Badlands Bloodsport

This was a delicate point, and Fargo decided to skirt it. “All the weapons are in that wagon, and it’s carrying Jessica and your husband. If they pile into the mud wagon with you ladies, and we add the weapons, this team would founder.”

“What he really means,” Rebecca put in, “is that we’ll need every bit of cover possible when the savages attack.”

“Well, we are on the open plains,” Fargo agreed reluctantly. “Why don’t you ladies try to catch some sleep?”

“Catch some sleep,” repeated Ericka’s delighted tone. “I’ve heard of catching a hansom and even catching a falling star, but never sleep.”

Fargo touched his hat and rode forward, having more and more trouble with the exhausted, hungry, irritated Ovaro. Twice now the stallion had tried to buck Fargo, and now and then he crow-hopped sideways in protest. During pauses the horses had taken to sleeping while standing on three legs to rest the fourth, a sure sign they were close to collapse.

“Steady on, old campaigner,” Fargo urged him quietly, patting the side of his neck. “We’ve pulled out of rough scrapes before.”

“Well, then,” Derek greeted him in a goading voice, “I was starting to feel a bit lonely, Fargo.”

“Does this mean I’m spoken for?”

“Oh, you’re spoken for right enough, living legend. Derek the Terrible will make sure you go to hunt the white buffalo.”

“Rein in,” Fargo ordered him. Something had been picking at him like a burr.

“What the bloody hell for?”

Fargo drew his Colt and thumb-cocked it. “I don’t chew my cabbage twice, hangman.”

Derek quickly hauled back on the reins. The cocky assurance deserted his voice. “Now, Fargo, I was only having a bit of a lark with you. That’s no reason to gun me down in cold blood.”

“Shut your mouth and put your arms out to your sides.”

Fargo nudged the Ovaro closer and stuck the muzzle of the Colt into Derek’s neck. “Move one muscle, old sport, and you’ll be riding that white buffalo.”

English riding saddles had no pockets, so Fargo ignored the tack and carefully patted the large pockets of Derek’s fustian trousers and jacket. There were no rocks handy on the plains, but Fargo realized he had left Derek alone for minutes at a time while they were still in the Badlands. His prowess at hurling rocks was proven.

He found nothing dangerous. But Fargo couldn’t help noticing the hangman’s layer upon layer of hard-slab muscle.

Fargo backed the Ovaro away a few steps. “I’ll say this much for you—if you were wrestling an ox, I’d bet against the ox.”

“I reserve my efforts for men,” Derek said pointedly, the old swagger back in his voice. “I’m much more cunning than an ox.”

“Gig it,” Fargo ordered, and the two men moved out at a frustratingly slow walk.

“It doesn’t matter a jack straw who I fight,” Derek added. “Every opponent is just a baby in a wicker basket for me.”

“You sure do like to flap your jaws. Words are cheap, traded freely by drunks and old women. Why don’t you just caulk up?”

“You don’t believe me, eh?”

“Oh, you’re strong, and I believe you’ve beat down plenty of men. But you’re a craven coward. You use your mouth to hide the fact.”

“Why, you lily-livered mange pot! You take my weapons and refuse to knuckle up, and sit there bold as King Henry’s harlot calling me the bloody coward. Fargo, you need no codpiece, for you have no cod. Let’s draw a ring and duke it out.”

“I’ve already admitted I wouldn’t want to face you in a dustup—I’d prefer to carve you or shoot you. I don’t pick fights with grizzly bears, either, but I’ve killed one when forced to it. I have no plans to kill you. I think you might be more useful to us alive.”

Before Derek could retort, a sudden racket broke out behind the two men. First horses erupted, shrieking whinnies of panic and anger. This was followed almost immediately by women’s screams. Then he heard Slappy cussing like a bull-whacker on a muddy road, unleashing a string of foul and creative epithets that would have made a mule blush.

Fargo wheeled the Ovaro and hightailed it back. The scene was pandemonium. The four horses in the mud-wagon team were kicking and trying to buck, their harness hopelessly twisted. And smack in the middle of them, head wedged between two horses, his stubby legs flailing in the air, was Slappy.

Lord Blackford had hurried over but appeared helpless, wringing his hands in consternation. All three women were trying to get hold of the hapless driver and extract him, but the agitated team made it impossible to get at him.

“I need something to use as blindfolds,” Fargo snapped as he swung down from the saddle. “Pronto, ladies! They’ll break his fool neck.”

Fargo heard cloth ripping inside the mud wagon, and then Rebecca handed him four strips of cloth. Fargo had a rough time of it, but soon managed to blindfold all four horses, quieting them. Then, Blackford assisting, Fargo grabbed Slappy by the legs and wrested him out of his equine trap, still cussing like a stable sergeant.

“Any bones broken?” Fargo asked him.