“That’s the way of it, old son, if we want it alive. Even if I pull that off without getting snakebit, we got the horses to fret. We’ll hobble them downwind, and maybe we can get the snake into this bag before they see it, but they’re bound to smell it once we set out. Rebecca gave me something to help with that, but it might not work. So keep a tight rein, and if you have to, make the bit cut deep to keep that sorrel from breaking.”
“Katy Christ, Fargo,” Slappy said, impatient nervousness edging into his tone, “ain’t there some easier way to scatter them Injin ponies? Why’n’t we just cut the rope corral and ki-yi ’em like them cow nurses in Texas do with cattle?”
“Ki-yi a cat’s tail. First off, that fool plan announces we’re there and gets us shot to sieves by arrows. Second, Indian horses are well trained, and they might run off a hundred yards or so, but they won’t panic and break. Only two things will scare the bejesus out of a horse and that’s a bear or a rattlesnake. You man enough to catch and toss a bear?”
When the horses were in place, Fargo took out a handkerchief and a bottle of French perfume Rebecca had lent him. He dampened one corner of the handkerchief and, speaking gently to calm the Ovaro, quickly swabbed each nostril with the rose-scented perfume. The stallion reacted violently, fighting the hobbles and snorting hard to blow out the stench.
Fargo treated the sorrel likewise, with the same results. Then, with Slappy holding the leather bag open, he returned to the clutch of rocks and dropped to his knees. Fargo hesitated a minute, gathering his courage, and then his right arm shot into the opening. He felt the snake immediately, a huge mass of coils, but failed to locate the deep poison pits that marked the head. With failure not an option, he rolled the dice and yanked the reptile out of its den.
“Christ, Fargo, you’ve got it near its tail!” Slappy shouted. “Drop the son of a bitch!”
And in fact the green-spackled rattler’s chiseled head was swinging toward Fargo’s throat. But because of the chill, the cold-blooded serpent was not reacting with its usual reflexes, and in a deft move Fargo brought his left hand up and grabbed it just behind the head in the nick of time to avoid feeling its fangs sink into his jugular.
Slappy measured out a loud sigh. “Fargo, you are the world-beatingest man. I got cold fingers squeezing my heart.”
“Me, too,” Fargo admitted. “But an empty hand is no lure for a hawk, eh? Quick, let’s get these rattles sliced off before our mounts hear them. This bastard is strong. Must be six feet long.”
Fargo had been suppressing the rattles by squeezing them tight with his left hand. Now Slappy gingerly took over that job while Fargo slid the Arkansas toothpick from its boot sheath. Fargo always kept the blade well honed, but even so it was like trying to cut through tough leather. Finally the rattles dropped off and Fargo threw the snake into the bag, quickly drawing it shut.
“Christ Almighty,” Slappy said, “it’s cold enough to see our breath and I’m sweatin’ like a coal miner.”
Fargo took a moment to orient by the polestar, and then both men hit leather and struck out to the northeast holding a long lope.
“I just thought of something,” Slappy called over. “That Ovaro of yours has the best nose for danger of any horse I ever knowed of. But you ruint it with that fancy toilet water.”
“No help for it,” Fargo replied. “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”
Slappy glanced at the leather bag tied to Fargo’s saddle horn. “Uh-huh, well, just ’cause we caught that snake don’t mean we can sneak up on an Injin camp.”
“Stow it, calamity howler. Like I said, it can’t be helped. If we don’t buy some time by scattering those horses, we’ll all be dead as dried herrings. If you got a better plan, trot it out.”
“Not just this minute, no.”
“Well, Ebenezer, if one comes to you, let me know.”
“Huh! Ebenezer is a powerful sight better than Percival,” Slappy grumped.
“It’s not so bad,” Fargo agreed. “Good, strong name. But I can see why you’d bobtail it to ‘Eb.’ How’d you get Slappy out of all that?”
“Seen it in a nickel novel and liked it. It’s a rare man out West what hangs on to his real name like you do. Was it your ma or pa that named you?”
“We’re jacking our jaws too much,” Fargo replied evasively. “Let’s just listen—there’s danger ahead.”
The weird and grotesque topography of the Badlands surrounded them everywhere, dark, monstrous forms looming at them. Now and then Fargo reined in to make sure they were following the right trail. The unshod hooves of the galloping Indian ponies had left clear prints in the brilliant moonlight.
After about an hour in the saddle, the two men rounded the base of a tall butte and spotted several fires sawing in the cold wind gusts. They reined in immediately and nudged their mounts behind a tumble of boulders. Remembering Fargo’s warning, Slappy spoke just above a whisper.
“There ain’t no trees around here. Where they gettin’ the wood for all them fires?”
