butt of his double-ten. “Sit by the gopher hole, my lily-white ass. I say we attack. You’re the one likes to lance the boils. Take the bull by the horns, says Fargo. Straight ahead and keep up the strut, says Fargo. Between the two of us we got enough lead to sink a steamboat.”
“First of all, we got no proof any of these jaspers attacked the work crew. Even if they did, we need to know where the hive is,” Fargo insisted. “What if there is a dugout somewhere behind that line of brush? We got to know how deep the water is before we just dive in headfirst.”
“Mebbe so,” Buckshot conceded without enthusiasm. His favorite tactic was the hell-bent for leather charge.
For the next half hour the two hidden men watched carefully while buffalo gnats swarmed their faces. Then—“Riders coming in from the east,” Fargo reported. “Maybe this is just an outpost.”
He watched the rider, a Mexican astride a blood bay gelding, lope closer, expecting him to dismount and take a report from the sentries.
Instead, both men felt their jaws slack open when, without breaking stride, the rider simply disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him whole!
* * *
For several stunned heartbeats the two frontiersmen stared at each other, saying nothing.
“I baked that fish with what I
thought
was wild onion,” Buckshot finally said. “You think maybe I used peyote by mistake?”
“It was no peyote vision, old son. I see how it is now. Either that’s one hell of a big dugout or the beginning of a gulch hidden by all that tall brush. I’ve seen some in theBlack Hills and Snake River country like that—you prac’ly have to fall into them to know they’re there.”
“A gulch,” Buckshot repeated, rubbing his chin. “Might be. You’d hafta be a bird to spot it.”
“We need to somehow get a size-up of the place,” Fargo decided. “If the gang’s not too big, we’ll burn ’em down. If there’s too many—”
A sudden crashing and thrashing from the brush to their left made both men pivot toward the horses, crouching with rifles at the ready.
“Oh, hell,” Fargo muttered, “here comes a fandango.”
A black bear, full grown and weighing at least two hundred fifty pounds, had emerged into the open, aggressively woofing at this intrusion into its territory. Two things guaranteed to panic a horse instantly were fire and bears. Both horses reared up, neighing loudly, eyes rolling in fear until they showed all white.
They tugged their reins loose and bolted. Buckshot, a fast runner, tore after his cayuse, hoping to seize the reins. The Ovaro, who rarely deserted his master, ran off about fifty feet, waiting to see what the bear would do.
But Fargo realized the fat was in the fire. The shout had gone up from the sentries and already slugs were whiffing in atop the ridge as they advanced. Fargo cursed as he levered the Henry and returned fire from a standing offhand position.
A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Buckshot had failed to stop the cayuse. He was escaping to the east at a two-twenty clip. At least all the gunfire had sent the bear into hiding.
But as Fargo looked ahead again to resume firing, his heart sat out the next beat—mounted men were pouring out of the hidden gulch or whatever it was, more than he could count.
The enemy fire peppering his position was vicious and sustained. He felt a sharp tug as a slug passed through the folds of shirt under his left armpit. Bullets snapped past his ear with a sound like angry hornets, one of the slugs creasing his left cheek in a white-hot wire of pain. Fargo was forced to fall back, firing as he went, popping one of the snowbirds over.
But it was like trying to hold the ocean back with a broom, and the mounted attackers were pounding closer amid a thundering racket of fire. They expertly divided around both ends of the ridge to form a pincers.
Buckshot had joined him again, his face grim with the realization that they were about
“First of all, we got no proof any of these jaspers attacked the work crew. Even if they did, we need to know where the hive is,” Fargo insisted. “What if there is a dugout somewhere behind that line of brush? We got to know how deep the water is before we just dive in headfirst.”
“Mebbe so,” Buckshot conceded without enthusiasm. His favorite tactic was the hell-bent for leather charge.
For the next half hour the two hidden men watched carefully while buffalo gnats swarmed their faces. Then—“Riders coming in from the east,” Fargo reported. “Maybe this is just an outpost.”
He watched the rider, a Mexican astride a blood bay gelding, lope closer, expecting him to dismount and take a report from the sentries.
Instead, both men felt their jaws slack open when, without breaking stride, the rider simply disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him whole!
* * *
For several stunned heartbeats the two frontiersmen stared at each other, saying nothing.
“I baked that fish with what I
thought
was wild onion,” Buckshot finally said. “You think maybe I used peyote by mistake?”
“It was no peyote vision, old son. I see how it is now. Either that’s one hell of a big dugout or the beginning of a gulch hidden by all that tall brush. I’ve seen some in theBlack Hills and Snake River country like that—you prac’ly have to fall into them to know they’re there.”
“A gulch,” Buckshot repeated, rubbing his chin. “Might be. You’d hafta be a bird to spot it.”
“We need to somehow get a size-up of the place,” Fargo decided. “If the gang’s not too big, we’ll burn ’em down. If there’s too many—”
A sudden crashing and thrashing from the brush to their left made both men pivot toward the horses, crouching with rifles at the ready.
“Oh, hell,” Fargo muttered, “here comes a fandango.”
A black bear, full grown and weighing at least two hundred fifty pounds, had emerged into the open, aggressively woofing at this intrusion into its territory. Two things guaranteed to panic a horse instantly were fire and bears. Both horses reared up, neighing loudly, eyes rolling in fear until they showed all white.
They tugged their reins loose and bolted. Buckshot, a fast runner, tore after his cayuse, hoping to seize the reins. The Ovaro, who rarely deserted his master, ran off about fifty feet, waiting to see what the bear would do.
But Fargo realized the fat was in the fire. The shout had gone up from the sentries and already slugs were whiffing in atop the ridge as they advanced. Fargo cursed as he levered the Henry and returned fire from a standing offhand position.
A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Buckshot had failed to stop the cayuse. He was escaping to the east at a two-twenty clip. At least all the gunfire had sent the bear into hiding.
But as Fargo looked ahead again to resume firing, his heart sat out the next beat—mounted men were pouring out of the hidden gulch or whatever it was, more than he could count.
The enemy fire peppering his position was vicious and sustained. He felt a sharp tug as a slug passed through the folds of shirt under his left armpit. Bullets snapped past his ear with a sound like angry hornets, one of the slugs creasing his left cheek in a white-hot wire of pain. Fargo was forced to fall back, firing as he went, popping one of the snowbirds over.
But it was like trying to hold the ocean back with a broom, and the mounted attackers were pounding closer amid a thundering racket of fire. They expertly divided around both ends of the ridge to form a pincers.
Buckshot had joined him again, his face grim with the realization that they were about
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