Badlands Bloodsport

“Mr. Fargo?” Ericka Blackford called out of the coach when he dropped back to ride alongside, “We only decided on this western adventure because we had read that the wild Indians had signed a peace treaty back in—back in—”

“Back in 1851,” Fargo supplied. “The Fort Laramie Treaty. It was written on water from the start. The government negotiators made promises they never meant to keep. And some Indian chiefs, like Quanah Parker of the Comanche and Two Twists of the Cheyenne, never agreed to the terms. Others made their mark only for the presents. You folks shoulda done a little more reading.”

Fargo could have told them much more about Indian grievances, grievances he shared: about the ruthless despoiling of the continent, the damming of rivers, the western graziers starting to creep across the Mississippi and hog all the land for a few arrogant barons. But England was going great guns with an “industrial revolution” of its own, and he feared his words would fall on deaf ears.

“I daresay, you might have advised us more thoroughly before we entered this treacherous country,” Lord Blackford carped. “You were content to pocket the money and maintain that famous ‘stoic silence’ of yours.”

“Percy, that’s patently unfair.” Rebecca bristled at her brother-in-law. “I was standing beside you, in that dreadful mud flat of Pueblo, when Mr. Fargo warned all of us that the northern ranges posed dangers. You and Sylvester simply ignored him as if he were too stupid to know anything useful.”

Percy? Fargo thought, barely suppressing a bark of laughter. Wait until he told Slappy and Montoya.

“I’ve become aware, my dear,” came the irritated voice of Sylvester Aldritch, “that you go positively out of your way to defend Fargo. Isn’t that carrying noblesse oblige just a bit too far? The man wears buckskins and drinks his coffee black from an old tomato can.”

Fargo had noticed how Aldritch had tossed a loop around Rebecca, his link to royal blood. But if she considered herself roped, she hid it well. He recalled Jessica mentioning that Aldritch had made generous loans to Blackford—loans that “Percy” couldn’t pay back. Evidently Rebecca was the collateral.

“Skye Fargo,” Ericka spoke up with spirit, “is the only man among us who might possibly save our lives. We are not among the theater and soiree crowd now. How he drinks his coffee is nothing to the matter.”

“I say,” Blackford muttered.

“Mr. Fargo,” Ericka said, “I’ve read that the American Mormons and some others believe the wild Indians are descendants of the ten lost tribes of Israel. Do you lend credence to that theory?”

“If that means do I believe it, ma’am, I honestly don’t know enough to have an opinion. But I’ve studied up on the Lewis and Clark Expedition, and one of their goals was to convince these Far West Indians they owe allegiance to a far-off power they couldn’t see. But it would be easier to put socks on a rooster than to control the red man from Washington City.”

Ericka laughed. “Is that approval I hear in your tone?”

“Well, sympathy, anyhow. Most folks consider land worthless if it isn’t peopled up and put to profitable use. The Indian sees it different and so do I. The value of a place goes down as settlement moves in.”

“Speaking as a successful merchant, Fargo,” Aldritch called out, “I assure you that your view is barmy, pure Luddite nonsense. Why, man, what this country requires are more manufactories, mines, and railroads.”

“Opinions vary,” Fargo said quietly.

“Fargo,” Skeets called down from the box of the coach, “will those buggers—excuse me, ladies—those Indians attack tomorrow?”

“I’m hoping we might get lucky on that point,” Fargo replied. “We killed about five of their horses and, cuss the luck, I killed a brave. They might ride back to their main camp along Crying Woman Creek to recruit. That’s good because it gives us time to get a little closer to Fort Laramie, but it’s bad because they’ll likely come back even stronger.”

“Who knows? Maybe they’ll have the devil of a time finding us.”

“Brady,” Ericka called out her window, “even I know that a wild Indian is a superb tracker. Besides, the grass is deep here and we’re leaving an obvious trail.”

“All true,” Fargo confirmed. “And don’t forget the Cheyenne scout following us right now.”

This remark occasioned a startled silence.

“Are you certain?” Blackford demanded.

“Certain sure. I’ve spotted him several times because he skylines himself against the moon.”

“But you assured us they don’t leave their camps after nightfall,” Aldritch said.

“Spying is different than fighting. If it’s important, spies will go out. This is bad cess for us—when a Cheyenne breaks a taboo, it has to be mighty dang important.”

“Why do they fear the night so much?” Rebecca asked, her face a pale oval in the moonlight as she looked up at Fargo.