“I can’t express shock that Jessica would fling up her skirts for this man,” Aldritch lectured. “After all, they’re both of the common class. But your sister carries a noble title. If you have . . . country matters on your mind, at least cavort with a man who is worthy of you.”
“Would that be a man like you?” Fargo asked.
“Of course. I’m one of the richest men in England.”
“Well, there’s a good chance you’re going to become one of the deadest men in America. So get over your little peeve, poncy man, and think about how you might stay alive. What goes on between me and this lady ain’t none of your picnic, and if you butt in on us one more time you’ll be wearing your ass for a hat.”
* * *
With Fargo pushing them hard, the Blackford party pressed on toward the southwest and the safety of Fort Laramie. Knowing the Cheyenne war party under Touch the Clouds would soon return with a vengeance, Fargo was reluctant to stop for anything but “necessary trips” by the ladies.
By noon of the fourth day after Skeets shot the herd guard, the English travelers were in a scratchy mood, especially Derek the Terrible, Sylvester Aldritch, and Lord Blackford. Skeets drove the royals, Derek the mud wagon, and Slappy the fodder wagon. Fargo played the stern ramrod, forcing all of them to push their teams hard. He had noticed dark clouds piling up like boulders on the northern horizon, and in this crisp weather they foretold a blizzard, not thunderstorms.
“I say, Fargo,” Derek called down from the box, “we’d all like to tuck some hot food into our bellies. Why not call a halt so Ebenezer can make some of that johnnycake of his? These saleratus biscuits are bloody poison.”
Fargo shook his head. “Eating ain’t the main mile right now. We want those warriors as far behind us as we can put ’em.”
“How do you put it? Oh yes—‘I see now which way the wind sets.’ The truth is, you’re a hero in the shilling shockers but a sodding coward in real life. Afraid to fight me and so afraid of savages you won’t even let us have a decent morsel. And to think a lass as comely as Jessica let you tup her.”
Fargo glanced up at the hangman with his direct, penetrating gaze. He smiled his lips-only smile. “You dug your own grave,
Derek flashed his black and broken teeth. “Cor! Why, I’m so frightened I’ve just pissed me blooming trousers! Dame Rumor has it you’re sniffing around Rebecca now, looking for some more cunny. When you’ve run through the women, will you mount the mares?”
Slappy, driving close behind the mud wagon, had overheard this. “Tell you the straight, Derek,” he said, “I’ve got a yen for you. When you feel two hands on your shoulders, that’s me right behind you.”
“You filthy sodomite,” Derek growled as Fargo grinned and rode forward to the coach.
Rebecca’s pretty face flashed out at him. “I heard my name. What is that monster Derek saying about me now?”
“Just something he picked up from a spiteful man,” Fargo said, blue eyes boring into Aldritch.
“What is your opinion of this, Mr. Fargo?” Ericka asked him, passing one of her sketch pads out the window.
Fargo whistled in admiration. “Say, that’s fine work.”
It was a pen-and-ink sketch of Touch the Clouds astride his war horse, lance raised high, the medicine horns making him look especially fierce.
“But how did you get this pose?” Fargo asked. “I never saw him slow down once.”
“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I committed all the details to memory and drew it afterward. I used ink because there were too many details for charcoal. The quills in his moccasins, for example, and the bead embroidery on his . . . chaps?”
“Leggings,” Fargo corrected her.
“And might I ask, what are these small pouches each brave wears on his sash?”
“Medicine bundles. Whites call ’em medicine bags. Each clan has its own totem—claws, eagle feathers, shells, and such—they believe gives them power.”
Fargo studied the drawing intently. “I wonder what he’d say if he could see this.”
“Would that be after he scalps us or before?” Aldritch said in his usual ironic tone.
“I’m not certain he would believe it,” Ericka Blackford answered Fargo. “You see, this is representational art. Plains Indian art is primitive and symbolic without dimension or perspective—most know nothing of modern Western art and have never even seen it.”
Fargo pulled on the short hair of his beard, digesting this. “Do you mean . . . a Cheyenne might think this was big medicine, powerful magic?”
“Why, I never thought of it in those terms, but yes, perhaps that is so. I read an account of a Sioux chieftain who was shown a portrait of his wife painted by a French artist. He flew into hysterics believing his wife had been trapped in the canvas.”
“Hmm,” was all Fargo said.
“Speaking of the Sioux,” Skeets called down from the leather-covered seat, “are we still in their territory?”
