“By God! And if we had enough ammo, they’d never lift our danders. Say, didja notice, in that last attack that killed Montoya, how the balls from them feather-head trade guns was just bouncing off the coach without penetratin’?”
Fargo chuckled. “Lucky for us most of the tribes still think that black powder is magic. They charge their pieces light so it’ll last longer. I once saw a Sioux shoot an antelope, and the ball hit it and then just dropped in the grass. But our problem ain’t their guns—it’s those damn osage bows. Chum, they don’t charge
“No, sir, and don’t matter how many of their arrows we pick up and snap in two, they can draw for plenty more. Say! Look at Derek.”
Fargo had been doing just that for some time. Despite tying off his mutilated ear, the Tyburn hangman had dried, crusted blood all over his left cheek. The cold and murderous eyes he turned toward Fargo made no mystery of his intentions.
“That bastard plans to piss on your grave,” Slappy remarked. “Can I shoot him?”
“Best hold off on that a mite. They say it’s a poor dog indeed that ain’t worth a bone.”
“Fargo!” Derek shouted over. “It’s not over, you hear me? You stole my best weapons, but not my fists! And my fists, you bloody wanker, are my most dangerous weapons!”
“The hell’s a wanker?” Slappy asked Fargo.
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it means what we call skinning the cat and flogging the hog.”
“Them yahoos sure does talk funny. You—”
“Derek!” Fargo suddenly shouted. “Look out!”
Busy staring down Fargo, Derek hadn’t noticed that the coach had drifted into the path of a jagged boulder. It suddenly lurched hard, rose like a clumsy beast, and then with a splintering crash sagged down in front, its axle snapped like a dry stick.
17
“Jesus Christ with a wooden dick!” Slappy sputtered. “Hell, I don’t credit my own eyes. Derek, why’n’t you just get you a clout and feather and join them red devils? I told you to kill him, Fargo. Out here, when you give an inch you lose an ell.”
“Give over, you old gas pipe,” Derek snarled. “I’ve a mind to dust your doublet.”
Slappy’s fingers tapped the wooden grips of his six-shooter. “This is a territory, not a state. I just need to make sure the bullet’s in the front, tea sipper.”
Blackford, Ericka, and Rebecca climbed out of the wildly tilting conveyance. The left front wheel had also snapped with the axle. They all stood shivering in the cold, their faces drawn tight with apprehension and annoyance.
“Derek, that was rather clumsy,” Blackford pronounced.
“Clumsy?” Slappy repeated in an astounded voice. “Clumsy is when you knock the sugar bowl off the table. The man just ruint a six-hundred-dollar coach with padded leather seats. Busted the whole shebang. Ain’t gonna be no repairs out here.”
“I said give over, you rotter!” Derek snapped.
“All right, simmer down,” Fargo said, kneeling to look under the coach. “Slappy’s right. The axle cracked clear along the grain, and we won’t be able to brace it. And we’d need a wheelwright to get this thing moving again. Move your stuff into the mud wagon, folks. You’ll have to toss some of the clothes and such. And, Earl, you’ll have to ride in the fodder wagon with Jessica. That team on the mud wagon is worn down to the nub.”
“That’s a bit of an affront,” Blackford said. “I
“If you got a better plan,” Fargo said, “toss it into the hotchpot. Would you prefer to make your wife or sister ride out in the open? It’s bad enough that Jessica has to.”
“Quite right,” Blackford agreed, giving up his complaint.
“What about the teams on the fancy coach?” Slappy asked.
“Won’t do ’em any harm if we hitch ’em to the back of the other two wagons. That way we’ll have a rested team for later.”
Fargo didn’t really care about these petty details—his eye was on Derek, who was edging toward the fodder wagon and the weapons cache.
“The thing of it is,” Slappy carped, “that coach was gonna be our best cover out on the flat. Hell, that mud wagon ain’t even got no sides to it. Now we’ll have to lie on our bellies and cover up with our backs.”
“Derek,” Fargo said evenly, “clear back from that fodder wagon. You get within spitting distance and I’m sending you over the range.”
“Big, brave man when you hold the guns,” Derek retorted. “Let’s knuckle up and show all these ladies just how bloody tough you are.”
Fargo ignored him and helped Slappy unhitch the team. They were losing valuable time. The humans were in bad enough shape, but the horses were even more done in. There was graze out on the plain and likely a natural tank or two. And Fargo hoped to be as close as possible to the fort before those Cheyennes struck.
