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 piñon, 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 Prairie Dog. “Does it hurt bad, Mr. Charley?”
“Hell.” Prairie Dog gritted his teeth as he leaned over his knees. “I been stung worse by horse fli—achh! Goddamnit, Skye, what the hell you tryin’ to do to me?”
Fargo had nudged the arrow slightly with his right index finger, to see how firmly the tip was set. “Horse flies, huh?” He made a face. “Looks to me like that point is resting against a rib. No way to push it through or pull it out.”
“Ah, Lordy—no, I reckon not.” Prairie Dog rocked forward, then back. “You’re gonna have to leave me while you two go on north. Don’t worry—I got a bottle of whiskey and my sweet Brunhilda.”
“I’m not gonna leave you, you old bastard.”
Fargo walked over to his saddlebags, withdrew a whiskey bottle and tossed it to the old scout, who caught it one-handed, wincing, then grinned and popped the cork. He began tipping the neck to his mouth, glanced at the girl sheepishly, stopped, and offered the bottle to her.
When she shook her head, staring down at him with a pained, concerned expression, he chuckled, relieved, and threw back a shot. He raised the bottle to check the level. “With the bottle I got in my own pouches, that’ll do me till tomorrow, anyways. You go on, Skye. Those Injuns’ll be scourin’ this country in no time…’ specially since I ventilated old Iron Shirt.”
Fargo had no intention of leaving his old friend here alone to die. He fished a bundle of spare clothes from his saddlebags and, untying the leather thong knotted around the bundle, turned to Prairie Dog, frowning. “What about those shooters in your attack party?”
“They’re what’s left of a lost patrol out of Fort William. They’d been seventeen men, and now they’re only four—a sergeant, a corporal, and two privates. A tough, canny crew if I ever seen one. I come upon ’em night before last, when I outrun those Injuns foggin’ our asses.
“They were holed up in an old prospector’s sod shanty. Didn’t have a single horse amongst ’em, and they were shot up somethin’ awful. One had even lost his hand. But they still had the bark on, and some ammunition, and they all wanted a go at those Injuns—even if it was a last one.
“We all agreed to split up after our so-called attack. The soldier boys—them that made it—are probably circling back to their soddy. I told ’em I’d send help when I could find help my ownself.”
“You had me fooled.” Fargo had pulled on a pair of long underwear and was stepping into his spare buckskin breeches. “I thought for sure you were a whole company.”
“I reckon my buglin’ helped.” Prairie Dog tossed back another drink. “I was a bugle boy for C company back in Illinois, when we was fightin’ the…”
He let his voice trail off, lowering the bottle and lifting his head to peer along the black ridge rising before him. Fargo had heard the distant thump of a half dozen sets of horse hooves and the muffled, guttural strains of Indian talk. The hooffalls grew slightly louder in the west before gradually dwindling as the Indians, skirting the canyon, continued north.
Then there was only the sigh of the wind in the brush along the ridges and the solitary cry of a nighthawk.
“They’ll be kickin’ around here all night,” Prairie Dog growled. “You two best split the wind, head back to the fort, and don’t stop till you get there.”
Fargo continued dressing. The only garments for which he didn’t have spares were his hat and boots. He’d have to go bareheaded, but he found a threadbare set of old moccasins at the bottom of one of his saddle pouches.
He pulled them on, then walked over to Prairie Dog, drew the man’s bowie knife from its sheath, and grabbed the bottle from the scout’s hand.
“Hey, what the hell…?”
“Just need a little to sterilize your knife.”
“My knife? What for?”
Fargo splashed whiskey on both sides of the razor-edged bowie. “That arrow has to come out of there, or you’ll bleed dry.”
Groaning, Prairie Dog told Fargo he’d wait for a sawbones, but the old scout knew from experience that he wouldn’t make it through the night with the arrow in his back. He removed his hat and sagged belly down into a thick patch of grama grass along the base of the rocky ridge. After another long pull from the bottle, he let Fargo cut his shirt away from the shaft.
Valeria knelt near the scout’s head, watching Fargo begin cutting through the bloody skin along the protruding arrow, an expression of horror and fascination on her regal, disheveled features. Behind her, the horses, tied to shrubs, stood tensely, nickering no doubt at the distant sounds of the tracking Indians and the nearer smell of blood.