16

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch,” Dan intoned in a somber voice. “This hoss never figgered there was that many red sons.”

Fargo and Jimmy were both using spyglasses to study the formidable array. Fargo recognized the hundreds of Paiute braves instantly by their plumed-hide helmets similar to those some Apache clans wore. The Bannocks, a fierce tribe even larger in number, were recognizable by their streamered lances and their ponies’ roached manes. The Shoshone warriors, forming the northern end of the enfilade line, wore distinctive fawn-skin moccasins with intricate beadwork.

“Are they about to attack?” Jimmy asked, his voice tight with nervousness.

“Not yet,” Fargo said. “When they show in force like that, and hold in place, it usually means the clan battle chiefs are bickering among themselves about what exactly to do.”

“It was us makin’ mincemeat of them dogs, Jimmy,” Dan added. “Your big-talking gun and the dynamite and powder put some white in their livers. That’s big medicine—heap bad medicine.”

“Dan’s struck a lode,” Fargo agreed. “But we got one big problem, and his name is Sis-ki-dee. See that ugly, panther-scarred son of a bitch with the copper brassards on his arms?”

“The one riding up and down the line shouting at the others? Is he a chief?”

“Worse—he’s the top Paiute shaman. Usually a battle chief rules the roost in war. But Sis-ki-dee is a Contrary Warrior, a crazy-by-thunder madman and a rebel against the old law-ways, and Dame Rumor has it that he killed the peace chief picked by the council of elders. Now he’s got the battle chief and clan leaders spitting when he says hawk.”

“And he’s sayin’ hawk to ’em right now,” Dan opined after glancing through Fargo’s binoculars. “He sure’s hell ain’t discussing the causes of the wind. Could you pop him over at this range, Fargo?”

“It would take a 750-grain bullet. Besides, we don’t dare buck him out—you know that. He’s a shaman, and that would curse the tribe if white skins killed him and they didn’t settle the score.”

“I reckon that’s so. It’s just, he’s so cussed ugly I want him dead.”

“Why are so many of those braves missing fingers?” Jimmy asked.

Snake River Dan snorted. “You didn’t learn ‘b’ from a bull’s foot back there in May Bee, Iowa, didja sprout? That’s to show how much they miss a dead squaw or child. ’Course, it’s never a trigger finger.”

“Hey, Marshal Helzer!” a nervous voice called from the defense line. “That’s a shitload of redskins down there! Ain’t it time to sound the general alarm? If those red devils rush us, we ain’t got the men nor guns to turn the charge.”

Jimmy looked at Fargo with entreating eyes.

“James, you’re the law, and it’s your call,” Fargo said. “But I say nix on that. You get all the drunk hotheads and Indian haters up here, and they will open the ball just for sport. Then the tribes will have to attack. Smooth Bore’s got her people right behind us in the livery. Let’s apply a little mentality—I say it will work.”

“I hitch up with Fargo,” Dan said, surprising the Trailsman. “Mebbe he spends too much time combing pussy hair out of his teeth, but no white man knows Injins better than the Trailsman does.”

“Hold off, Lemuel!” Jimmy called back to the man. “They’re a fair distance out, and there’s still time.”

This elicited some grumbling among the men, and Fargo feared they wouldn’t stay disciplined for long if those braves broke into war whoops and advanced.

“Jimmy,” he said, “if that jasper Lemuel or anybody else tries to set himself up as the topkick, kill him, you hear me? Just walk up and powder-burn him. There’s too much at stake here. That’s summary justice and it’s legal under your emergency declaration.”

Jimmy nodded. “I already had that in mind.”

Fargo turned to Snake River Dan and spoke quietly. “Dan, pick thirty volunteers for an advance guard to go down with us. That’s how many sticks of dynamite are left, and each man will have one hidden out of sight. They can wear sidearms, but tell them to ground their long guns. These tribes don’t like the sight of them.”

“Ahuh, volunteers . . . you been visiting the peyote soldiers? I know where this trail is headed, and you won’t get no damn volunteers. This bunch ain’t Rogers’ Rangers.”

Fargo nodded. “You’re right, old salt. How ’bout it, Jimmy? Can we sweeten the pot?”

“We have to, I spoze. All right, Dan—each volunteer gets one hundred dollars in gold. The mine owners will cover it or I’ll revoke their permits.”

Jimmy and Fargo raised their binoculars again.

“Skye, I know what those hailstone patterns on their horses mean—they’re out for a battle. But what’s that tied on their wrists—medicine bags?”

“No, those are rawhide-wrapped rocks for close-in killing. These desert tribes don’t have contact with many traders, so they don’t have many war axes or hatchets with iron blades. But a rock will kill you just as dead.”

Jimmy lowered his voice. “Skye, what if your plan don’t work and they attack? What tactics will they use?”

That was a poser and Fargo had no certain answers. The usual pattern, when Indians attacked a forted-up position, was for the defenders to shoot clockwise while the Indians circled counterclockwise. But this sprawling city on a mountain slope eliminated that tactic for both sides.

“Jimmy, it’s a poor sort of an answer, but if we fail to stop them down on the flat, we’ll just have to sound the general alarm and try to kill enough to ruin their fighting fettle. Red men don’t lack for courage, but it’s not their way to fight to the last man. Death, to them, is a taboo that brings misfortune to the survivors. One thing worries me, though.”

There was enough light now to see that the weather was rare for this area: a cool, overcast day pregnant with the threat of rain.

“This weather,” he continued. “Their bowstrings are made of animal tendon, and rain loosens them. They know that damn well, and Sis-ki-dee might goad them into attacking fast before it rains. Pass the word—snap the arrows so they can’t be used again. Usually a big group like this commences to yipping and chanting to nerve up, giving a warning.”

Snake River Dan returned, quietly chortling. “That gold done’er, boys. I got thirty volunteers. They’re comin’ now. But the word must be out how there’s trouble—men are streaming from the saloons.”

Suddenly a lone rider below broke from the line and rushed toward the mountain.

“Hold your fire!” Fargo roared out. “It’s a trick! That’s a buckskin suit stuffed with grass and tied to the pony. It’s to lure fire and spot our positions.”

Fargo glanced behind him down Center Street and loosed a string of curses. “Jimmy, turn that howitzer and fire over their heads. Stop them come hell or high water or we’re in for a bloodbath.”

Fargo realized that time was up and events had taken command. He shucked out his Colt and fired three rapid shots—the prearranged signal for Smooth Bore to unleash her unique army.

“Advance guard, follow me!” Fargo roared, and the fight to save Virginia City had begun.