Badlands Bloodsport

“There’s water somewhere around here,” Fargo said, standing up to study the terrain with his field glass. “I’ve spotted plenty of small animals and birds, so there’s prob’ly a natural tank in the area. But we can’t look for it just now—our friends are coming back.”

His words startled everyone into a long silence. Then Lord Blackford spoke. “I say, how are they kitted out?”

“Unfortunately for us, damn good. They musta held mustangs in reserve—every brave is mounted. And most have arrows in their quivers. But on the good side of the ledger, they’re coming in at a trot, not a run. They mean to wait us out, not attack us.”

“How far out?” Slappy asked.

“They’ll be close in maybe thirty minutes. Ericka, let’s talk in the mud wagon.”

“Now, see here, Fargo,” Blackford protested. “You can’t—”

“Come down off your hind legs, Earl. ‘Talk’ is all I intend.”

Slappy couldn’t resist a dig at His Percyship. “Don’t fret none, milord, unless that wagon commences to rockin’.”

“Slappy, sew up your lips,” Fargo snapped. “These folks aren’t bull-whackers.”

“Well, I ain’t no elephant, neither, so what’s your point?”

Fargo dismissed him with a wave and retreated into the mud wagon with Lady Blackford for a ten-minute confab. When he stepped out, one of her sketches, mounted in pasteboard, was tucked under his arm. She remained behind in the wagon.

“Fargo, what’s the grift?” Slappy called out curiously.

Fargo ignored him, walking over to the fodder wagon to retrieve a long piece of wood he had snapped off the doubletree when the japanned coach was abandoned. Derek the Terrible said something unintelligible through his gag.

“Could be that old worm is about to turn, Derek,” Fargo told him cheerfully. “Just like you promised. If you believe in a Great Spirit, I suggest you get cozy with him mighty damn quick.”

Fargo walked over to join the others.

“Fargo, damn your bones, what’s on the spit?” Slappy demanded.

“You’ll all see the play soon enough,” Fargo promised. He handed the sketch to Slappy.

“Hell ’n furies, it’s Touch the Clouds, the heap big battle chief. Fine work, too. You aim to pull a flimflam on him with this?”

“Never mind. Handle this careful like, old son. Keep the drawing side turned in toward you until I ask for it. Rebecca,” he added, “would you mind sacrificing that pretty red scarf to the cause?”

“Of course not, Skye, but what—”

“You heard the man,” Slappy groused, shooting daggers at Fargo. “We ain’t fitten to know what his big play is. Him and Lady Blackford is the big nabobs.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lord Blackford snapped, surprising a grin out of Fargo. “I believe we owe the Trailsman our trust. I trust my wife also.”

“This gets my money,” was all Slappy said, shutting up as ordered.

Fargo lifted his right foot high enough to snatch the Arkansas toothpick from its sheath. He began whittling one end of the wood into a point.

“Ladies,” he said to Jessica and Rebecca, “don’t hide under the wagon this time. Stand right out in the open with Lord Blackford, and don’t look scared. Fear is weakness, and these warriors despise weakness in men or women. Set your lips hard and stare right at them, but don’t move a muscle.”

Fargo finished whittling the wood and flipped it around to tie the scarf on the other end with a short rawhide whang.

“Why, that’s a parley pole!” Slappy blurted out, alarm tightening his voice. “Fargo, has your brain come unhinged? You try to palaver with them red devils, they’ll sink air shafts through you.”

“You best hope not, on account you’re going out with me.”

A rare thing happened—Slappy was struck speechless. “Drop your gun belt,” Fargo added, unbuckling his own. “If we go out there armed, they’ll kill us for sure.”

Slappy muttered under his breath, but followed suit, dropping his rig atop Fargo’s. “Skye, I sure’s hell hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” Fargo said, walking east to meet the inevitable trouble. “Brother, so do I.”

 * * * 

Fargo rammed the parley pole into the ground and he and Slappy stood on opposite sides of it, shading their eyes to watch the line of braves move closer in the midday sun. Both men thrust their right hands into the air, palms forward, sign talk that they held no weapons.

“Fargo, happens you get me kilt,” Slappy said, “I’ll hunt you down in hell.”

“I’ll likely be there,” Fargo replied. “But they’ll kill us anyway, and I never fold if I can take a chance on a wild card.”

“That shines,” Slappy agreed grudgingly. “You never was one to sit and twiddle your thumbs. But I’m pure-dee clemmed if I can figure your play.”

“Stop your damn caterwauling,” Fargo said. “Those three gals back there ain’t showing yellow. Why should you? You’ll savvy the play soon enough, but don’t shoot yourself in the foot. Just stand there with a granite face and hand me that sketch when I ask for it.”

“A’course, but why the hell do you even need me out here? You can hold the damn thing.”