Nevada Vipers' Nest by Jon Sharpe Page B

northwest, patches of jack pine and juniper to their left, the already glaring alkali flats on their right. Desert nights were chilly in autumn, but the day had already heated up until the brittle air seemed to radiate from a giant furnace. Even this early, heat shimmers had begun to distort their view of the desert horizon. Closer to hand, Fargo watched a yellow-gray coyote slink off through a dry wash.
    â€œShouldn’t we ride in the tree cover?” Sitch inquired at one point.
    â€œThat’s usually the best idea, yeah. But right now I want to see what kind of prints I might find around here. Besides, those drunken sots at Rough and Ready roll out late with a hangover. The only thing we need to fret is red aborigines.”
    Ten minutes later they rode upon a large scattering of dung. Fargo reined in.
    â€œAll right, Daniel Boone,” he said, “read the ground around here and tell me what you see.”
    â€œWell, plenty of horseshit. And I can see that the hoofprints weren’t made by shod horses.”
    â€œAll right, but that leaves you two possibilities. It’s a herd of wild mustangs or a bunch of Indians. How do you tell which?”
    Sitch shook his head. “Flip a coin, I guess.”
    â€œAll your coins got two heads on them,” Fargo barbed. “If all this dung was in a large pile that would mean a herd of wild mustangs because they always stop as a group to relieve themselves. These riders are Indians because they keep their mounts on the move while they crap, and you can see the droppings are scattered in a line.”
    â€œSay, that’s good to know.” Sitch sent a nervous glance around them. “Are these fresh prints?”
    â€œNope. If you look close you’ll see how the edges have crumbled and sand has started to blow into them. You can also tell that they were running their horses—the prints will be between seven and ten feet apart, and these are at least nine. They were in a hurry to get someplace.”
    â€œLikely to slaughter white men. I’ve heard the Paiutes in this territory are bloodthirsty savages.”
    â€œYeah,” Fargo shot back, “unlike the white curs who slaughtered those women and kids, huh?”
    â€œWe don’t know for sure it was the red sashes who did that.”
    â€œDid I say
which
white curs? It wasn’t bronze john who filled them folks full of big-caliber rounds. Besides, the only tribes I know of that will kill kids that small are the Apaches and Comanches—most Indians take little kids into the tribe and raise them as Indians.”
    â€œSometimes I wonder if you’re an Indian lover,” Sitch remarked as the two men gigged their horses into motion again.
    â€œSure I am. I’ve ‘loved’ more Indians into their graves than you’re likely to ever see. But you can lay a lot of the trouble with Paiutes at the feet of these white whiskey peddlers. That Indian burner they supply them ain’t just cheap whiskey—it’s usually laced with strychnine and makes a man crazy wild, not just drunk. I took a jolt of it once and started shooting at the moon.”
    Fargo led them into the scattered tree cover now as they edged closer to the camp. They slowed their horses to a walk, and the only sound was the dusty twang of grasshoppers and the eerie singsong of cicadas.
    â€œWe’re close now to where those lights and that scream came from,” he muttered to Sitch. “Hush down and keep a sharp eye out.”
    Fargo rode in slow circles, narrowing the circumference with each revolution. After about twenty minutes:
    â€œHere’s medicine,” he announced with satisfaction, swinging down and tossing the reins forward.
    They had discovered a small clearing, about thirty feet across, packed down with the prints of iron-shod horses and men wearing boots. Whiskey bottles and cigarette butts littered the area. Most curious, to Fargo, was the deep, narrow