Badlands Bloodsport полностью

“Depends where we are when it comes. I figure we’ll be out of the Badlands sometime tomorrow afternoon. That’ll put us on the open plains. If they hit us before we reach the plains, there’s a chance we can use the natural cover like we did for the last attack. And if we hoard our bullets, we might manage to drive them off one last time with our barking irons.”

Slappy nodded. “I take your drift. If they attack on the open plains, we’ll be like ducks on a fence and our ammo won’t hold.”

Fargo, busy gnawing a hunk off a heel of cold pone, nodded. “There might be another fly in the ointment. They might not trail us through the Badlands at all but swing just south of us across the open plains and cross our trail out in the open.”

“Uh-huh, meaning no natural cover. We’d be exposed like bedbugs on a clean sheet.”

Fargo gave him a weak grin. “Which is it, chum, bedbugs or ducks? But no matter how you slice it, I figure there’ll be at least two more attacks before we’re close enough to the fort to scare ’em off. And there ain’t enough ammo for two skirmishes.”

“Like old Montoya use to always say: Man proposes, but God disposes. It’s the damnedest thing—Montoya told me about this church down near Santa Fe. They got one whole wall covered with the crutches of crippled men what went there and prayed to be cured.”

“Crutches, huh? How many wooden legs did he see?”

Slappy gaped in confused astonishment. Fargo gave him a weary grin and nudged the Ovaro forward.

“Say, Davy Crockett!” Derek called down from the box of the mud wagon. The scornful twist of his mouth showed his contempt. “How was Rebecca? She didn’t squeal like a pig as Jessica did—p’r’aps the smell coming off you bothers the skirts from the better classes?”

Jessica’s curly head poked out of the mud wagon. “The only pig in this group, Mr. Wyler, is you. Your very name is gall and wormwood to me! I shall hire a band when Fargo kills you.”

“That bloody tongue of yours was pickled in vinegar, now, wasn’t it?” Derek replied. “You just mind your pints and quarts, lass, or I’ll box your ears for you. The worm will turn—when you see me beat your buckskin hero to a bloody pulp, you’ll be hiking your skirts for me. And by the Lord Harry I will roger you roundly—a better pumping than Fargo gave you, I’ll warrant.”

Jessica’s face turned to Fargo in the moonlight and she sighed. She mouthed the word impossible. Fargo doffed his hat.

He rode forward alongside the japanned coach. “How’s the team holding, Skeets?”

“The calico gelding is lugging as if he’s spavined. Only three are pulling. The calico won’t make it through the night, I shouldn’t think.”

“The short water ration isn’t helping,” Fargo said. “I hate to do it, but we may have to spell the horses for a couple of hours.”

Skeets lowered his voice. “Fargo, a word to the wise—don’t be so sure that Derek intends to wait until we reach Fort Laramie before he pounces. That clod-pole wants to hear you roar like a hog under the blade.”

“Clod-pole? I figured you two for friends. You were sure’s hell working as a team when you left me tied up on the plains.”

“That was before you and Jessica had your bit of fun. After that—cor!—the man turned into a bloody lunatic. They’ll make cheese out of chalk before he lets you make it to the fort alive—he’s afraid to kill you there knowing how much soldiers admire you.”

“You think he’s really harebrained enough to kill me while we’ve got warpath Indians on our spoor?”

Skeets turned his lipless face toward Fargo in the milky moonlight. “Fargo, he’s an angry bull and you’re his red rag. That bull doesn’t care about the slaughterhouse just ahead of him—he just wants that red rag. You just be careful of that skull-struck fool.”

“I plan to,” Fargo assured him, “but why this sudden concern about my hide?”

Skeets snorted. “Is your piece charged? You’re the only bloke among us who understands these flea-ridden aborigines. If Derek puts you with your ancestors, my guts will end up as tepee ropes.”

It sounded like an honest answer and Fargo accepted it in silence. Skeets wouldn’t likely end up as tepee ropes—horsehair ropes were far easier to fashion—but there was a good chance the men’s scrotums would end up as kinnikinnick pouches, their teeth as dice, their skulls as stew bowls, and their scalps as capes. The Cheyennes never wasted a part of the buffalo, and they were just as practical with white men.

“Another thing,” Skeets added, “don’t be fooled by all of Derek’s blowing off about beating you to death with his fists. He’s the lad can do it, all right, but he fears you’d give him a merry time of it, and he’s heard all the talk about that toothpick in your boot. He carries a two-shot over-and-under inside his coat, a Brasher. Both barrels fired together could drop a dray horse.”

Before Fargo could reply, the offside calico gelding Skeets had mentioned stumbled in the traces. Reluctantly Fargo called a two-hour halt.