Badlands Bloodsport

“Ease off the man,” Fargo said. “Montoya’s insides are shot to hell from his bronco-busting days.”

Just then Fargo heard the rataplan of hooves. Two riders approached the camp, long guns resting across the bows of their saddles.

“Here’s the mighty hunters,” Slappy muttered.

Both men pushed their mounts right up to the fire, Skeets flashing his lipless grin at Fargo. “So only Daniel Boone here can locate the buffalo, eh? Bullshit! Chappies, don’t be fooled by his buckskin togs—this bloke is just for show. Skeets and me found enough buffalo to clear out Fleet Street.”

“Did you shoot any?” a curious Fargo asked.

At this both men exchanged foolish glances.

“Now, as to that,” Derek replied, “this fool here forgot the sodding powder flask.”

“You cheeky bastard!” Skeets Stanton exploded. “You said you had the bloody thing in your saddle pocket!”

Fargo exchanged amused glances with Montoya and Slappy. “Daniel Boone always had his powder,” Fargo told the Brits.

“Put a stopper on your gob, Fargo,” Derek growled, sliding clumsily off his gelding and tossing the reins to Montoya. Skeets followed suit. Both men reeked of liquor and had the flushed faces of men who’d been drinking a long time.

All the commotion had attracted Blackford and Aldritch. They came bustling toward the fire, Ericka Blackford following with her sketchpad.

“What cheer, lads?” Blackford called to the new arrivals.

“Buffalo, milord,” Skeets replied. “About two hours from camp, due north. It seems our vaunted frontiersman couldn’t spot them.”

“Oh, he told me about them,” Blackford said. “But he warned there are Cheyenne Indians with first dibs on the herd. Claims we’ll all be massacred if the savages see us anywhere near the herd.”

“That’s a bloody lie!” Derek the Terrible almost shouted.

“Derek,” Sylvester Aldritch reproved, nodding toward Ericka Blackford. “Be mindful of your tongue around a lady.”

“Sorry, mum,” Derek muttered.

“And another thing,” Lord Blackford chimed in, “I see no call to accuse Mr. Fargo of lying. I harbor some doubts as to his story, but that’s not the same as a lie.”

“Well, then he’s barmy, milord. We didn’t spot one Indian anywhere near this herd.”

Which meant, Fargo knew, that the Cheyennes somehow missed them up on that headland.

“Mr. Fargo?” a musical feminine voice said. “Would you kindly turn a bit more in the direction of the coaches?”

Ericka was rapidly sketching Fargo into her pad with charcoal. The fire flatteringly backlit her russet hair, braided over one shoulder, and softly lit her fair oval face. The smile she sent Fargo was not as obvious as those Jessica gave him, but the underlying message was the same.

“There are Indians near this herd,” Fargo said with finality. “Including a dangerous war chief named Touch the Clouds. He caught me spying in the area and warned me in no uncertain terms that his tribe will kill any palefaces they catch too near the herd.”

“Bosh,” Skeets said. “We spotted no redskins.”

“So I’m lying?” Fargo said quietly.

“Well, perhaps you spotted one of those red lubbers. And perhaps he uttered some threats. But come off it! Did Jonathan defeat the British to be ruled by flea-bitten savages?”

“Savage is the word,” Fargo agreed. “Savage as a meat axe. There are other herds free of Indian claim. It’s not worth the risk, especially with women along.”

“I say, that’s a point,” Blackford said. “We hired Fargo for his experience, and it’s best we rely on it.”

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” Sylvester Aldritch agreed reluctantly. “It’s best we move on.”

“But, Mr. Aldritch,” Derek protested, “Fargo has done a sorry job, so far, of leading us to buffalo. Now he’s finally found a scraggly herd, and lo! We may not touch them. I say it smells bad. Skeets and I will ride out tomorrow and get each of you gents a buffalo.”

“And after you shoot these buffalos,” Fargo interposed, “what will you do with them?”

Derek and Skeets stared at each other, then at Fargo.

“Why . . . how do you mean?” Skeets replied. “We’ll take the fur, of course. Lord Blackford and Mr. Aldritch want buffalo robes. We have skinning knives.”

“Fur? A fox has fur. And it’s not skin you need to do battle with, it’s hide. Thick, tough hide that’s like cutting leather. It can take two days to hide a buff, and then the work really starts. It has to be staked out and every last gobbet of flesh scraped from it. Then, if you want a soft hide to use as a robe, it has to be cured with salt water or it’ll turn stiff as a board. The job is so tough that even professional hiders work in teams. No offense, but two men who’ve never done it before will botch the job.”

“Fargo,” Sylvester Aldritch said in his special “Fargo tone,” “why didn’t you mention any of this when we hired you?”

“Well, at the money you’re paying, I intended to help with all of it. Slappy has experience, too.”

“Blast it to hell! So you’re saying you won’t help if it involves this particular herd?”