Quickly disentangling himself and rising, Fargo walked in a circle. His main mast was at full sail, as it were, but there was nothing he could do about that. He satisfied himself they were alone, then examined his side. He had been nicked, nothing more. Hurriedly, he donned his buckskins and boots. He was lucky to be alive and did not want to push that luck.
The warrior might return. That he was hostile was proven by the arrow, and his next attempt might succeed if—
The arrow! Fargo cast about for it. It had to be there somewhere, and it was, an arm’s length from where Myrtle lay with her limbs spread eagle. Eagerly, he snatched it up.
No two tribes made their arrows exactly alike. By the markings and how it was made he should be able to tell the tribe the warrior was from.
‘‘What in the world are you doing?’’ Myrtle dreamily asked. She patted the ground. ‘‘Lie down next to me and we will cuddle.’’
Fargo sat next to her and her fingers plucked at his buckskins.
‘‘You are dressed already?’’ Myrtle said. ‘‘Damn. Wasn’t I any good for you? Most men would be as limp as wet rags right about now.’’
‘‘We aren’t alone,’’ Fargo said quietly.
‘‘What?’’ Myrtle rose onto her elbows. ‘‘Who did you see? One of Cranmeyer’s new guards? None of the mule skinners would be stupid enough to spy on me.’’
‘‘It wasn’t anyone from the freight train.’’ Fargo held the arrow so she could see it.
With an oath, Myrtle was on her hands and knees. Hastily gathering up her clothes, she swiftly slipped into them, saying as she dressed, ‘‘I bet it was an Apache. Or maybe a Navajo. They have been acting up lately.’’ She patted her revolver but did not draw it. ‘‘One thing for sure. It wasn’t a Pima or a Maricopa. To my knowledge they have never harmed a white man and would not want to.’’
‘‘We will know as soon as I examine this arrow,’’ Fargo predicted.
Back to back, they jogged to the wagons. Fargo did not say anything to anyone but went straight to one of the fires. He held the arrow close to the flames, and disappointment set in. ‘‘Damned peculiar,’’ he muttered.
The arrow did not have any markings. Not a single one. From its barbed tip to its feathers it was perfectly plain.
‘‘What do you have there?’’ a bewhiskered mule skinner asked.
‘‘Nothing,’’ Fargo said, which was exactly right. The arrow was of no use to him. Anyone could have made it. Even a white man.
‘‘Looks like an arrow to me,’’ the mule skinner persisted.
‘‘Where did you get it?’’ asked another.
One of the guards interjected his two bits. ‘‘And why are you carrying it around?’’
Myrtle, who was at Fargo’s side, said gruffly. ‘‘Hush, you infants.’’ She shook her bullwhip for emphasis.
The guard, a younger man who wore two revolvers and had his hat pushed back on his head, snorted. ‘‘Who do you think you are, lady, telling us what we should do?’’
‘‘You are new or you would not ask,’’ Myrtle said without taking her eyes off the arrow.
‘‘The way you talk,’’ the young guard said.
A driver raised his gaze from the crackling flames. ‘‘Leave her be, boy, if you know what is good for you.’’
‘‘I am not a boy,’’ the young man said testily. ‘‘And I will do as I damn well please.’’
‘‘Then damn well shut your mouth,’’ said another.
Taking a step back, the new man regarded the rest of them with ill-concealed contempt. ‘‘What the hell is the matter with all of you? Why do you treat this woman and her sisters as if they are special?’’
‘‘They are, Dawson,’’ said the first driver.
‘‘Hell, they are females,’’ Dawson declared derisively.
Myrtle tore her eyes from the arrow and fixed them on him. ‘‘What was that supposed to mean?’’
‘‘That I am not afraid of you,’’ Dawson boasted. ‘‘No man can be afraid of a woman and still call himself a man.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’
‘‘Damn it, boy,’’ snapped yet another. ‘‘Be real careful or you will step in it, and there will be nothing we can do.’’
Dawson laughed. ‘‘Listen to yourself. You and the rest of these sheep about wet yourselves whenever any of these stupid women come anywhere near you.’’
Myrtle slowly straightened. ‘‘Did my ears hear what they think they just heard?’’
‘‘I stand by what I said,’’ Dawson declared.
‘‘Oh, hell.’’ The first driver stood. ‘‘The only one who is stupid here, boy, is you.’’ He and the others stood and began to back away.
‘‘You are cows, all of you,’’ Dawson said to Myrtle. ‘‘And cows are not much for brains.’’
‘‘Cows now, is it?’’
By now all the men were up and putting distance between themselves and Dawson.
‘‘What has gotten into you?’’ Dawson addressed them.
‘‘You act as if you are afraid for your lives.’’
The first driver shook his head. ‘‘It is not us who should be afraid, boy. It is you.’’
‘‘Yellow, the whole bunch,’’ Dawson said in disgust.
‘‘And of a woman, no less! A silly, swaggering, overbearing—’’ He got no further.
Myrtle’s bullwhip flicked up and out and the lash wrapped around Dawson’s neck. He let out with a startled squawk as he was pulled off balance. Stumbling, he caught himself and clawed at the lash only to have it uncoil at a twist of Myrtle’s arm.
‘‘Insult me again.’’
Dawson was speechless with indignation. Some of the men laughed, which only made him madder. ‘‘How dare you!’’ he finally exploded.
‘‘Haven’t you heard?’’ Myrtle sarcastically asked. ‘‘The Frazier girls will dare anything or anyone. We have bark on our trees, which is more than can be said for upstarts like you.’’
‘‘I warned you,’’ Dawson said, rubbing his throat.
‘‘Save your breath,’’ Myrtle snapped. ‘‘I don’t scare easy, and I certainly am not afraid of a wet-behind-the-ears sprout like you.’’
Dawson flushed and lowered his hand to his holster. ‘‘One more crack like that and there will be hell to pay, female or no female.’’
Myrtle uttered a bark of contempt. ‘‘Keep my gender out of this. It does not count.’’
‘‘You should not be here,’’ Dawson dug himself in deeper. ‘‘Dealing with Apaches and the like is men’s work. If you had any sense, you and your sisters would light a shuck.’’
‘‘That does it,’’ Myrtle said. Suddenly her bullwhip came alive, arcing through the air and settling around Dawson’s wrist. He tried to jerk free but was yanked off balance and fell to his knees.
A few of the other men chuckled or laughed but most recognized the seriousness of the situation. Fargo certainly did but he was not about to stick his nose in. The young fool had brought the tempest down on his own head and now he must weather the storm.
‘‘Damn you, bitch!’’ Dawson fumed. He pulled on the whip but it was as taut as wire. ‘‘Let go of me!’’
‘‘Say please,’’ Myrtle said.
‘‘Like hell.’’
Myrtle tugged on the whip, spilling him onto his hands. ‘‘Were you born a jackass or do you work at it?’’
‘‘I am not amused,’’ Dawson growled.
‘‘And you think I am?’’ Myrtle shot back. She let slack into the bullwhip, enough so he could stand. But when he reached to uncoil the whip from his wrist, she took a quick step back, making it taut again. ‘‘No, you don’t!’’