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She washed her flat, creamy stomach, rinsed, and then sat on a boulder and opened her thighs wide, still watching Fargo. His rigid manhood ached and pulsed now as he gazed at the nooks and crannies and folds of her sex. It was soon clear that she was more than “washing” as she rubbed herself vigorously, the pink tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips. Her eyes closed to slits, her hand moved faster, and suddenly Fargo saw her entire body shudder as she took herself over.

“Girl, it’s gonna happen,” Fargo promised her in a husky voice, and the Ovaro pricked up his ears. “You don’t let a man see that and figure he’ll just take it in stride.”

Rebecca dried herself off, dressed, and Fargo reluctantly shifted his eyes forward again. These gals born under the Union Jack, he told himself, were more wanton than he’d expected. But in his experience most women kicked over the traces when they were far from home—things they’d never do at home were fair game in a foreign country. Even Ericka Blackford, Her Ladyship with her husband at her side, flirted shamelessly with Fargo.

All this led Fargo to a sobering reality: that made three men who were jealous of him, and at least one was shooting mad. Make it two, then, because come hell or high water, after what Fargo had witnessed just now, he would make the two-backed beast with the fetching Rebecca.

Fargo, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion, wheeled the Ovaro and gigged him back toward camp. Slappy was busy rustling up a spot of grub.

“Any trouble brewing up?” he asked Fargo.

“I didn’t spot anything, but you can count on trouble, old son.”

“It’s only midday. Them red Arabs are fond to foolishness of follow-on attacks.”

Fargo nodded. “Can you hitch these teams?” he asked.

“Used to, I couldn’t tell a singletree from a tug chain. But I helped Montoya a few times and I reckon I can puzzle it out.”

“All right. Montoya was a good hand with horseflesh. I guess the two of us will have to take over the wrangling. Those Brits are all right at jumping a horse over a four-railer, but they let their grooms handle ’em.”

Slappy, busy stirring the cornmeal mush, spoke without raising his voice. “Fargo, glom your back trail.”

Fargo glanced over his shoulder. Derek the Terrible was watching him from atop the fancy coach. Although his muzzle wasn’t pointed toward Fargo, his Sharps rested across his forearms.

Fargo said, “Something on your mind?”

“Oh, there’s always something on my mind,” Derek assured him. “But you can’t hang a bloke for his thoughts, eh?”

“Seems like you would know, hangman,” Fargo replied.

“Aye, Derek the Terrible was a fine hangman,” he boasted to Fargo. “I sent more than a thousand filthy buggers across the Thames, I did. And when I hanged them they stayed hanged. Nobody flopping around like a chicken with its head lopped off.”

“Nothing wrong with taking pride in your work,” Fargo conceded. “But you’re not the executioner anymore.”

Derek flashed blackened teeth in a hideous smirk. “To quote the tupper of maids, opinions vary on that.”

Fargo shook his head. “No, they don’t. Not while I’m the ramrod here.”

Derek had opened his mouth to speak when Slappy cut in. He pointed northeast. “Look, Fargo!”

Fargo looked toward the horizon and saw a yellow-brown dust cloud billowing up. Since there was no wind, it could only mean one thing.

“Best push that mush aside,” he told Slappy, “and wake everybody up. Here they come again, and they’re bound to have a surprise for us.”

10

Fargo was right about the surprise except that there were two of them.

The Cheyenne did not change their battle tactic of staying out of easy firing range and racing in charges north to south past the beleaguered white men. But although they had no knowledge of “germ theory”—a radical new notion ridiculed even among white men—they had learned well about the potent powers of putrefaction. To this end they stole swine from white men whenever they could. They had discovered that swine feces, smeared on the tip of a knife or arrow, could bring swift, screaming death even with the slightest penetration under the skin.

As arrows began to thuck into the mud wagon, Fargo smelled the foul stench and realized what was afoot. One struck only inches from his face, and he watched the arrow quiver for a few seconds with its suddenly interrupted energy.

“The arrows are contaminated!” he bellowed above the yipping din of the attack. “Poison! Cover down good!”

The situation was doubly hazardous because most arrows could not simply be pulled from the body as could a knife or lance. If they were embedded deep, the only recourse was to force the point through the other side because of the shape of the arrow point. That would drive the poison even deeper into the body and cause a virulent infection that could kill in mere hours.