Badlands Bloodsport

Fargo raised his voice to address everyone. “We’ve lost valuable time and we’ll lose even more straightening out that tangled harness and tug chains. It’s only a few hours until sunrise, and it won’t take those fast Cheyenne mustangs long to catch up to us. I’d guess maybe an hour at the outside. That’ll give me some time to send mirror signals to the fort.”

“But how, Skye?” Jessica asked. “The sun will be behind us and very low.”

“You ladies are going to help me with that,” Fargo said. “But I owe it to you to be honest—mirror signals may be useless. There’s supposed to be a sentry in the gate tower to watch for them, but discipline at these frontier outposts is lax. And even if a sentry spots them, the fort is still at least forty miles off. Still, it’s worth a roll of the dice. But my advice is not to count on any soldiers riding to our rescue. Get this set in your minds—we can survive what’s coming but only if everybody stays frosty. Panic is like a wildfire—it spreads fast and it kills everything. You English folks are famous for stout hearts and a stiff upper lip, and I believe every one of you will do the Union Jack proud.”

 * * * 

Despite his stirring words to the Blackford party, Fargo knew full well the fighting prowess of the Cheyenne and their limitless courage where their sacred law-ways were concerned. He and Slappy were the only ones in this luckless group with any experience fighting Indians, which made it long odds against a force that was at least a dozen or more strong. Imagination’s loom wove some ugly pictures of what was in store, but Fargo forced them from his mind.

“Fargo, I recall how you tried to talk us out of coming this far north,” Lord Blackford said as the two men rode just ahead of the others. “But we were warned about Comanches terrorizing the southern plains, and a hotel keeper in Santa Fe assured us that was one tribe we must avoid.”

“He was right as rain,” Fargo said. “And if Skeets and Derek hadn’t tried to play great white hunter, the Cheyenne would be no big threat. Most of the time the braves are horse raiders, stealing from other tribes’ herds, and they got no great thirst for scalps.”

“Yes, but I dearly wish I had followed your advice to cross the Missouri River into eastern Dakota. My wife claims there are some men whom bees will not sting, and she believes you are one of them. At any rate, I have complete faith in you, despite my high-handed arrogance early on, but I fear we shall all—what is the phrase?—go a cropper.”

Fargo chuckled. “Come a cropper, not go. That could happen, Earl, but it’s not carved in stone. And I’ve been stung by bees, wasps, yellow jackets, and hornets, but don’t tell Lady Blackford. Anyhow, I always try to use wit and wile when main force won’t do it. Those braves haven’t put the quietus on us yet, and I don’t plan to let them.”

“After seeing how you handled Derek, I am imbued with your confidence. That miscreant will no longer pride it over the rest of us, I daresay. Do you plan to turn him over to the soldiers?”

“They have no authority to imprison a civilian, especially a foreigner, unless it’s a crime against the government.”

“Then I suggest summary execution. Blast him to hell. He not only murdered one man, but he clearly detailed his plans for raping my wife and leaving us all stranded.”

“He’ll get his comeuppance,” Fargo promised, “one way or another.”

Fargo slewed around in the saddle and studied the weak “false dawn” in the east. He estimated sunrise would come in about an hour and a half.

“Earl,” he said after a minute’s thought, “you can use a pistol, right?”

“Yes, but my experience is limited to shooting at fixed targets.”

“Still, that’s experience. Have you ever shot a rifle?”

“Only a shotgun while hunting grouse.”

Fargo said, “I think it might be a good idea if you join me and Slappy when the attack comes. That fancy German rifle of Aldritch’s has a good scope on it. For this first attack, we’re going back to dropping their horses. Since I scattered their herd, they should have fewer remounts on their strings.”

“I will certainly do what you tell me. But I believe there are only six rounds left for that weapon. Sylvester wasted most of them shooting at trees and coyotes.”

“Yeah, so to cut down on misses you’ll have to use cross-sticks to rest the barrel. With a pistol, the target is usually close and you just point and shoot. With a rifle, you have to remember the word ‘brass.’”

“Brass?”

“Brass,” Fargo repeated. “Start running it through your mind. ‘B’ stands for breathe—before you pull the trigger you take a deep breath and let it out slow. The ‘R’ stands for relaxing your muscles. ‘A’ is for aiming, and you don’t shoot until your bead is steady. The first ‘S’ is for trigger slack—you take it up steady until you feel the resistance of the sear. The second ‘S’ is mighty important—it stands for squeezing the trigger slow instead of jerking it. Jerking it will buck the rifle and throw you off bead.”