Badlands Bloodsport

While Slappy took advantage of the lull in hostilities to butcher out meat and cook a meal, Fargo stood constant sentry. Field glass in hand, he traversed the plains in a constant circle, knowing the Cheyennes could attack from any direction.

He saw grama and buffalo grass as far as the eye could see, so high in places that it bent in rhythmic waves when the chilly wind gusted. No trees, no bushes, just “the broad frontier of the westward movement” as one ink slinger had aptly phrased it. What defined America, beyond the critical rainfall line of the hundredth meridian, was the lack of rivers—not only their great distance from one another, but the lethal fact that most of them dried up by summer’s end, spelling untold misery for ignorant pilgrims.

But Fargo knew, as he maintained his wary vigilance, that this country was hardly the Great American Desert marked on maps. The lack of trees did not discourage ground-nesting birds such as sharp-tailed grouse, scaled quail, and prairie chickens, which he spotted in abundance. And the huge dens of rattlesnakes found plentiful prey in the ground squirrels, prairie dogs, and pocket gophers. Fargo even spotted a jackrabbit as tall as his thigh.

“Any sign of danger yet?” Ericka’s voice startled him from behind.

“Nothing yet. But they won’t waste much time in returning.”

“I’ve guessed your plan, of course. I think it’s terribly clever. But can it work?”

“There’s a mort of ifs and ands to it, lady.”

Her fluid, impulsive lips eased into a smile, lighting up her weary face. “‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans, the world would need no tinkers.’”

Fargo lowered the glass and grinned back at her. “Uh-huh. The first if is Touch the Clouds—can I lure him in to parley? If I can wangle that, what if he isn’t fooled? He spent a few years with those trappers before he got away—if they had any, whatchacallit, rep—represent—”

“Representational art.”

“Yeah. Anyhow, if they had any and he saw it, well, you’re too smart to need it spelled out.”

She sighed, brushing a renegade strand of hair from her eyes. Even exhaustion and fear could not blunt the classical beauty of her face.

“Yes. To employ your colorful parlance, I take your drift. Skye, why can there be no meeting of the minds between red men and whites? Oh, I’m no Pollyanna who thinks they can live side by side in harmony. But why must they try to exterminate each other?”

“I’ve puzzled that question out for most of my life. The best I can figure, the white man’s stick floats one way, the red man’s another. The paleface believes the land belongs to him. The land and nature must be whipped into submission. The Indian believes he belongs to the land. He believes it should be left as he finds it. Figures he has to live in harmony with nature and the seasons.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “And you are closer to the Indian’s perspective, are you not?”

“I tend that way, but I admit I’m a hypocrite. I like a fancy hotel now and then, and canned peaches, and good liquor. You can’t get things like that living like an Indian. Besides, they can be hypocrites, too. I’ve seen them chop down entire trees just to get a few nuts at the top, and some lazy tribes will run an entire herd of buffalo over a cliff just to slaughter a few. But it’s the land that matters most, and the white man is the biggest threat to it.”

Fargo made another slow rotation with his field glass. When he looked at Ericka again, she was watching him with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Something on your mind?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, rather, but don’t get your hopes up—it’s not exactly what you think. I have a bit of a plan—if we survive this ordeal and if you’re agreeable.”

“I’m usually agreeable as all get-out with pretty ladies like you.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’ve noticed. But this . . . surprise I have in mind is quite different, I’m sure, from any request you’ve had hitherto from any woman.”

“I think I like where this trail is headed, but it’s a poser. What’s your surprise?”

She neatly sidestepped his question. “If I ask you here and now, you’ll likely refuse. I need to get you into a more . . . conducive setting.”

Slappy’s gravel-pan voice shouted, “Grub pile! Hot steak fresh off the hoof!”

“This was just getting interesting,” Fargo said.

“Yes,” she agreed, “wasn’t it?”

22

Slappy’s prediction was right: Dire hunger and the tempting smell of hot meat overcame the English aversion to eating horses. Lord Blackford sopped up the last of the savory drippings with a hunk of stale saleratus bread.

“Mr. Hollister,” he proclaimed, “I have dined in the most fashionable chop houses in London. But I have never enjoyed any meal so much as this one. My compliments to the chef.”

“If compliments means money, I’ll take it.”

“I dearly wish we had some water,” Jessica complained. “I’m thoroughly parched.”