to be cut down. Trying to escape on the Ovaro would be useless—with two big riders, and the mounted attackers already riding a head of steam, they’d never get clear in time.
Fargo had learned long ago, in desperate situations just like this one, that a man had to keep his blood cool and his thinking clear. Like Buckshot, he had first learned wilderness survival at the side of the last generation of mountain men. And it was a mountain man tactic that flashed into his mind now.
“Skirmishers waltz!” he shouted to Buckshot, who caught on instantly.
The two men stood with their backs braced one against the other. In perfect synchronization they rotated clockwise in a continuous circle. Not only did this reduce two targets to one, it allowed them to keep up a deadly, methodical, sustained field of fire to all four flanks.
“Horses are as good as men!” Fargo roared out above the unbelievable din of battle. “They’ll be chasing us soon!”
The Henry’s huge magazine capacity and rapid-firing lever action were critical now. Fargo propped the stock in his hip socket and fired with deadly accuracy, first a horse, then its rider. The attackers were just out of effective range of Buckshot’s double-ten, but his North & Savage repeater was nearly as fast as Fargo’s Henry—the trigger guard was combined with the lever, and when Buckshot moved it the cylinder revolved and cocked the hammer.
The attackers, their blood up for a quick slaughter, were stunned when the two men were able to rack up several kills and break up the pincers. Both groups fell back in a confused moil, wounded and dying men and horses raising hideous shrieks.
“Now!” Fargo told Buckshot. “Break for my stallion!”
Bullets nipping at their heels and kicking up plumes of dirt all around them, the beleaguered defenders raced fullbore to the Ovaro. Fargo seized the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and pulled Buckshot up behind him.
Fargo thumped the stallion with his heels and the Ovaro shot forward as if spring-loaded.
“Them cockchafers ain’t giving it up!” Buckshot shouted behind him even as a bullet knocked the left stirrup from under Fargo’s boot.
At first, even under a double load, the Ovaro’s superior speed and endurance opened up a slight lead. Soon, however, the attackers began to slowly gain, bullets raining in more accurately. A yellow cloud of dust boiled up behind the pursuers.
“We can’t outrun ’em!” Fargo called to his friend. “So let’s outgun ’em!”
“Steal their women and fuck their horses!” Buckshot rallied behind him. “Put at ’em, Trailsman!”
Fargo had learned that when escape was impossible, a sudden surprise attack was often the best option. He wheeled the Ovaro and both men shucked out their short guns.
Raising war whoops, revolvers blazing, they charged into the teeth of the attack. A man twisted in his saddle, blood blossoming from his wounded arm. Fargo emptied his wheel, took the reins in his teeth, and popped in his spare cylinder. With his third shot the lead rider slumped in his saddle, his jaw blown half off, then slipped from his mount.
One foot caught in the stirrup so that his body bumped and leaped over the uneven ground, slamming his wound hard over and over and making him scream like a hog under the blade. This broke the momentum of the attack as his unnerved companions fanned out helter-skelter to avoid this two-man juggernaut of death.
Fargo reversed their dust and headed in the same direction Buckshot’s cayuse had taken. Both men were so powder-blackened they wore raccoon masks.
“Skye,” Buckshot said behind him, “me ’n’ you has been invited to a few balls in our day. But
that
one caps the climax. You coulda knocked me into a cocked hat when all them sons-a-bitches come spittin’ up outta the ground. My nuts still ain’t dropped back into the sac.”
“I figured we were celestial,” Fargo admitted.
“We done some fancy shootin’ back there. But if
Fargo had learned long ago, in desperate situations just like this one, that a man had to keep his blood cool and his thinking clear. Like Buckshot, he had first learned wilderness survival at the side of the last generation of mountain men. And it was a mountain man tactic that flashed into his mind now.
“Skirmishers waltz!” he shouted to Buckshot, who caught on instantly.
The two men stood with their backs braced one against the other. In perfect synchronization they rotated clockwise in a continuous circle. Not only did this reduce two targets to one, it allowed them to keep up a deadly, methodical, sustained field of fire to all four flanks.
“Horses are as good as men!” Fargo roared out above the unbelievable din of battle. “They’ll be chasing us soon!”
The Henry’s huge magazine capacity and rapid-firing lever action were critical now. Fargo propped the stock in his hip socket and fired with deadly accuracy, first a horse, then its rider. The attackers were just out of effective range of Buckshot’s double-ten, but his North & Savage repeater was nearly as fast as Fargo’s Henry—the trigger guard was combined with the lever, and when Buckshot moved it the cylinder revolved and cocked the hammer.
The attackers, their blood up for a quick slaughter, were stunned when the two men were able to rack up several kills and break up the pincers. Both groups fell back in a confused moil, wounded and dying men and horses raising hideous shrieks.
“Now!” Fargo told Buckshot. “Break for my stallion!”
Bullets nipping at their heels and kicking up plumes of dirt all around them, the beleaguered defenders raced fullbore to the Ovaro. Fargo seized the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and pulled Buckshot up behind him.
Fargo thumped the stallion with his heels and the Ovaro shot forward as if spring-loaded.
“Them cockchafers ain’t giving it up!” Buckshot shouted behind him even as a bullet knocked the left stirrup from under Fargo’s boot.
At first, even under a double load, the Ovaro’s superior speed and endurance opened up a slight lead. Soon, however, the attackers began to slowly gain, bullets raining in more accurately. A yellow cloud of dust boiled up behind the pursuers.
“We can’t outrun ’em!” Fargo called to his friend. “So let’s outgun ’em!”
“Steal their women and fuck their horses!” Buckshot rallied behind him. “Put at ’em, Trailsman!”
Fargo had learned that when escape was impossible, a sudden surprise attack was often the best option. He wheeled the Ovaro and both men shucked out their short guns.
Raising war whoops, revolvers blazing, they charged into the teeth of the attack. A man twisted in his saddle, blood blossoming from his wounded arm. Fargo emptied his wheel, took the reins in his teeth, and popped in his spare cylinder. With his third shot the lead rider slumped in his saddle, his jaw blown half off, then slipped from his mount.
One foot caught in the stirrup so that his body bumped and leaped over the uneven ground, slamming his wound hard over and over and making him scream like a hog under the blade. This broke the momentum of the attack as his unnerved companions fanned out helter-skelter to avoid this two-man juggernaut of death.
Fargo reversed their dust and headed in the same direction Buckshot’s cayuse had taken. Both men were so powder-blackened they wore raccoon masks.
“Skye,” Buckshot said behind him, “me ’n’ you has been invited to a few balls in our day. But
that
one caps the climax. You coulda knocked me into a cocked hat when all them sons-a-bitches come spittin’ up outta the ground. My nuts still ain’t dropped back into the sac.”
“I figured we were celestial,” Fargo admitted.
“We done some fancy shootin’ back there. But if
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