Rifles and pistols popped from the direction of the river. Hooves thudded in the east. Several braves threw war lances or loosed arrows; several more dropped as slugs plunked into their chests or bellies. The others, taken by surprise, and unprepared for battle, followed the brunt of the crowd south and west through the willows and cottonwoods, fleeing enemy fire.
As one lone, stubborn brave loosed an arrow eastward before clutching his neck and dropping, the hoof thumps rose from that direction, and a horseback rider appeared, galloping into the sphere of tossing firelight. The Trailsman’s saddled pinto followed the bearded, buckskin-clad rider, led by its reins, its tail high, eyes flashing.
Fargo blinked through the smoke and flames stabbing up in front of him as Prairie Dog Charley drew his dun to a halt before the fire and, tossing a brass bugle out of his hands, leaped out of the saddle like a kid half his age. He ran up to the fire, slitting his eyes in their doughy sockets, regarding the fire warily.
“Forget it!” Fargo shouted. “You’ll never make it through the flames, Dog. Do us a favor and give us each a bullet!”
“I didn’t go to all this trouble fer nuthin’, God-blast it!”
Looking around, Prairie Dog grabbed a fallen lance and began thrusting it into the flames, shoveling aside the burning logs and branches. He leaped back as flames shot out at him, soot and sweat bathing his round, bearded face, then bolted forward once more to continue carving a path through the conflagration.
Flames leaped up around the Trailsman’s bare legs, and he winced at the burn, the smoke now funneling up his nostrils like thick pepper, searing his eyes and lungs.
Behind him, Valeria coughed and sobbed. “Oh, God,” she cried. “I’m
“Not if I have anything to say about it, honey!”
Prairie Dog threw down the lance, grabbed the big bowie off his left hip and, bellowing like a wild man, leaped through the slim corridor he’d carved in the dancing flames. Eyes slitted, coughing, he hacked at the rope coiled around the pole, starting at the top and working down.
When he’d cut through the bottommost coil, he yelled, “There!” and grabbed the girl’s right arm. As he pulled her back through the corridor sheathed in flames, Fargo pushed away from the stake, ripping the severed ropes away from his body.
He turned to follow Prairie Dog and Valeria, but the flames closed the corridor, erasing Prairie Dog’s buckskin-clad back. Peering left, he saw a slight break in the flames and, roaring like a lion about to lunge for freedom, dove through the thickening wall of fire and coiling black smoke.
He hit the ground outside the fire ring, worms of smoke curling up from his shoulders, feeling like a charred shank of venison, smelling the fetor of his own charred hair and eyebrows. He’d fallen just right of Iron Shirt’s slumped form. Shaking his head and blinking the smoke from his watering eyes, he bounded up onto his heels and looked around.
To his left, Prairie Dog had dropped to a knee, extending his Colt revolver. Flames lanced from the barrel as the Colt barked and leaped in his hand. Amidst the willows, a shadow fell, but more braves were dancing around in the brush, no doubt having retrieved their rifles and bows.
Spying his own Henry repeater lying over the slumped form of the warrior in the wolf-hide tunic, Fargo leaped forward, grabbed the rifle, and dodged an arrow that plunked into the fire behind him. He snapped the rifle to his shoulder and fired three times at the dancing shadows, one of which flew backward while the others scattered, howling.
Prairie Dog continued firing eastward as Fargo sprang toward him and the horses dancing on the other side of the fire. Valeria hunkered behind a willow, knees covering her breasts, hands clamped to her ears.
“Let’s get the hell outta here!” Fargo grabbed Valeria and tossed her onto the Ovaro’s back.
As he snapped up the sagging reins, Prairie Dog triggered a final shot and wheeled toward his own mount. “But I was just startin’ to have fun!”
Fargo looked around as he swung up into the saddle, hearing another arrow whistle past him and evoking a shriek from the girl. “Where’s your soldiers?”
“They lit out!” Prairie Dog bellowed, swinging heavily into his own saddle. “There was only four of ’em in the first place though we tried like hell to sound like a whole company!”
