by Jon Sharpe
“What are those?” Gerty asked, pointing.
Fargo wanted to kick himself. He’d let his attention wander. He looked and felt his pulse quicken. Four riders were silhouetted against the western horizon. They were too far off to note much detail but there could be no mistake: They were Sioux warriors. A hunting part, most likely, but they wouldn’t hesitate to kill any whites they came across.
Fargo had to find cover before they spotted the Ovaro. A buffalo wallow was handy, and he reined down into it.
“Land sakes.” Gerty covered her mouth and nose and asked through her fingers, “What’s that awful stink?”
“Buffalo piss.”
“What?”
“Buffalo like to roll in the dirt. Sometimes they pee in it and get mud all over them to keep off the flies and whatnot.”
“It smells terrible. Get me out of here this instant.”
“We’re not going anywhere just yet.” Not until Fargo was good and sure the warriors were gone.
Twisting, Gerty poked him in the chest. “My father will hear of this. I’ll tell him all about how you’ve treated me.”
“That threat is getting old.”
“You’re a despicable person—do you know that?”
There had been times, admittedly few, when Fargo wondered what it would be like to have a wife and kids. He made a mental note that the next time he began to wonder, he’d think of Gerty. She was enough to make any man swear off kids for life.
“Why don’t you say something?” Gerty said. “How can you stand the odor?”
“Quit flapping your gums and hold your breath and it won’t be as bad.” None of the buffalo tracks, Fargo saw, were fresh, which was just as well. It wouldn’t do to have a buff come along and take exception to their being there.
“Have I mentioned I’m starting to hate you?”
“Have I mentioned I don’t give a damn?”
“I hope a rattlesnake bites you.”
Fargo was commencing to regret ever agreeing to guide the Keevers. The senator was paying him almost twice what most guide jobs earned, but the money wasn’t enough for what Fargo had to put up with.
Fargo had been in Denver, gambling, when an older gentleman in a suit and bowler looked him up and asked if he would be so kind as to pay Senator Fulton Keever a visit at the Imperial. Fargo was on a losing streak anyway, so he went.
Keever had welcomed him warmly. It turned out the senator was on a hunting trip and needed a guide. Keever had heard Fargo was in town and sought him out. Fargo wasn’t all that interested until Keever mentioned how much he was willing to pay.
“I have a question, you lump of clay,” Gerty said, interrupting Fargo’s musing.
“Hush, girl.” Fargo was tired of her jabber.
“It’s important.”
“I doubt that.”
“Are buffalo friendly?”
“About as friendly as you are.”
“That one over there doesn’t look very friendly.” Gerty pointed up at the rim.
Silhouetted against the sun was a bull buffalo.
