Free The Trailsman #396 by Jon Sharpe

Antone? You don’t survive out here unless you play by careful rules. The first one is about water. Never drink when you’re in direct sun. It’ll evaporate before your body gets any use of it.”
    â€œBut we took on plenty at the river.”
    â€œThere’s never plenty when you cross the Mojave. We’re counting on a couple of key water holes along the way. If even one is dried ­up—­or ­poisoned—­you’ll regret every drop you wasted.”
    Fargo made his usual forward probe before the rest set out, realizing once again he was the meat that fed the tiger. But no shots rang out and by sunset the odd caravan was moving even deeper into country that was still a blank area on most American maps.
    Riding ridiculously high in saddles rocking like porch swings, a multitude of bells constantly ringing out confusion, the Middle Eastern drivers sang to their camels in strange languages Fargo had never heard before this job. But as the caravan moved deeper into the desert landscape, treacherous dust devils pelted them with maddening frequency, driving irritating sand under Fargo’s eyelids and swelling them shut. Only the camels seemed unperturbed.
    When the swirling sand and grit settled, visibility was good. Now and then Fargo spotted piles of bleached bones, mostly animal, some human. They gleamed with an eerie phosphorescence in the ­blue-­white moonlight.
    Onward, ever onward, energized by the cool night air, the expedition crossed the desert flat and began ascending the eastern slopes of the Old Woman Mountains. Twice they passed old test shafts made by hopeful miners.
    The thick stands of ocotillo, numerous on the flatland, had thinned out as the trail wound and twisted its way higher. They passed through a stretch of desolate ­lava-­bed country, then into the rough, folded peaks beyond.
    Grizz Bear gigged his mule up beside Fargo. “You know, Trailsman, Mojaves will attack at night.”
    â€œYeah. So will the Scorpion and his bunch.”
    â€œWe close to that mirror station yet?”
    â€œThree miles ahead by the army map.”
    â€œEvery damn one of them ­blue-­bellies,” Grizz Bear reiterated, “is dead as a can of corn beef.”
    â€œAll right,” Fargo said. “They’ll get buried and the next of kin notified. Any soldier has that right.”
    â€œAhuh. And who buries us? Say, here’s one . . . these two old maids was sorter reminiscin’ ’bout their younger days traveling abroad.
    â€œâ€˜I’d like to see Big Ben one more time before I die,’ says one. ‘Ah, yes,’ says the other. ‘Good, wasn’t he?’”
    Grizz Bear laughed himself into a coughing fit while Fargo slewed around in his saddle to check the formation. The soldiers were holding good positions at the rear and along the flanks. Some had made fools of themselves during their first skirmish with Indians west of Fort Lancaster in Texas, one man even curling up in fear and refusing to fight. But most had improved withexperience, and Fargo trusted their courage if not their marksmanship.
    Robinson rode to the left of Hassan and Turkish Tom, who were leading the way on Topsy and Tuili. His hatred for Fargo had become less important at the moment than his fear of being in military command during combat.
    For seventeen years now Robinson had carried out the orders of superiors, and unlike many men, he did not relish battlefield authority. In three years he would retire, and one serious mistake in combat could mean a drumhead ­court-­martial and loss of his pension.
    Robinson spurred his sorrel forward. “You’ve seen what’s coming up on the map?”
    Fargo nodded. “I rode through it once before. There’s no way around it.”
    â€œLooks like good pickings for any ambushers,” Robinson complained.
    â€œI don’t believe I whispered just now,” Fargo said.