For all these reasons Fargo cursed aloud as he jacked a round into the Henry’s chamber. At the blurring rate Cheyenne arrows were raining in, there would soon be hits for score. That meant precious ammo would have to be expended at a furious pace.
“Skeets, Derek!” he roared out. “Slappy! Horse or man, drop ’em
The Henry kicked over and over as Fargo fired into the swirling dust, trying to lead and hit his targets. The two Big Fifty rifles pounded like cannons, while Slappy fired slower with his breechloading Springfield. Fargo briefly debated calling Aldritch and Lord Blackford out to join the battle, but decided against it—those weapons and ammo had to be kept as an emergency reserve.
Fargo had repositioned the horses for better cover, but nonetheless a nerve-rattling equine cry rose as an arrow threaded its way through obstacles and punched deep into the flank of the little strawberry roan reserved for the women. The animal was past saving, and Fargo feared the mare’s piercing cries might scatter the rest. Cursing at the loss of a bullet, he shot it through the head.
The increased rate of fire from the whites, however, was having some effect. Several braves had been wiped out of the buffalo-hide saddles, and Fargo could see at least two Indian mustangs down. Touch the Clouds blew a signal on his eagle-bone whistle, and Fargo hoped they were retreating. Instead, they only faded farther back out of range of their enemy.
As they did Fargo recognized the second nasty surprise: an ingenious Cheyenne invention known as the exploding arrow.
“Katy Christ!” Slappy shouted. “Them red devils’re using flaming arrows! The fodder wagon’s burning!”
Fargo knew better. Fire arrows could not be launched at this distance or the flames would be blown out. The Cheyennes had figured out how to lash rifle cartridges to an arrow tip with sinew after first prying off the bullet. A small wad of beeswax held the powder load in. When the arrow impacted, the tip punched into the percussion cap and ignited the powder. They often failed, but Fargo had seen them start fires.
The fodder had to be saved if they were to make it out of the arid Badlands. Fargo risked full exposure to beat the flames out with his hat. An arrow streaked past his face so close that the fletching razored the bridge of his nose.
More exploding arrows thwacked into the sides of the japanned coach and the mud wagon, but Fargo ignored them. Both conveyances were treated with creosote and unlikely to catch fire.
“Fargo!” Skeets called from the top of the fancy coach. “I’m down to a handful of reloads. Those bloody buggers are moving closer again!”
“We’ll have to settle for horses!” Fargo shouted back. “They’ve got plenty more in reserve, but if we kill enough now they’ll have to double up and leave the field. Slappy, Derek, put at the horses—it’s our only chance.”
All four shooters opened up with urgent purpose, dropping horse after horse. Soon, as Fargo had predicted, Touch the Clouds led his men to the northeast after gathering up their dead.
Once again Fargo tacked the Ovaro and rode out on the warriors’ trail, making sure they weren’t doubling back. By the time he returned, Derek stood before Slappy with his big fists doubled. “You worthless old wanker, I’ve a mind to dust your doublet.”
“Go piss up a rope, you wharf rat!”
Fargo swung down and tossed the reins forward. “The hell is this? You two didn’t get enough fight just now?”
“This skunk-bit coyote,” Slappy said, glowering at Derek, “is up to his murdering tricks! I caught him drawing a bead on you during the fight. When he seen me lookin’, he swung his muzzle back out onto the redskins.”
“He’s barmy,” Derek replied. “I was aiming at a savage.”
“You lying, pan-faced, shit-eating groat! You been scheming how to douse Fargo’s wick ever since him and Jessica . . .” Slappy glanced at the women. “Well, ever since him and Jessica.”
“P’r’aps if I box your ears you’ll walk your chalk, you worthless sack of suet.”
“Both of you come down off your hind legs,” Fargo cut in. “You’re slapping at gnats while tigers eat us alive. The next time those Cheyenne braves attack, we’ll have to toss rocks to keep them back.”
Rebecca looked as if she’d been drained by leeches. “Will they come back today, Skye?”
“I doubt it. The sun will be setting in about an hour. Is everyone all right?”
“Just scared witless,” Rebecca said. “Are we really and truly down to rocks?”
“It’s almost that bad,” Fargo admitted. “I want every man to count his bullets and give me the total. Aldritch, you and the earl will have to turn over your weapons. I want them in the hands of our best shooters.”
“Quite sound,” Blackford agreed. “That would be you and Skeets.”
“What about the hangman here?” Slappy interposed. “All he can shoot off is his mouth.”
Derek the Terrible took a step toward Slappy. “Hear! You’ll come off it, you old whoreson, or I’ll pound you to a grease stain.”
“Ease off,” Fargo snapped. “He’s twice your age.”