As Fargo reined the Ovaro into the brush lining the stream, holding the Henry in one hand and wincing as his bare balls ground against the saddle horn, he turned toward Prairie Dog galloping off the pinto’s left flank. “Why the hell didn’t you kill
Both horses plunged into the water as the warriors’ enraged shrieks rose behind them, arrows slicing the air and tearing into the weeds. “I was aimin’ fer Duke but pinked old Iron Shirt instead! I told ya—!”
“I know,” Fargo yelled as the horses gained the opposite bank and angled toward a natural trough in the butte facing them, “your old eyes ain’t worth shit in the dark!” He cursed loudly as a rifle barked in the direction of the villages, the slugs tearing into the weedy, chalky butte face.
“You ungrateful nub!” the old scout bellowed, his tack squawking as he followed Fargo up the butte. “I shoulda just rescued the girl and left you to burn, damn your nekkid hide!”
Valeria clutched the Trailsman snugly around the waist as the Ovaro lunged up and over the lip of the butte. Blowing, it continued over the top and lunged down the other side, the whistling of the arrows and hammering of the rifles dying behind them, the enraged calls of the Indians fading on the night breeze.
Fargo was so relieved to be free of the Indians’ fire that he didn’t even feel ridiculous, straddling the pinto buck naked, the Henry repeater resting across his saddle bows, the naked girl clinging to his back. The cool night breeze felt keenly refreshing against his sunburned, fire-scorched skin.
He nor the girl nor Prairie Dog said anything as they galloped north of the Indians’ camp, tracing a serpentine route through the buttes. The Indians had seemingly been so startled by Prairie Dog’s attack that they were slow to mount their horses and form a pursuit party.
Fargo didn’t hear or see anyone behind them, but he didn’t take any chances. He didn’t slow the pinto until he’d slipped into a dry creek bed carved between high, grassy buttes stippled with burr oaks, sage, and occasional cedars, with here and there a rocky shelf protruding from a hill shoulder. He didn’t stop the horse until he’d followed an offshooting gully into a narrow, rocky defile cloaked by aspens, pines, and large, mossy boulders.
He dropped to the ground, the sage and tough grama grass feeling like broken glass under the scorched soles of his feet. He turned as Prairie Dog drew his own horse up behind the Ovaro, the old scout crouched slightly in his saddle.
“We’ll rest here, then continue north,” Fargo said, reaching up to grab Valeria around the waist. Too weary for modesty, she did nothing to cover herself. Her full, pale breasts were soot-streaked. “I wanna get good and clear of the camp before I circle back for Lieutenant Duke.”
Fargo set the girl on the ground, then reached for the bedroll tied behind his saddle. Behind him, Prairie Dog remained mounted, leaning forward, leather hat tipped low over his forehead. “You two are gonna have to ride on without me.”
The scout’s gravelly voice was tight, and he was breathing hard. He snaked his right arm across his belly, trying feebly to reach around behind his back. He gave up the motion and reached behind with his left hand instead, lifting his head abruptly and showing his large, yellowing teeth through a sharp wince. “I reckon I turned pincushion for one of those red savages’ arrows.”
Fargo cursed. “Sit tight.”
He jerked the blankets of his bedroll free of their leather ties, quickly wrapped them over the girl’s shoulders, and hurried back to Prairie Dog. A fletched arrow protruded from the scout’s back, just beneath his left shoulder blade. Blood stained his buckskin tunic, forming a long, glistening swath straight down from the shaft. The head was probably buried about five inches deep in Prairie Dog’s back.
Fargo reached up, wrapped his right hand around the scout’s broad upper arm. “You stopped one, all right. Get down here—let’s have a look.”
“Shit!” Prairie Dog groused as he climbed slowly out of the saddle, half leaning on the Trailsman.
Fargo led him over to a low rocky shelf flanked by a small pinon, and eased him into a sitting position. Prairie Dog looked Fargo up and down and chuckled.
“Sorry, Skye, but it’s kinda hard to take you serious without any clothes on. Why don’t you at least try to hide that well-used dong of yourn. Shit, them red savages even hide their private parts!”
“Shut your trap,” Fargo said, pulling the man slightly forward so he could inspect his back.
The girl moved between the horses, holding the blanket tight about her shoulders and frowning down at
