Beyond Squaw Creek by Jon Sharpe Page B

rubdown and water after a long, hard ride. “Took down that brave aiming for your prized stallion with this here German-smithed piece, I did,” Prairie Dog continued. “So mind your manners toward my gun…and can’t you see your horse is chompin’ fer a rubdown?”
    â€œLead the way to the stables,” Fargo said, grabbing the pinto’s reins. “And then the sutler’s saloon. The drinks are on me, you old sharpshooting moon howler.”
    As Prairie Dog headed toward the stables at the north side of the compound, a couple of gaunt privates in torn uniforms and battered forage hats stepped in front of Fargo. Fargo frowned as the two hemmed and hawed nervously, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, glancing at each other as if for encouragement.
    Prairie Dog howled and clapped one of the lads on the shoulder. “Oh, don’t get your tongues all in a twist, boys. This here’s the famous—or, I should say, the notorious —Trailsman, sure enough. Go ahead and take a good look at him, then git out of the way, will ya? We got work to do!”
    The boys flushed and, nearly at the same time, scrubbed their hands on their threadbare tunics, then extended the dirt-encrusted paws at the Trailsman. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fargo,” said the taller of the two. “A real pleasure.”
    â€œWe knew if anyone could bring the major’s daughter through, that person would be you, sir,” said the other, a scrawny lad with hair like wild oat stalks poking out from around his torn, faded hat. “Me an’ Benny, we really been anticipatin’ your visit.”
    â€œM-maybe you’d join us for some poker later, Mr. Fargo?” asked the taller lad. “We ain’t allowed in the saloon, but we’d be right honored if you stop by the bear den later. Uh, that’s the enlisted men’s barracks. Maybe share some of your stories. Why, we been hearing about you since—”
    â€œCome on now, lads!” Prairie Dog cut in, doffing his hat to swipe it against the scrawny private’s shoulder. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassin’ the man? Off with you, now. Me and Fargo got business to palaver.”
    â€œY-yessir!” said the blond private, both young soldiers shuffling off toward the parade ground where drills were resuming after the Indian scare. “Sorry, sir.”
    â€œDidn’t mean to pester you, Mr. Fargo!”
    â€œI might just join you for that poker game,” Fargo called after them. “If old Prairie Dog is true to form, he’ll no doubt bore my socks off long before sundown!”
    Fargo snorted and clapped a hand to Prairie Dog’s shoulder as they continued toward the stables. Blue smoke ribboned from several of the stone chimneys surrounding the parade ground and from a cook pit before the mess hall. A man in bloodstained buckskins carved a deer outside the sutler’s store while a half-breed woman in bright calico rolled the freshly cut roasts in burlap.
    Leading the pinto through the wide gap between the sutler’s store and the officers’ cabins, Fargo asked Prairie Dog what had set the Indians to stomping with their tails up, and which tribes were involved.
    Prairie Dog swiped a hand across his beard and shook his head. “The major’ll fill you in this evening, Skye. It ain’t purty. I’ll tell ya that.”
    â€œThat’s why I want it from you. In plain talk, no army bullshit.”
    As they entered the cool shadows of the remount barn, the clang of a smithy’s hammer rising from the nearby blacksmith shop, Prairie Dog hiked a hip on the edge of a water barrel. “We been havin’ trouble off and on for three weeks. That’s when the Assiniboine started raiding the trading posts and little settlements popping up along the creeks and streams.
    â€œWe didn’t think we had a serious problem till an eight-man