your stallion hadn’t held like he done, them double-poxed hounds woulda turned both of us into sieves by now.”
“No bout adoubt it,” Fargo agreed.
“Mister, I mean this is the onliest horse of its kind!”
“He’s a fine old campaigner,” Fargo said, patting the Ovaro’s sweat-matted neck. His bit was flecked with foam, but the stallion tossed his head as if it was all in a day’s work.
“How you set for ammo?” Buckshot asked.
“My long gun’s empty and I’ve only got five shells for it in my saddle pocket. I’ve got seven loads for my Colt in my shell belt. How ’bout you?”
“Six slugs for my rifle, six for my short gun, eight for Patsy.”
“I never expected we’d be locking horns with a battalion,” Fargo said in a tone of self-reproach. “We were numbskulls not to pack along more ammo. Say, there’s your cayuse.”
The grulla was calmly cutting grass out ahead of them.
“The spavined nag,” Buckshot muttered. “What now, chumley? We ride back to the work camp? We ain’t got enough Kentucky pills to waltz with that bunch agin. Next time they jump us, all we’ll have is our dicks in our hands.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to steer clear of them. But damn it to hell anyway, Buckshot—we have to at least glom the inside of that hidden gulch or whatever it is. We can’t even make a report to Fort Laramie if we don’t.”
Fargo placed one hand against the sky. “Four fingers between the sun and the horizon—about a half hour until sundown. The moon goes into full phase tonight and we should have a clear sky. I say we hobble our mounts well out and sneak in on foot for a reconnoiter after dark.”
Buckshot shook his head in wonder. “Fargo, I do believe you’d slap the devil’s face in hell. But I kallate we all gotta die once.”
“Last time I looked it up in the almanac,” Fargo agreed, “the death rate was still one per person.”
6
The moon-washed Wyoming landscape was an eerie silver blue like a painting. Fargo and Buckshot Brady hobbled their horses in a well-hidden draw about a mile south of the outlaws’ position.
“Ain’t seen any vedette riders,” Buckshot remarked as he blackened his face with gunpowder.
Fargo carefully wiped out the bore of his Colt with a clean patch. “I’d wager they figure they ran us off for good.”
Buckshot grunted. “A-course. That’s what two
sane
men would do after that little cider party today.”
“Always mislead, mystify, and surprise your enemy,” Fargo retorted. “They’ll likely have sentries out like they did earlier, but they won’t really expect trouble. Like you say—sane men would skedaddle after realizing the odds. By now they’re likely drunk as the lords of creation.”
“I wunner if any of them three that attacked the work camp and killed Danny was amongst them we killed today,” Buckshot said. “I sure-God hope so.”
“Kill one fly, fill a million,” Fargo replied.
Buckshot cursed and slapped his neck. “Case you ain’t noticed, it’s the skeeters’ turn now.”
Fargo glanced at the fat ball of moon. A man could tell the approximate time by it; a full moon was pure white early at night, and turned more golden as the night advanced, lightening to white again just before dawn.
“It’s around midnight. Let’s head out.”
Knowing they might have to low-crawl, both men left their rifles with the horses although Buckshot, as always, refused to part with his beloved Patsy. Sticking to shelter when possible they covered the first half mile at a fast route step.
Soon they were close enough to see the orange-glowing tips of cigarettes marking sentry positions. As Fargo had predicted, the men were drunk and making no effort to hide their presence. Fargo could hear them roweling each other and laughing.
He and Buckshot moved in at a crawl for the last eighth mile, the flinty soil tearing at their knees, huge mosquitoes as big as a man’s thumb-tip playing hell on their exposed skin. At times
“No bout adoubt it,” Fargo agreed.
“Mister, I mean this is the onliest horse of its kind!”
“He’s a fine old campaigner,” Fargo said, patting the Ovaro’s sweat-matted neck. His bit was flecked with foam, but the stallion tossed his head as if it was all in a day’s work.
“How you set for ammo?” Buckshot asked.
“My long gun’s empty and I’ve only got five shells for it in my saddle pocket. I’ve got seven loads for my Colt in my shell belt. How ’bout you?”
“Six slugs for my rifle, six for my short gun, eight for Patsy.”
“I never expected we’d be locking horns with a battalion,” Fargo said in a tone of self-reproach. “We were numbskulls not to pack along more ammo. Say, there’s your cayuse.”
The grulla was calmly cutting grass out ahead of them.
“The spavined nag,” Buckshot muttered. “What now, chumley? We ride back to the work camp? We ain’t got enough Kentucky pills to waltz with that bunch agin. Next time they jump us, all we’ll have is our dicks in our hands.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to steer clear of them. But damn it to hell anyway, Buckshot—we have to at least glom the inside of that hidden gulch or whatever it is. We can’t even make a report to Fort Laramie if we don’t.”
Fargo placed one hand against the sky. “Four fingers between the sun and the horizon—about a half hour until sundown. The moon goes into full phase tonight and we should have a clear sky. I say we hobble our mounts well out and sneak in on foot for a reconnoiter after dark.”
Buckshot shook his head in wonder. “Fargo, I do believe you’d slap the devil’s face in hell. But I kallate we all gotta die once.”
“Last time I looked it up in the almanac,” Fargo agreed, “the death rate was still one per person.”
6
The moon-washed Wyoming landscape was an eerie silver blue like a painting. Fargo and Buckshot Brady hobbled their horses in a well-hidden draw about a mile south of the outlaws’ position.
“Ain’t seen any vedette riders,” Buckshot remarked as he blackened his face with gunpowder.
Fargo carefully wiped out the bore of his Colt with a clean patch. “I’d wager they figure they ran us off for good.”
Buckshot grunted. “A-course. That’s what two
sane
men would do after that little cider party today.”
“Always mislead, mystify, and surprise your enemy,” Fargo retorted. “They’ll likely have sentries out like they did earlier, but they won’t really expect trouble. Like you say—sane men would skedaddle after realizing the odds. By now they’re likely drunk as the lords of creation.”
“I wunner if any of them three that attacked the work camp and killed Danny was amongst them we killed today,” Buckshot said. “I sure-God hope so.”
“Kill one fly, fill a million,” Fargo replied.
Buckshot cursed and slapped his neck. “Case you ain’t noticed, it’s the skeeters’ turn now.”
Fargo glanced at the fat ball of moon. A man could tell the approximate time by it; a full moon was pure white early at night, and turned more golden as the night advanced, lightening to white again just before dawn.
“It’s around midnight. Let’s head out.”
Knowing they might have to low-crawl, both men left their rifles with the horses although Buckshot, as always, refused to part with his beloved Patsy. Sticking to shelter when possible they covered the first half mile at a fast route step.
Soon they were close enough to see the orange-glowing tips of cigarettes marking sentry positions. As Fargo had predicted, the men were drunk and making no effort to hide their presence. Fargo could hear them roweling each other and laughing.
He and Buckshot moved in at a crawl for the last eighth mile, the flinty soil tearing at their knees, huge mosquitoes as big as a man’s thumb-tip playing hell on their exposed skin. At times
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