Moose didn’t like the interruption. “You know this feller?” he said to Rooster.
“I surely do,” the old man confirmed. “He’s a friend of mine. Skye Fargo, meet Moose Taylor.”
Moose turned. “Friend or not, you’d better back away. Rooster, here, was mean to me and I don’t like it when folks are mean. I aim to hurt him some and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Care to bet?” Fargo said.
2
Fargo didn’t have a lot of close friends. He could count them on two hands and have fingers left. It wasn’t that he was unsociable. When he had half a bottle in his belly and a dove on his lap, he could be as sociable as anyone. But people who had known him for a good many years, and were still alive, were rare.
Rooster Strimm was one of the few. Fargo had met him shortly after he came west. At the time Strimm had been scouting for the army and had taken Fargo under his wing. It had been Fargo’s first taste of life on the frontier and he’d loved it.
Now, watching blood trickle down Rooster’s chin, Fargo felt a cold sensation in his chest.
Moose had his hands on his hips and was glowering. “Mister, I’ve whipped bigger men than you without half trying. Make yourself scarce.”
“Why did you throw him through the window?”
“Not that it’s any of your business but he called me noaccount. Said I was the worst hunter alive and that the only way I’d get the griz is if it walked up to me and asked me to shoot it.”
Fargo glanced down at Rooster and grinned. “Did you really say that?”
Rooster nodded. “Can’t hardly blame me. Moose, here, is the Mike Fink of bear hunters. He likes to brag about all the bears he’s killed but most weren’t much more than cubs.”
“That does it,” Moose said. “I’m going to shake you until your teeth rattle.” Bending, he reached to grab Rooster by the front of his shirt.
Fargo shoved Moose. Not hard, but enough that he stumbled a few steps. “No,” Fargo said.
Slowly straightening, Moose clenched and unclenched his big hands. “I told you to butt out. You should have listened. I don’t like to hurt folks but you’ve gone and pushed me so now I have to hurt you.”
“If you’re dumb enough to try,” Fargo said.
“That does it.”
Moose was on Fargo before Fargo could raise his arms to defend himself. A fist with knuckles the size of walnuts would have flattened Fargo’s nose, only Fargo ducked and retaliated with a solid right to Moose’s gut. The punch would have doubled most men over. All Moose did was grunt and wade in with his big fists flying. Fargo backpedaled, blocking and slipping most of the blows. Those that connected jarred him to his marrow. Moose was immensely strong. Fargo countered a left cross, spun away from a jab, and drove a straight-arm into Moose’s jaw. It was like hitting an anvil. Pain shot clear to Fargo’s shoulder. Wincing, he retreated and Moose came after him.
Fargo was vaguely aware they were gathering a crowd. Someone yelled for Moose to beat him to a pulp.
Moose was grinning as if this were great fun. He held his arms in a stance that left his face and neck exposed, and when he moved, he shuffled awkwardly, as if his feet were so far from his brain, there was a delay in the brain telling the feet what to do.
Fargo didn’t think this was fun at all. He was hurting, and he had to end it before Moose connected. He ducked a looping left, didn’t fall for a feint, and slammed Moose a good one on the cheek that rocked Moose on his heels. Moose stopped grinning. He looked angry and baffled. Apparently he was used to beating others easily and couldn’t understand why Fargo wouldn’t go down.
Moose arced a right and then a left. Fargo swiveled and avoided the first but the left smashed his shoulder and sent him tottering a good six feet. It was like being hit by a battering ram. He set himself and Moose started toward him.
Suddenly someone stepped between them, dressed all in yellow with her parasol over her shoulder. “That will be enough, Moose,” Fanny said quietly.
Moose was as astounded as Fargo. He lowered his fists partway and stared dumbly at her. “I know you,” he said.
“That’s enough, I said,” Fanny repeated. “Or I will tell Madame Basque and you won’t get to have a girl for the rest of our stay.”
“Not have a girl?” Moose said, sounding stricken.
“I know how fond you are of Harriet. But if I ask, she’ll close her legs to you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Only if you force me.”
Moose lowered his arms the rest of the way. “Haven’t I always been nice to you gals?”
“You have, and I like you,” Fanny said. “I also like him.” She pointed her parasol at Fargo. “And I don’t want the two of you hurting each other over something as stupid as this.”
“It’s not stupid,” Moose said, and nodded at Rooster. “He teased me. Called me a piss-poor hunter.”
“Well, then it’s only fair that you tease him back. You can tell him you’re bigger than he is.”
“Bigger?” Moose said.
“A lot bigger.” Fanny held her right thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. “He has a tiny little one.”
“He does?” Moose’s face broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “You hear that, Rooster? She says you got a tiny little pecker.”
“You could go around telling everyone he’s a mouse and you’re a bull,” Fanny said.
“Oh, hell,” Rooster said.
Moose threw back his head and great peals of mirth burst from his chest. “That’s a good one, Fanny. Can I say it just like you said it?”
“Yes, you may, with my blessing.” Fanny patted him on the shoulder. “Now why don’t you run along and have a few drinks and I’ll tell Harriet to expect you later?”
“I will. And thanks.” Moose clapped her on the shoulder and nearly knocked her over. Turning to the onlookers, he bellowed, “Rooster is a mouse and I’m a bull!” He strode toward the saloon, still laughing.
“Thanks a lot, Fanny,” Rooster said.
Fargo realized he was still holding his fists up and let his arms relax. His shoulder throbbed. The people around them began to disperse.
Fanny leaned on her parasol and grinned. “I do believe you owe me one.”
“I’m obliged,” Fargo said.
“Moose has a good heart but a bad temper. He’s a ten-year-old who never grew up.”
“He looked pretty grown to me.”
Fanny laughed. “The next time he sees you, he’ll probably have forgotten all about your fight. That’s how he is.”
Rooster thrust a hand at Fargo. “I owe you, hoss. He’d have beat me without half trying.”
Fargo shook, his hand hurting from the punch to Moose’s jaw. “You should know better than to make a man like him mad.”
Rooster shrugged. “I’d had a little too much to drink and it bothered me, him bragging like he does.”
“Still,” Fargo said.
“I know, I know.” Rooster smiled. “But enough about that big oaf. How about I treat the two of you to drinks?”
“I already have a bottle,” Fargo said, and noticed that Fanny didn’t have it with her.
“I put it on that crate you were sitting on.”
They went over but the whiskey was gone. Fargo swore and looked around but whoever took it had slipped it under a coat or gone into a building. He did more swearing.
“I’m sorry,” Fanny said. “I forget how human nature is.”
