that score later—that is, if we survive the Indian attacks that will soon be coming.”

Normally Fargo went out of his way to shield women from the hard facts of frontier emergencies. Such gallantry was impossible now, however—these women had to know what they were up against, and they had to get the truth with the bark still on it.

Lord Blackford and Sylvester Aldritch hurried forward. “I say, Fargo,” Blackford fussed, “why the dickens are you trying to scare the women?”

“You ain’t the ramrod here anymore, Blackford,” Fargo said in a tone that brooked no defiance. “You’re going to do what I tell you to do, and that goes for you, too, Aldritch. Any son of a bitch who tries to gainsay me will be picking lead out of his liver.”

Quickly, Fargo described the morning’s events and the imminent danger they all faced.

“Surely, Fargo,” Aldritch interposed in his special Fargo tone, “you’re being melodramatic? I have studied American Indians, and all this business about their implacable honor and so forth is highly exaggerated. When a death is clearly accidental, they are open to negotiations. A horse, perhaps, a rifle or two, some sugar and coffee and bright cloth might—”

“Gov’nor,” Skeets interrupted him, “we aren’t selling Manhattan. Fargo ain’t cutting it thin. Me and Derek saw these redskins explode when I shot that savage inside the robe. Blimey! You never heard such a racket of bloodcurdling cries. They mean to put paid to it, all right, but not with cheap trinkets. They want our scalps.”

Aldritch scowled. “Our scalps? You’re the bloody fool who ignited all this. Why shouldn’t we just turn you over to the savages?”

“Sylvester,” Ericka spoke up firmly, “this is no job for a city merchant. We hired Mr. Fargo for his expertise. Now let us avail ourselves of it.”

“Your mouth is loose, Aldritch,” Slappy tossed in. “Way too damn loose. You ’mind me of them yappin’ lapdogs what’re scared of mice. You ain’t got no choice in the matter, toff. Me and Montoya are with Fargo, and if he’s too busy to kill you, we ain’t.”

Aldritch’s neck swelled and his face turned brick red, but he wisely said nothing.

Fargo grinned. “All right, Slappy, lower your hammer. Our war with England ended long ago. Folks, listen. Why would we sacrifice Skeets, our best marksman? It would do no good—white skins are a tribe to the red man, and this is now a tribal battle.”

“Good show, Fargo,” Skeets muttered, staring at Aldritch with homicidal eyes.

Fargo said, “My first choice, when there’s a clash with Indians, is to avoid weapons and use wit and wile. And later on we will try that because I guarandamntee this will not be just one battle—they’re going to be on us like ugly on a buzzard. But right now time is a bird, and the bird is on the wing. For this first skirmish we’ve got no choice but to toss lead. But we’re going to toss it carefully.”

Fargo pointed toward the southwest. “Our only hope is to make it to Fort Laramie. We’ll travel at night—fast—and fort up for the daytime attacks that are coming. The Cheyenne battle tactics are smarter than you might think. They know our guns are useless once we run out of ammo, and they’re going to do everything they can to make us use it up. Don’t panic in the heat of battle and shoot just to make noise—noise won’t scare them.

“Carlos,” Fargo said, turning to Montoya, “they’ll try to shoot the horses, especially the team horses. I want double hobbles on those animals, and I want them bunched tight. Put the team horses in the middle. And speaking of horses . . .”

Fargo turned to Aldritch’s hired men. “Skeets and Derek, use those Big Fifty rifles to keep the attackers out of easy range. But don’t shoot any braves—just kill their horses.”

“Why mollycoddle them?” Blackford demanded. “You claim they’re out to slaughter us, now, aren’t they?”