Badlands Bloodsport

“Their bows have good range,” Fargo explained, “but at longer distances the arrow slows down and strikes the target with less force. The Cheyennes perfected the trick of shooting the arrows up into the sky at a curve—a falling arrow holds its speed and strikes harder. They practice for this and they can estimate distances better than a surveyor with a theodolite.”

“Yes,” Blackford said, “I see. It’s turnabout. We kill their horses, they kill ours.”

“No, I’d say it’s smart tactics, not revenge. They value horses, all right, but not what you’d call sentimental value. They know damn well that if we can hold on until nightfall, their taboos will force them into camp while we can head closer to the fort. They also figure that we must be worn down to the nub and if we have to ride shank’s mare we can’t get very far.”

“Who is this Shank?” Blackford asked, bewildered. “And how could all of us possibly ride one mare?”

Slappy made a farting noise with his lips. “Earl, shank’s mare means we’d have to walk.”

“Ladies!” Fargo called out. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Skye!” Rebecca’s strong but shaken voice answered.

“Are you all right?”

“Scared out of our wits but still unscathed. Have they gone?”

“’Fraid not, dear. Pretty quick now there’s going to be a big batch of arrows falling on our position. Two sides of the mud wagon are walled up, but make sure none of you are exposed at the front or back.”

“Don’t worry. We’re all huddled up like newborn kittens.”

By now the braves had all dismounted and were notching their bows. Fargo could make out his pinto’s black and white legs in the cluster of horses, but knew it was too late to move him. His faithful trail companion was now at serious risk, and Fargo knew he could not lose a better friend.

“Leastways,” Slappy said after a brief chuckle, “this could be the fittin’ end of Derek the Terrible. I don’t care what you got planned for that puke pail. I hope them red devils turn him into a porky-pine.”

Fargo swore. “I forgot all about that son of a bitch!”

“Fargo, are you off your head?” Slappy blurted out when Fargo quickly crawled out from under the safety of the fodder wagon. The Trailsman saw the braves aiming their bows heavenward even as he grabbed one of the English riding saddles and tossed it over Derek’s torso and stomach. He was tossing the second one over the terrified hangman’s head when Fargo saw the glint of arcing arrows catching the sun’s rays.

“Best I can do for you,” Fargo said as he dived back under cover just as the arrows plummeted in with deadly precision.

A piteous cry rose from the horses as several of the arrows struck their intended targets. Others punched through the roof of the mud wagon and the bed of the fodder wagon, one striking Fargo’s boot heel and penetrating slightly into the leather. It quivered a few moments, so great was its interrupted energy.

“Dropped ’em plumb,” Slappy said. “How many horses hit, Earl?”

“It’s deuced hard to say. Fargo’s fine stallion is still standing and I see no blood on him. However, I see two team horses down, and my chestnut is bleeding profusely from the rump.”

“Shit, piss, and corruption!” Slappy swore. “The next volley will likely row us all up Salt River.”

Fargo had faced down too many hard scrapes on the frontier to call himself an eternal optimist; he was, however, a hopeful realist, one who survived by dint of sheer strength, courage, and intelligence, one who expected to prevail so long as he exerted himself. Nonetheless, he feared Slappy was wrong—they were already up Salt River, deep into the white-foaming waters, and about to be dashed to death on the rocks.

21

“Well, I’ll be et for a tater!” Slappy exclaimed. “They ain’t notchin’ their bows agin! Why, them red sons a’ bitches must be outta arrows.”

“Out or damn low,” Fargo agreed, watching the braves mount and ride to the east. “And I’m thinking they’re out of black powder for their rifles.”

“Does this mean they’ll give up the fight?” Blackford asked hopefully.

“They can’t. They’re bound by Hunt Law to kill us. By their way of looking at it, if we escape their entire tribe is cursed with bad fortune. No, this is one situation where they’ll die to the last man. And don’t forget, there’s still thirteen braves and who knows how many horses?”

“A Cheyenne don’t need arrows to join the battle.” Slappy chipped in. “They got battle-axes, war hatchets and lances. And them obsidian knives that cut right down to vitals quick as a blink.”

The three men crawled out from under the wagon. Fargo made sure the warriors weren’t doubling back before he called the women out. He lifted the saddles off Derek, who had escaped injury. The prisoner, his face still chalky with fear, tried to say something through his gag. Fargo dismissed him with a grunt.

“Slappy,” he said, “lemme see that shoulder.”