Badlands Bloodsport

Eventually they were moving southwest again directly into a biting wind that blew stinging sleet into Fargo’s, Jessica’s, Slappy’s, and Lord Blackford’s faces. Fargo had ordered Derek to saddle a horse and ride out about fifty feet in front of him. The man wasn’t stupid enough to escape unarmed, on a weakened and exhausted mount, into the teeth of warpath braves.

“Fargo!” he called back. “So I’m the canary in the coal mine, what? The pioneer who takes the arrows?”

“No. I’m just keeping you where I can see you. Too bad Skeets didn’t do the same.”

“Yes, poor Skeets,” Derek said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Do you think he’s strumming a harp by now? Or perhaps shoveling coal for the Pit Master?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Fargo replied. “I wasn’t Bible raised.”

“Blimey! A heathen in buckskins. Tell me, mate, what do Jessica’s knockers look like? Does she have a better set on her than Rebecca?”

“Matter of taste, I s’pose,” Fargo said, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Oh, crikey! You tasted them, right enough, eh? Now, Rebecca, she’s a blonde, and they have those wispy curlicues down in the cellar. But I’d wager Jessie has got a bold bush you could hide a big dog in, what? Yes, I favor a big, thick bush. Those bushy bitches like to pump it all night.”

“All right,” Fargo said, “whack the cork. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been dealt a blind hand and the stakes have just been raised.”

“Now, there’s a bit of smashing frontier talk. Does it mean anything?”

“Yeah. It means we could have warriors on us at any time and we’ve lost our best cover thanks to your smashing driving.”

“Pity, that. We’ll all be killed and I’ll never have my chance to thrash you.”

Darkness began to fill the chinks in the rock walls around them. Within the next half hour the sun slowly set behind a flaming scarlet bank of clouds, soon leaving the night sky to a full moon and a wild explosion of stars.

Fargo heaved a sigh of temporary relief. They were debouching onto the naked plains now, and there would be one more night without an attack. He told Derek to halt and then reined around to join the others.

“Best spell the horses and let ’em take off some grass,” he said. “Slappy, ration out a sup of water to everybody and then give the team horses a drink.”

“What about your stallion and the remuda?”

Fargo shook his head. “I hate to do it, but it’s root hog or die now. We only got enough for the pulling horses.”

“What about that blowhard Derek? I got to water that skunk-bit coyote, too?”

Fargo lowered his voice as he dismounted. “Definitely, old son. I told you why we want him alive.”

Even in the subdued light, Fargo could see his friend frown. “Uh-huh, but tell me the rest of your big idea.”

“Let’s put it this way—an idea is for thinking, a plan is for telling. Right now I got little to tell.”

“Ain’t you the mysterious son of a bitch?” Slappy grumped.

“Don’t go near him by yourself,” Fargo added. “He’s champing at the bit to lay hands on a weapon bigger than that Brasher.”

 * * * 

The Blackford party had been in motion for less than an hour when a hideous scream suddenly rent the fabric of the night, scattering Fargo’s thoughts like chaff in the wind.

Even swaggering Derek, riding out ahead of him in the silver moonlight, was impressed enough to lose his cocky tone. “What in bloody blazes was that?”

Fargo ignored him at first, busy orienting to the sound. It came from perhaps a half mile to the south, and as he sent his hearing out beyond the near distance he picked up the faint sound of sticks beating together in a monotonous rhythm. Eventually he spotted orange flames licking at the darkness. The sight stiffened the fine hairs on the back of his neck—out there in that maw of darkness lurked death, the King of Terrors.

“It’s the Cheyenne camp,” he replied. “They plan to dance all night, working themselves into a trance for the battle tomorrow.”

“Do the blighters always scream like that?”

“That’s for our benefit. They know we’re out here somewhere.”

Fargo quickly reversed his dust and told the rest what was happening.

“Trance dancing,” Slappy said from atop the mud wagon. “That means we’re in a world of shit, Fargo. When them crazy bucks get the glaze over their eyes, ain’t nothing can fright ’em. I oncet seen some tranced-up Sioux attack a garrison on the North Platte. They killed half them soldier blues and died to the last buck, no retreat.”

“The way you say,” Fargo agreed, “but lower your voice. These greenhorns are scared enough.”

“They’re scairt? Brother, I’m pissing icicles. I’d give a purty to be back in Arkansas agin pulling and burning stumps for my brother.”

“I s’pose you’re the one man meant to live forever, huh? You need to look on the sunny side of it.”

“That being . . . ?”

“If it goes bad for us, I’ll pop a Kentucky pill into your skull and you’ll never see it coming. Beats dying a long death in bed—or being roasted over a fire.”