Hangtown Hellcat by Jon Sharpe

the reins in his teeth, shifted his weight, threw a leg around the saddle horn and built himself a cigarette.
    “I’m pure-dee bumfoozled about another thing, Skye,” he said. “Happens these yellow curs
are
alla way down on Bitter Creek, why would they join up agin where they did? Hell, it’s another full day’s ride. Why not stay split up until they was closer?”
    Fargo had already begun rolling that question around in his mind. “That’s one nut I haven’t cracked yet.”
    “Well,
both
mine is cracked. We been pounding our saddles straight for hours now. Let’s spell and water the horses—I gotta drain my snake.”
    They drew rein in the shade of a leathery-leaved cottonwood. Fargo drank from his canteen before watering the Ovaro from his hat. Then he climbed up into the rough-barked cottonwood and took another squint through his army-issue field glasses.
    “Pay dirt, Buckshot,” he announced triumphantly. “I just spotted a man peeking out from some bushes. A little over a mile ahead of us.”
    “’Bout damn time. Just one?”
    “Hang on…no, there’s at least two showing.”
    “They look like owlhoots?”
    “I’d say of the deserter variety,” Fargo replied. “They’re both wearing parts of army uniforms. Say! There’s a third. It’s priddy clear they’re sentries, but what the hell are they guarding? There’s no buildings, no camp, just a long line of brush.”
    “Mebbe a dugout?” Buckshot suggested.
    “Could be, I reckon. Maybe hidden behind the brush. Itwould have to be mighty damn big because I can’t see any horses either.”
    “Can they spot our horses, you think?”
    “No,” Fargo said, still staring intently through the glasses. “There’s knolls and little stands of pine between us and them.”
    “So what do we do? Sit and play a harp?”
    “Right now we’re neither up the well nor down. It’s no use to ride closer after dark—we need to see what we’re up against. I think we can get in a lot closer if we use the natural cover.”
    Fargo climbed down and both men quickly checked their weapons.
    “We’ll have to leapfrog one at a time in single file,” Fargo said, swinging up onto the hurricane deck. “I’ll go first and you ride in my tracks. You know how to cover and conceal, hoss. Do your best work—the cover is thin. We might have to dismount and lead our horses.”
    It was slow going, Fargo giving the Ovaro his head and letting him walk. With long years of hard survival savvy to guide him, the Trailsman used every possible terrain feature to his advantage. Hills, hummocks, trees, knolls, swales—with an unerring eye for reading his environment he advanced as close as he dared. For the last few hundred yards he dismounted to lower his profile, leading the Ovaro by the bridle reins.
    A brush-covered ridge offered the last possible cover and he halted, waiting for Buckshot to catch up. Fargo was close enough now to easily make out the faces of the bored sentries. Now he counted at least four.
    “We’re paring the cheese might close to the rind,” Buckshot greeted him, peering out past Fargo. “Say! You’re right—where the hell’s their horses?”
    “Damned if I know.”
    “Them’s snowbirds, all right,” Buckshot said. “I can see at least two Spencers. So what’s your big idea now?”
    “The cat sits by the gopher hole and waits. We best tie off our horses. If we watch long enough we might get a better idea how many there are and why they’re standing guard in the middle of nowhere.”
    They tied their reins to weak branches—otherwise, if the horses were spooked and bolted, breaking the reins, the two men would be in a world of hurt trying to control their mounts.
    “This shit’s for the birds,” Buckshot carped. “We’re so close that if one of our horses whickers them bastards will be right on us.”
    “Give over with the calamity howling. The way you take on, we might’s well shoot ourselves in the head.”
    Buckshot patted the