Free The Trailsman #396 by Jon Sharpe Page B

them.”
    â€œYou’re saying,” Robinson countered, “that somebody on this expedition did it?”
    â€œIt wasn’t the fairy fucking godmother,” Grizz Bear said.
    â€œA saboteur among us? Horseshit! That person would be killing himself!”
    â€œUnless,” Fargo suggested, “he had no plans to stick with the expedition.”
    â€œMaybe,” Robinson suggested, “Indians sneaked up and did it.”
    Fargo considered that. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “Their goal is to stop this expedition.”
    â€œDon’t seem likely to me,” Grizz Bear gainsaid. “A Mojave is an impatient son of a buck when he decides to fight. He ain’t one to pussyfoot around and make his enemy suffer slow. He’ll get hopped up on cactus beer and pitch right into an armed battle.”
    Whatever the explanation, Fargo saw that things were going to hell fast and knew they could only get worse.
    But he didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
    Fargo and a few of the soldiers had fanned out in circles searching for the sixth body. Fargo found it about forty feet away from the others behind a tumble of boulders.
    Like all the others, the soldier had died from a crushed skull.
    Fargo called the rest over, still kneeling over the corpse.
    â€œWell, that accounts for all of them,” Robinson said. “We can only hope the savages have cleared out by now. These killings aren’t fresh, so there’s a good chance they’ve cleared out of these mountains.”
    â€œWrong,” Fargo said, rising to his feet again. “This last one must have somehow held out. The blood is still tacky. He was killed in the last few hours.”
    Robinson seemed to have been slapped hard. Wind shrieked in the pass, sand and grit pelting them hard. “You ­mean—?”
    â€œI mean,” Fargo said, “that it’s more than likely we’re all surrounded right now by warpath Indians. And these six dead soldiers ought to tell you what they’ve got in mind for us.”

9
    The six soldiers were quickly buried under desert moonlight. Mounted, and very nervous, soldiers constantly guarded the stalled expedition.
    Robinson, Fargo and Grizz Bear palavered in the shadow of the crude station.
    â€œI say we just push on through the pass now,” Fargo said. “We can be down on the flatland by sunup or a little after.”
    â€œI ain’t so sure sunup wouldn’t be better,” Grizz Bear countered. “We’re paring the cheese mighty close to the rind. You know they’re out there close right now, hanh?”
    â€œYeah. I’ve heard their lizard clicks.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Robinson demanded. “You both know the savages are nearby?”
    â€œThem ain’t lizards clicking,” Grizz Bear rubbed it in, recognizing the fear in Robinson’s voice. “That’s how Tasenko’s Mojaves signal each other on the warpath.”
    â€œBesides,” Fargo said, “I saw plenty of fresh prints made by moc­casins. They’re on us, all right. And we’re sitting ducks up here.”
    â€œI don’t get it,” Robinson fumed. “The other tribes that’ve harassed us over distances all had horses. How can these Mojaves move so fast and keep up with us?”
    â€œWhy, hell,” Grizz Bear replied, “look how easy we have to push our horses in this heat. The River People can easy cover sixty miles of desert in one day on foot. They travel ­light—­don’t even need to carry no food. They just pound mesquite pods into meal and bake some tasty cakes from it.”
    Reluctantly, but feeling obligated, Fargo looked at Robinson. “Wha’d’ya say, Sarge? It’s time to make a move.”
    â€œI didn’t want us here in the first ­place—­you know that. I said so in front of witnesses.”
    â€œYou ought to set up as a