Badlands Bloodsport

The teams were unhitched and even Lord Blackford and a scowling Aldritch were drafted for the job of rubbing each animal down. Water was dwindling and the second water hole Fargo remembered had turned out to be alkali tainted. Hating to do it, Fargo used almost all of the drinking water for the horses.

“You sodding fool!” Derek roared out when he realized what was happening. “You’ll kill us!”

“We’re still the better part of two days away from Fort Laramie,” Fargo said. “We can make it on the few swallows a day I set aside for us. But these team horses are pulling, and they’re going to drop dead in the traces without this water. And then we will be killed, sure as sun in the morning.”

“We still have the saddle horses.”

“The strawberry roan and a sorrel were killed, and there were never enough horses for each person. A few of us would have to ride double, and these saddle horses are just as water starved. We desert these conveyances—our only cover—and those braves would ride us down like we were three-legged dogs.”

Derek had assumed his usual aggressive position, feet spread wide and thumbs hooked in his shell belt. Fargo kept a steady eye on his hands.

“And just how do we even know these bloody savages are still after us?” Derek demanded yet again. “We have only your word for it, and you’ve hardly a sterling record. You said there would be a second source of water, yet the bleeding thing was hardly more than a mud puddle filled with water that gives a man the runny shits.”

“Have you et Johnson grass and gone plumb loco?” Slappy demanded. “You need a good boot up your sitter, is all. Fargo first found that water five or six years ago, and it don’t take long in the Badlands for alkali to seep in. Christ sakes, he’s the only one among us that knows ‘B’ from a banjo. You don’t even know gee from haw.”

“Yes, Derek,” Ericka threw in, “you of all people should know that. He warned you and Skeets not to molest that buffalo herd, yet you did. And now look at the pretty kettle of fish we’re in.”

“He’s been right all along about the Indians, too.” Rebecca spoke up. “Lord Blackford hired him for his frontier expertise, and I hardly think a Tyburn hangman should overrule a man who—”

“Well, of course I haven’t spread my legs and tucked away his cod as you and Jessica have,” Derek snarled.

“All of you pipe down,” Fargo said. “It appears that Derek is challenging my leadership, so we’ll put this to a trail vote.”

He drew his Colt and thumb-cocked it. “If the majority votes yes, I’ll kill him right here. If the vote is no, I’ll kill him later as planned. Slappy?”

“Plug the son of a bitch.”

“Jessica?”

“Yes.”

“Rebecca?”

After a long pause: “No.”

“Lord Blackford?”

“I . . . that is, it would seem . . .”

“You got a fish bone caught in your throat?” Fargo snapped. “Kill him or no?”

“I should think not,” Blackford said.

“Aldritch?”

“Of course not. This is savage murder. Under Anglo-Saxon jurispru—”

“Skeets?”

“For the good of the group, kill him now.”

“Skeets, you sodding bastard,” Derek growled.

“Ericka?” Fargo completed the roll call.

“Yes. When we are attacked, he spends more time aiming at you than he does the Indians.”

“Well, it’s a tie,” Fargo said. “Too bad Montoya was killed.”

“Ain’t you got a vote, Fargo?” Slappy demanded.

“Well, if I do, then so does Derek and it’s still a tie.”

Fargo leathered his shooter. “Democracy isn’t always perfect, Derek. The rest of you try to stay warm and get some sleep. Me and Slappy will split the watch.”

In the generous moon-wash Derek looked like a man who had tried to swallow his food without chewing it.

“I promise you’re going to die hard, Fargo,” he finally managed.

“That’s a distinct possibility,” Fargo conceded cheerfully. “I face it almost every day. But I wager you’ll be feeding worms long before it happens.”

 * * * 

The Cheyenne were known as notorious late sleepers. So before they rolled into their blankets, on the day they recovered their scattered ponies, each brave drank copious amounts of water. Thus, aching bladders ensured that they were awake when their sister the sun finally streaked the eastern horizon like gleaming copper. A quick meal of pemmican and dried fruit fortified them for the battles ahead.

As was the custom, after they were all mounted they lined their ponies up to await the words of Touch the Clouds, their battle chief.

“Brothers!” he called out in the cold, still air. “You know me! You have seen me count coup and take scalps, and never have I played the rabbit!”

“You have the courage of five men, brother,” spoke up Smiling Wolf, the well-known hothead from the Antelope Eaters clan. His sturdy claybank was painted with red circles, the color of courage in battle. “Every man here knows that. However, does your wisdom always match your courage?”

Touch the Clouds watched him in the grainy morning light. He held his face impassive, for only women and white men showed their emotions in their faces.