Badlands Bloodsport

“All right, Skeets,” Fargo told the British army marksman after riding back to his position, “the sun will be up in less than half an hour. Go join the others and take up a good spot.”

“Even if they’re behind us, Fargo, how could they know exactly where we are?”

“That scout. He hung on to us like a tick.”

“We should have killed the bugger.”

“Maybe we should at that,” Fargo conceded. “But Plains warriors are first-rate trackers, and they’d find us without him.”

“Are we still just killing their horses?”

“Shoot braves. They must’ve returned to their camp on Crying Woman Creek, and they have huge horse herds there. That means they’ll have plenty of remounts. We don’t have enough ammo to waste trying to pop over all those mounts.”

“Finally,” Skeets said, starting to boot his big sorrel forward. Then he pulled up. “Fargo, blast it, that herd spy looked like a bloody buffalo. I’m sorry now I didn’t listen to you.”

“It’s too dead to skin now,” Fargo said, dismissing him. “Make up for it with your marksmanship today.”

“Ah—one more little matter. Derek. You see, the man is insanely jealous because of Jessica. When the bloke heard those . . . noises she was making in the sand hills, blimey! He went off his noodle. He will beat you to death if you’re foolish enough to knuckle up to him.”

“He’s a mighty potent force,” Fargo agreed. “Tell me, can he shoot?”

“He’s no Scots fusilier, eh? But I’ve taught him to plink at targets. He’s a grand sight better than those two fugging toffs. Blackford has gone to the hunt many times and hit nothing. Aldritch can handle a pistol somewhat, but that fancy German rifle is wasted on him. He’s too weak to even hold it steady.”

After Skeets rode forward, Fargo made a minute study in the gathering light. He could see nothing, but the Ovaro had been trained to hate the smell of bear grease, which Cheyenne braves wore in their hair. The stallion crow-hopped nervously, all the evidence Fargo required.

He joined the others, hobbling his horse. “They’re out there,” he announced. “They’ll be hitting us any time now. Remember, don’t jerk your trigger and buck your weapon. Every shot has to count for score. Squeeze your rounds off easy, and don’t waste a slug—if you’re even half a bubble off bead, don’t shoot.”

“Have you actually seen these savages?” Derek demanded.

“They’re out there,” Fargo repeated.

“Yes, and Robin Hood with his merry men, eh?”

“Derek,” came Lord Blackford’s nervous, reedy voice, “give over. You’re in Fargo’s world now.”

Fargo made a last survey of their defensive position. The three conveyances had been parked in front of a low mesa, a fairly good makeshift bulwark. A traprock shelf jutted out from the mesa and created an overhang, preventing the Cheyenne attackers from firing down on them. Once again the women had sheltered under the fancy coach, and this time kegs and boxes protected them from the exposed side.

Fargo fretted, however, about the horses. They had been clustered tightly behind the fodder wagon. Bales of hay provided some cover but not enough. Fargo knew he could really count on only four shooters—Skeets, himself, Slappy, and Montoya. The verdict wasn’t in on Derek, but he recalled what Skeets had told him about the toffs. Better to save their ammo for someone who could aim it.

“Aldritch,” he said in a diplomatic tone, “I want to hold you and the earl in reserve for now. I’d like you two to protect the women if the coach is rushed. Save your loads just for that.”

Both men looked relieved as they scurried under the coach.

“This is a bloody fool’s errand,” Derek the Terrible snarled from his position behind the mud wagon. “There’s not a redskin within two hundred miles of us. Fargo is just—”

An arrow suddenly thwacked into the wagon, a fierce, yipping cry went up, and one of the women screamed. The attack had begun.

9

Fargo had long admired the Cheyenne warriors for their battle tactics, tactics so effective that, so far, the U.S. Army had fared poorly in the field against them. And once again those tactics were on full display.

The braves, already aware of the white skins’ excellent rifles and marksmanship, maintained their distance and relied on their ponies’ great speed. In relays they raced north and south past the defensive position, displaying their astonishing skill with the bow and arrow.

The warriors controlled their mounts with their knees only, freeing both hands. Clutching a handful of arrows in their left hands, they strung and fired with incredible speed and accuracy at a full gallop. The sharp crack of trade rifles punctuated the war cries and nonstop, high-pitched, unnerving yipping. Somewhere they had acquired an army bugle, and one of the braves blasted away on it.

“There’s that feather-head called Touch the Clouds!” Slappy shouted. “He’s still wearing the medicine horns!”