Read The Trailsman #396 for Free Online

­six-­month enlistment. I agree he’s poor shakes as a soldier.”
    Clearly, however, something more important was on Robinson’s mind.
    â€œFargo,” he said brusquely, “I’m considering a change to Beale’­s—­that is, Lieutenant Beale’s route. I think we should swing well north of the Old Woman Mountains.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou’re the scout and expert Indian fighter, and you ask why? You yourself said you think the place is lousy with Mojaves.”
    â€œSo what? We’ve hugged with ­gut-­eaters before. You’ve got six soldiers marooned out there, and they’re owed army support.”
    â€œChrist, Fargo, that bunch has gone to glory by now.”
    Robinson made a visible effort at patience. So far they’d lost a few horses, mules and many of the sheep they’d hauled along for fresh meat. But not one camel, and until today not one man had been ­lost—­and even a hotheaded martinet like Robinson knew Fargo had plenty to do with that.
    But the NCO also harbored a deep well of resentment. To him, the next guy was always a prick. Lieutenant Beale championed Fargo, and Robinson was sick and tired of men like ­them—­puffed-up newspaper heroes. A tribe of ­back-­scratching cousins who hogged all the glory and lorded it around while treating the iron backbone of the American ­West—­her career army ­sergeants—­like Joe Shit the Ragman.
    â€œWe have women along now,” Robinson said. “I’m changing the route.”
    â€œBad idea.”
    Robinson’s fleshy lips formed a scowl. “Why don’t you spell that out plain?”
    â€œSure. Here it is real plain: Ed Beale personally hired me and gave me my orders. I’m following those orders unless he countermands ­them—­or unless I have to.”
    â€œHe left me in charge, Fargo, not you.”
    â€œNo one’s in charge of me. I was standing right there when he told both of us to ‘stay the course.’ And that’s what I figure to do.”
    For a moment Robinson was so enraged that the veins in his neck bulged out fat as night crawlers. Suddenly he stalked wordlessly off.
    â€œSay! He wants your guts for garters,” Deke remarked.
    Grizz Bear yawned. “I didn’t know that big blowhard was yellow. Soldiers is s’pose to have ­set-­tos with the red aboriginals. Hell, they ain’t Quakers.”
    â€œHe’s not yellow,” Fargo gainsaid. “I’ve watched him in action. He’s got balls enough when an officer is giving the commands. The thing is, he’s scared shitless about being responsible for losing the camels. This isn’t an Indian expedition, boys. It’s mainly to test the camels. And the army shucked out plenty of mazuma to get them over here.”
    â€œTo hell with Robinson,” Grizz Bear said, yawning again. “I need my beauty rest.”
    â€œYou’ll need to sleep a century,” Deke assured him.
    Fargo glanced between two boulders and watched a ­red-­tailed hawk suddenly rise from near a clump of shiny creosote bushes. The Trailsman felt his stomach tighten as he grabbed his saddle off the ground.
    â€œI’m taking a squint around out there,” he told the other two. “I don’t ­like—”
    The bullet struck before the sound of the shot reached them, missing Fargo by inches and digging a slight groove across the top of his saddle horn before striking a mule standing behind him. An eyeblink later the impressive crack of the ­big-­bore rifle shattered the silence of the camp.
    â€œGod kiss me!” Deke exclaimed, diving into the sand.
    â€œThat’s a Hawken gun,” Grizz Bear warned, crouching down.
    The near miss sent Fargo’s pulse thudding into his ears like war drums. He watched several soldiers armed with their Sharps rifles stumble from their