Flathead Fury

The others were grinning or smirking.

A sharp jab in the small of Fargo’s back explained why.

“Remember me?” Kutler said. “Give me an excuse and I will bury my bowie all the way in.”

Fargo inwardly swore. He had not kept an eye on what was going on behind him, and had paid for his mistake.

“I commend your timing,” Durn said to his lieutenant.

“We came back for a change of mounts,” Kutler said. “Ours were tuckered out.”

“Any sign of her yet?”

“Not a trace. I sent men to her village but they won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”

“You have done well,” Durn said. He walked up to Fargo. “Now then. What to do about you?”

“Let me blow his head off,” Tork requested. “He doesn’t use it much anyway.”

Some of the men laughed.

Durn reached out and plucked the Colt from Fargo’s holster. “I will hold on to this for a while. You don’t mind, do you?”

More laughter, and Fargo grew warm with rising anger.

Kutler asked, “Want me to finish him here and now, Mr. Durn? Or take him outside and gut him so I don’t make a mess of your floor.”

“Neither,” Durn said. “Not until I learn why he is here. If my suspicions are right, and we kill him, it will confirm their suspicions.” Durn stepped back and gave the Colt to Tork. “Now then,” he addressed Fargo. “I will ask you one last time. Did you have a hand in spiriting that squaw away tonight?”

Fargo did not respond.

“You are becoming tedious,” Durn said. “Killing you is not the only choice I have. You would do well to consider that.”

“Do what you have to,” Fargo said.

Mike Durn cocked his head and scratched his chin. “You puzzle me. You truly do. I will get it out of you one way or another. You must know that.”

“I know you love to hear yourself talk.”

Durn sighed. “Why make it hard on yourself?” He waited, and when Fargo did not say anything, he sighed again. “Very well. We will play this out the way you want. Mr. Kutler, step back. Mr. Tork and a few of you others, push these tables and chairs out of the way.”

The men were eager to comply.

Fargo suspected what was coming and focused on the man with the huge hands. He turned out to be right.

“Mr. Grunge, he is all yours.”

Grunge unbuckled his gun belt and set it on the bar. Flexing and unflexing his thick fingers, he came over and regarded Fargo as he might a puppy he was about to kick. “How bad do you want me to hurt him, Mr. Durn?”

“Bad,” was Durn’s reply. “I want him in pain for a week.”

“You heard him, mister,” Grunge said, and balled those enormous fists of his.

Fargo did not care how big the man’s hands were. So what if they could shatter doors? So long as he did not let them connect, he could hold his own. And he was considerably quicker than most.

“You don’t seem scared.”

“There is no one to be scared of.”

“Insulting me isn’t all that smart,” Grunge said, and hit him.

The blow to Fargo’s chest sent him tottering. He was more in shock than pain; he had not seen Grunge’s fist move.

“That was a taste of what is in store for you. I have never been beaten in a fist fight. Not ever,” Grunge stressed, and raised his hams with their walnut-sized knuckles.

Fargo raised his own fists. He had been in more than his share of bruising brawls and usually held his own. He told himself that Grunge had caught him by surprise, and it would not happen again.

Then Grunge closed, and thinking became a luxury Fargo could not afford. He was up against a human whirlwind.

Grunge rained blows: jabs, thrusts, uppercuts, overhands. He did not pause, did not stop to catch his breath, did not relent whatsoever. He punched and punched, each blow a blur.

Fargo was driven back under the onslaught. He blocked and ducked and weaved but as quick as he was, Grunge was his equal. For every three or four blows Fargo countered or evaded, one got through, and each that landed felt like a hammer.

The plain truth was, Fargo had never been hit so hard.

Durn’s men were whooping and hollering, their brutal natures relishing the spectacle. Durn, oddly, was quiet.

Fargo did not give up hope. One punch was all it would take, a solid blow to Grunge’s jaw and the fight would be over. As he circled, he was alert for an opening, and suddenly it came. Grunge unleashed a roundhouse right that missed. Before he could recover, Fargo slammed an uppercut to his chin, putting everything he had into it.

But all Grunge did was take a step back, and blink. “Is that the best you can do?”

Fury boiled in Fargo. Fury that he was being treated as if he were a no-account weakling. He threw a left jab as a feint and, when Grunge sidestepped, landed another blow to the chin. This time Grunge nearly went down.

Smiling grimly, Fargo said, “I can do better.”

“For that,” Grunge said, “I will stop going easy on you.” He waded in, his arms driving like pistons in a steam engine.

Giant fists seemed to be everywhere. Fargo blocked as best he could and dodged as best he was able but blow after blow still scored, and each jarred him to his marrow.

Vaguely, Fargo was aware of the onlookers cheering Grunge on and calling for his blood. Not just Durn’s men, but nearly everyone in the saloon. Cardplayers had interrupted their games to come and watch. Drinkers had put down their drinks and were adding their shouts and cheers to the uproar.

A glancing blow to the head sent Fargo reeling. He shook the effect off but he could tell his vitality was ebbing. He slipped a left jab, retreated from a right uppercut, and thought his ribs had caved in when Grunge caught him in the side. Doubled over, he backpedaled, and the next thing he knew, he bumped into the bar.

“Are you ready to tell Mr. Durn what he wants to know?” Grunge asked.

“Go to hell,” Fargo hissed between clenched teeth.

Grunge glanced at Durn, who nodded and said, “Pound the stubborn fool into the floor.”

Fargo’s world became a haze of fists and pain. His body throbbed with agony. His arms were so heavy, he could barely lift them. His legs wobbled. He was being beaten and there was not a damn thing he could do. Or was there?

Punching with impunity, Grunge had waded in closer.

With an effort, Fargo concentrated on his opponent’s chin. He absorbed more punishment, and then, for a few seconds, Grunge slowed. Fargo threw all he had into a right cross that he hoped would bring the man down. He was sure it landed, but a strange thing happened. Instead of Grunge buckling, Fargo felt his own legs start to give out.

A fist filled his vision, and there was blackness and muffled sounds, and then even the sounds faded.

Fargo’s first sensation was of floating in a sea of pain. He hurt everywhere. From his hair to his toes, every inch of him was in torment. Gradually the pain lessened to where he became conscious that he was conscious, that he was lying on his back on something soft, and that, oddly, he could smell lilacs.

Fargo opened his eyes. The right one worked as it should but the left eye was swollen half shut. Above him spread a flowered canopy. He was in a four-poster bed in a nicely furnished bedroom. The pink walls and pink quilt hinted at the gender of the owner. He licked his lips and found the lower lip puffy.

Fargo raised his right arm. His hand had swelled and his knuckles were scraped raw. Someone had cleaned up the blood and applied ointment to each knuckle.

A blanket covered him to his chest. Fargo did not need to lift it to tell he was naked. He went to sit up but his