“Buffalo chips,” Fargo said. “They collect them out on the plains every time they can just like you do. Look, you can see the ponies just to the right of the camp. They’ve made the usual rope corral with stakes at the four corners. There’ll be guards out. We can’t leave our horses this far back. Once the whoop goes up, they’ll run us down—Cheyennes like to bet on footraces, and they’re the fastest runners among the tribes.”
“But what about the Wendigo? Will they run off into the dark?”
“As long as they can see those campfires, they’ll chase an enemy. And if I manage to scatter their horses, those braves will be mad as badgers in a barrel.”
Fargo licked a finger and held it up to determine the direction of the wind.
“I don’t like this,” he finally announced. “Those gusts are coming from several directions. If I can’t stay downwind of those horses, the white-man smell will set them off and warn the feather-heads.”
“Mebbe we best shit-can the whole plan.”
Fargo shook his head. “We can’t, old son. Time is on the wing. I don’t think we can survive one more attack tomorrow. Not as low as our ammo is.”
“I can’t gainsay that,” Slappy said. “We’re caught twixt a stampede and a flood. How we gonna work this deal?”
“I’m a simple man and I favor simple plans. We’ll muzzle our horses and blindfold ’em to calm them. Their nostrils should still be full of the perfume smell, so they shouldn’t whiff the herd. We’ll lead them closer—see that little ridge overlooking the camp? You’re going to wait there with the horses. But we
While Fargo spoke he had sat on the ground to yank off his boots. “Reach into my left saddle pocket,” he told Slappy, “and hand me my scouting shoes.”
“Well, I’m a Dutchman!” Slappy said moments later. “You can’t mean these damn fool contraptions?”
He pulled out two oddly shaped, sponge-and-leather shoes.
“Nothing foolish about them, chum. I had them made by the sutler down at Fort Defiance. With these on I can catch a weasel asleep. C’mon—let’s see if I can’t get you killed.”
* * *
Fargo moved low and fast, the leather bag heavy in his left hand. He’d left his Henry in his saddle scabbard, knowing damn good and well he wouldn’t shoot his way out of this one. These were not drunken vigilantes looking to fit a man for a California collar—they were warriors trained from childhood to fend off attacks, and they would protect their horses like a she-grizz defending her cubs.
Fargo had spotted one herd guard walking slowly around the rope corral. He could hear, on sudden gusts of wind, snatches of conversation from the camp. Fargo timed his movements with the wind, but at the moment that very wind was his worst enemy—he could feel it on his face, shifting directions.
Bent low, he moved in closer, feeling his heart pounding in his ears. He was about twenty yards out with his Arkansas toothpick in his right hand—he meant to slice the rope first and then quickly toss the bag into the midst of the horses. The drawstring was loose and the angry reptile would immediately emerge. Horses had not only a keen sense of smell but excellent night vision—all it needed was one mustang to spot or smell the rattler and the alarm would go up.
It was all clear in Fargo’s mind. He waited for the guard to pass by in front of him, and the moment he did Fargo scuttled forward to carry out his plan. But ten yards or so from the rope, disaster struck when the wind suddenly shifted and gusted from behind him.
The mustangs caught his scent—the dreaded stench of the enemy—and began to whicker and mill. This brought the herd guard back to Fargo’s side of the corral, where he spotted the intruder immediately. He raised his stone-tipped lance and Fargo cursed, realizing his hand was forced. He shucked out his Colt, thumbed it to full-cock, and drilled the guard through the heart, sending him to the ground in an ungainly heap.
Yipping cries and war chants rose from the nearby camp, and Fargo’s every instinct told him the die was cast—his only chance was to flee now. But that would only delay the inevitable cruel fate to come, and he took the extra few seconds to slash the rope and pitch the bag into the midst of the agitated horses. Even as he turned to flee, however, the first arrows and lances sought his vitals.
Elbows and knees pumping like pistons, he bolted toward the ridge. The fleet braves were right on his heels, raising a bloodcurdling clamor. Without looking back, Fargo fired his Colt over his shoulder, but it had little effect on the fired-up warriors.
“Slappy!” he shouted. “Spark your powder!”
The thundering boom of both barrels of the scattergun halted his pursuers, and Fargo made it to the ridge unscathed. By then the mustangs had detected the snake and were scattering to the four directions.
