Badlands Bloodsport

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The maid turned to leave, but Fargo stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Speaking of Derek and Skeets, I haven’t seen them since I rode in. Where are they?”

“They left camp sometime this morning.”

Fargo felt cold needle points on the back of his neck. “Which direction?”

She pointed north—toward the buffalo and the Cheyennes.

“Christ,” Fargo muttered under his breath. Then: “Did they take their buffalo guns?”

“Yes, the long ones that make a frightful racket. They said you”—she faltered, then soldiered on—“you couldn’t locate your own ‘arse’ in a hall of mirrors. They said they would find the buffalo and show Jonathan Yankee how it’s done.”

A cold current of doom moved down Fargo’s spine, and he paled slightly above his beard.

“Is that bad?” Jessica asked.

“Bad? Sweetheart, brackish water is bad. Weevils in your hardtack are bad. This could spell the worst hurt in the world—the massacre of every one of us.”

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