“You’re young and hale,” Derek said to Fargo. “Would you care to stand in for him?”
“If we make it to Fort Laramie,” Fargo promised, “you’ll be hearing harps. Until then all personal grudges are accounts payable.”
“Ah yes, by the street of by and by, we’ll arrive at the house of never. All this delay is for the sake of the women, is it, Sir Lancelot? Hiding behind petticoats doesn’t make you half a coward, now, does it?”
Ericka gave Derek a solemn look. “You needn’t pile on the insults, Derek. Mr. Fargo realized long ago that he is going to have to kill you. You haven’t the slightest idea what manner of man you are insulting and threatening.”
“Respectfully, milady, don’t be daft. I thought only Jessica had taken his hook. I can kill the frontier ‘widow maker’ here with one good blow.”
“He was a better man than you,” Rebecca interjected, “before he was even shaving.”
“Before he was in long trousers,” Jessica added.
Derek leered at her. “Or
“Fargo,” put in Aldritch, impatiently changing the subject, “we are nearly out of ammunition and still days away from Fort Laramie. Isn’t it time for the wit-and-wile business you mentioned, what?”
“Long past time,” Fargo agreed. “And I’m going to start tonight.”
* * *
By late afternoon a dry-weather sandstorm had blown in from the old Spanish land-grant country of the southwest, and Fargo knew they were safe from any more attacks that day. Derek and Skeets had set up one of the tents for the women, Blackford, and Aldritch.
Then they had sheltered in the fancy coach, Derek constantly watching Fargo where he sat with his back to a wheel of the mud wagon.
“Just a nip to wash your teeth,” Slappy said, handing Fargo a bottle of forty-rod.
Fargo knocked back a slug, grimacing as the cheap, potent whiskey set his throat and stomach on fire. “Christ! That’s panther piss.”
Fargo turned to look at Derek. Once again the hangman’s glance touched him and quickly slid away. Fargo pulled down his hat against the swirling, stinging dust. Slappy had tied a neckerchief around his nose and mouth.
“That Derek is built solid as a granite block,” Slappy remarked. “Jessica told me that back in England he lifts sandbags every day to keep his muscles strong.”
“The man’s a farmer’s bull,” Fargo agreed, raising his voice above the howling wind. “And what they call a pugilist. That’s a thirty-five-cent word for a man who uses a system to fistfight.”
“Uh-huh. So you best not get into a dustup with him. Just shoot the son of a buck or carve out his heart with your toothpick—you’re damn good with a blade, Fargo.”
“Oh, these old boys who double up their fists and dance around like they got red ants in their drawers don’t spook me none. One good roundhouse right followed by a haymaker will teach him about frontier brawling. Slappy, our bacon is in the fire, and we got to pay attention to things that matter most. You’re building a pimple into a peak.”
“Fargo, you been grazing peyote? That tea-sippin’ neck-stretcher
“He’s pee doodles compared to the Cheyenne braves who are sworn to torture and scalp every one of us. Slappy, if I have to I’ll just jerk it back and kill Derek for cause. We’re under territorial law here, and he forfeited his rights when he threatened to kill me. I’ve made some allowance for the fact that he’s an ignorant foreigner, but he’s on a short tether.”
“Fargo, get shut of them blinders! He ain’t just threatened to kill you, he’s put you under the gun—I seen it.”
“All right, I agree. But aiming a weapon and firing it are two different animals. I’m telling you he ain’t the main mile right now—any one of those Cheyenne braves makes Derek look like a schoolboy with a peashooter. There’s only one of him but a shit house full of braves.”
Slappy rubbed his chin, mulling it over. “All that shines, Fargo. How many feather-heads are we fightin’?”
“That’s got me treed. They ride so fast, and kick up so much dust, it’s nigh on to impossible to get a count. I think we’ve killed five or six, seriously wounded a few more. There’s at least a dozen still able-bodied, maybe more.”
“Do they hold a reserve force?”
Fargo shook his head. “A Cheyenne war leader has limited power over his men. They’re not like the white man’s army. All the braves want to join a battle—there’s no glory or coup feathers in holding back, and a brave without coup feathers can’t even get married. It’s likely, though, they brought a good-sized pony herd with them and there’s a small handful of braves standing herd guard.”
“Uh-huh. So, what’s your big plan for tonight?”
Fargo grinned wickedly. “That would be
“Now, hold your horses, Trailsman. My shining times are long behind me. Hell, I been slinging hash for the last ten years. You know my calves are gone to grass.”
