Just before sunset they retrieved their horses and Fargo selected a campsite almost within hailing distance of the town, a little hollow ringed with boulders and with plenty of grass for the horses to graze. He rode back to the sheriff’s office to leave word where he’d be and, under cover of the grainy darkness, the two men pitched camp. “No wood for a fire,” Fargo said, “and it’ll get cold tonight. But those boulders are hot from the day’s sun, and they’ll stay warm for hours. Put your back to one. Before you turn in, dig a little wallow—it’ll help keep your body heat trapped under your blanket.” “You know,” Sitch remarked as the two men shared a smoke, “Iron Mike Scully is going to fart blood when he sees what you did to his bootlick.” “I know that,” Fargo replied. “That’s why I roughed him up. Best way to cure a boil is to lance it. I don’t pussyfoot once I know who my enemies are.
