Flathead Fury

“No. But I was just doing what you told me to do. You should have searched him yourself if—” Dawson stopped, petrified by his blunder.

“So it is my fault Fargo got away?”

“No, no, no,” Dawson bleated. “I am not saying that. I am not saying that at all.”

“It sounded like you were to me.”

Dawson started to back away from the pit. “You can’t!”

All it took was a quick step and a hard shove. Mike Durn was smiling as he pushed Dawson over the edge, his smile widening at the shriek that filled the pit.

Sally turned away and covered her ears with her hands.

Not Fargo. He watched the wolverine, studying its movements. It was on the other side of the pit when Dawson went over. At the thud of Dawson hitting the earth, the beast whirled. Dawson, terrified, scrambled to his hands and knees, whining, “Not this! Not this! Not this!”

Most everyone else was pressing forward for a better view, including the white women, whose faces gleamed with bloodlust. The Indian women, though, hung back, their distaste transparent.

With a loud snarl, the wolverine streaked across the pit. Dawson let out a shriek. He was so petrified, he made no attempt to fight back when the wolverine sprang. At the last instant he raised his hands in front of his face, a futile bid to ward off the inevitable.

The wolverine bowled Dawson over. The riverman screamed as its teeth sheared through his outspread fingers and tore into his neck. The scream faded into a wet, bubbly gurgle, and then died entirely as his throat was ravaged. His body convulsed a few times and was still.

The wolverine did not stop there. In a mad frenzy, it slashed and tore and bit until Dawson’s face and neck and chest were a ruin of mangled flesh and pooling blood.

Big Mike Durn laughed for joy, and turned to Fargo and Sally Brook. “I hope you two were paying attention. Your turn is next.”

20

Whoops of glee and laughter greeted Dawson’s demise. If any of Mike Durn’s men objected to one of their own dying, they did not let on out of fear that what happened to Dawson could happen to them. As for the rest of the onlookers, it was wonderful fun. One of the women commented on how she wished there had been more blood. A man remarked that Dawson had not screamed nearly as much as he thought Dawson would.

Fargo was more interested in Sally. She was quaking like an aspen leaf, her fists clenched so hard her knuckles were white. When he touched her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Leaning over, he said in her ear, “You must stay calm.”

“How, in God’s name? I am not you. You have probably witnessed things like this before.”

Fargo had. Animal attacks were common in the wild, and the wilds were his home. But that was not the issue. “I need you to be brave,” he stressed.

“You ask the impossible,” Sally said, shaking her head. “I will pass out when Durn pushes us in, and that will be that.”

“Try not to,” Fargo urged.

“But I want to,” Sally said. “I would rather be unconscious when that thing pounces. I won’t feel the pain. I won’t experience the horror.”

“It is not as hopeless as you think,” Fargo said. Then, making sure Durn had his back to them, and that neither Kutler nor Tork were listening, he whispered, “I have my knife.”

“So?” Sally said. “What good will it do us? You might as well throw pebbles at it.”

“Trust me,” Fargo said. “I know what I am doing. I have a plan.” A crazy plan, a plan fraught with peril, a plan that could as easily get him killed as anything, but a plan, nonetheless.

“Do we make a break for it before they throw us in?”

“No.” Fargo doubted they would reach the tunnel.

“Oh! You intend to kill Durn! And then we can escape in the confusion.” Sally grinned, thinking she had figured it out.

“There will be confusion, yes,” Fargo said. But not for the reason she expected.

Sally put her lips to his ear, her breath warm on the lobe. “When do we make our break?”

“After they throw us into the pit.”

“After?” Sally blinked. “Are you insane? Once we are in that pit, we are as good as dead.”

“Listen to me,” Fargo said, and gently squeezed her arm to soothe her. “When we go over the side, try to land on your feet. Stay close to me and keep your back to the wall. I will take care of the rest.”

“If only I could believe that.”

Fargo leaned closer. “There is one thing more you can do,” he said, and told her what it was.

Sally drew back, her wide eyes fixed on his. “You are insane.”

“It will work,” Fargo promised.

“Listen to yourself. It is a wolverine, not a dog or a cat. And ten feet is awful high.”

“I am counting on the wolverine to help,” Fargo said. “And remember, it doesn’t weigh more than sixty pounds.”

“That is plenty enough,” Sally said.

Then there was no more time to talk. Durn’s men seized them and hauled them to the edge but did not, as yet, hurl them over.

Mike Durn had some crowing to do. He raised his arms. “Friends! Now for some real fun! Two at once, and one of them a white woman!”

Not one of the faces ringing the pit was sympathetic to their plight. Which made it easier for Fargo; he had no qualms about what he was about to unleash on them.

“You squaws over there!” Durn said. “Pay attention! This could be you if you don’t do as I say!” He stepped around behind Fargo and Sally and placed a hand on their backs between their shoulder blades. “And so it ends.”

“Remember,” Fargo said to her.

Mike Durn paused. “Remember what?”

“That you are a miserable son of a bitch who will get what he has coming to him,” Fargo predicted.

Always quick to anger, Durn swore and shoved.

Fargo didn’t resist. He kept his legs under him as he dropped, his arms out from his sides. Beside him, Sally screamed, her fingers plucking at his sleeve. He came down hard on his boot heels and pitched backward. He thrust his hands behind him and came up against the wall. From above came liquor-spawned hoots and cries of derision as he turned and nearly tripped over Sally, who was on her knees, staring straight ahead with her features frozen in shock.

The wolverine was slinking toward them.

“Get up!” Fargo commanded, and yanked her off the ground. “Remember what I told you.”

Sally numbly nodded, saying in dread, “I don’t know if I can.”

“If you can’t we are dead.” Fargo would give a good account of himself with the toothpick, but he had no illusions about the outcome.

Its blunt snout thrust out, the wolverine slowly advanced. It kept glancing from Sally to Fargo and back again as if it could not make up its mind which one it would attack first.

“Be brave!” Fargo cautioned. He sidled away from her, his back to the pit wall.

The wolverine stopped. Its muzzle and face were spattered red with Dawson’s blood and a strip of pink flesh hung by a shred from its bottom teeth. Snarling, the beast snapped at the air.

Sally whimpered and made as if to press back into the wall. “I can’t do this!”

Fargo did not respond. It was essential the wolverine focus on her and only on her.