Slappy hurried forward, and the two Englishmen had climbed out of the coach. But Derek sat demurely on the seat of the mud wagon.
“What in blazes happened?” Aldritch demanded. “Did a savage get him?”
Fargo shook his head. “He’s been beaned—hard—on the back of his head. I’d say it was a rock.” He didn’t need to add, “Plenty of which are now close to hand
He stared at Derek. “You were right behind him. You must have seen something.”
Derek folded his arms across his massive chest. “The dumb bloke fell asleep. I saw him tumble off the seat. Even a blind man can see it was an accident, now, wasn’t it?”
“That’s hogwash,” Fargo said, still staring up at him. “The back of his head has been crushed like a stepped-on cake. But he fell face forward.”
“Don’t be daft,” Derek said dismissively. “The blighter landed on his back and bounced over. It’s a bloody long fall.”
“One big problem with that lie: If he landed on his back and bounced over, the wounds on his face wouldn’t be so serious.”
“So, now I’m a liar, is it? I’m going to enjoy pounding that fresh mouth of yours, Fargo.”
Fargo resisted a sudden impulse to draw down and blow the brain-sick bastard off the mud wagon. “It was the vote last night, wasn’t it, Derek? When Skeets voted to shoot you?”
Derek grinned. “Don’t be barmy, lad. Ask your salty friend Ebenezer if he saw me fling a rock. He was right behind me.”
Slappy looked guilty. “Fargo, I confess I was sleeping behind the reins. I didn’t wake up until one a’ the gals let out a scream.”
“There you are, mate,” Derek said briskly. “You have no witnesses, eh?”
“Sell your ass, you red-handed murderer.” Slappy bristled. “That rock didn’t get crapped out of a cloud. And you got the muscles to toss it hard.”
“Now, now,” Fargo said with false unction, “the man is right, Ebenezer. A man is innocent until proven guilty, and we can’t prove anything.”
“
Slappy sputtered with indignation. But Fargo took him aside and spoke low in his ear. Suddenly Slappy’s lips twitched into a grin.
“H’ar now,” he said to the rest, “’pears like I was a mite hasty. Ol’ Derek is right, we got no proof. Mayhap poor Skeets just nodded off to sleep and—Tumbledown Dick, off he went.”
“Surely, Mr. Fargo, you can’t believe that in the face of the evidence to the contrary?” Ericka objected. “Why, only look at the back of his head. It’s a clear case of cold-blooded murder.”
“We can’t prove it, Lady Blackford, and right now time is pressing. The main mile right now is to get as close to Fort Laramie as we can. The day is half over, and those Cheyenne braves are moving at a two:twenty clip to reach us.”
“Well, aren’t we at least going to give him a Christian burial?”
Fargo pulled at his beard, mulling it over. “Actually, ma’am, I thought me and Slappy would just pile some rocks over him. The cold weather has hardened the ground, and—”
“Ah, I see how it is.” Ericka cut him off. “Mr. Montoya deserved a real grave because he was an American. But poor Skeets is a foreigner, so rocks will suffice.”
Fargo heaved an impatient sigh. She failed to add that “poor Skeets” was the very reason they were all staring death in the eye. But Fargo was a fair man, and there was truth to her argument. Besides, he admired her immensely, and the disapproval in her pretty face was more than he could bear.
“Right you are,” he said in a poor English accent, and all three women laughed.
Slappy pulled the shovel out of the fodder wagon while Derek scrambled down off the mud wagon, unbuttoning his coat. “I’ll dig the grave,” he offered, staring at Fargo. “Good for my muscles.”
Derek made short work of the hard, flinty soil. Rebecca said a short prayer, and Brady “Skeets” Stanton became perhaps the first Brit to find eternal rest in the rugged Badlands.
“Derek,” Fargo said, “you’ll take over driving the coach. Aldritch, I’m afraid you’re going to have to become a teamster and drive the mud wagon.”
Aldritch popped his monocle into an eye socket and studied Fargo as if he were a talking dog. “I? Fargo, I cannot manage a team. I’ve had a coachman since childhood.”
“We can’t just desert the mud wagon—most of our supplies are in it, and besides, the coach could break down at any time in this rough terrain. We need the fodder wagon, too, so . . . well, take your pick, the mud wagon or the fodder wagon. The fodder wagon is easier to handle.”
Aldritch drew himself up, his face a mask of indignation. “Fargo, in England we practice strict social stratification. As Dr. Johnson so aptly phrased it to Boswell: ‘I believe in subordination, sir, as the proper friend of mankind.’ Perhaps in your country the gentrified class do manual labor, but it is strictly out of the question for an English gentleman.”
