“I can’t say I care.”
“You don’t want to rile me. The last gent who did is crippled.”
“Who hired Anders and you?”
“I told you before I didn’t know Anders,” Brun said. “What will it take to get that though your head?”
“Bucklin Anders and you were working together. He shot Emmett. Someone else hired two other killers and they killed Bucklin Anders.” Fargo lowered his hand close to his Colt.
“Who hired you?”
“Where do you get these harebrained notions?”
“I figured out most of it,” Fargo said. It wasn’t hard. Anders had mentioned having a partner and Anders was a local. It stood to reason his partner was the same.
“You figured wrong. I wasn’t in cahoots with him.”
“Who hired you?”
“Are your ears plugged with wax?” Brun growled. “I’ve warned you and you refuse to listen. Don’t ask me that again, you hear?”
“Who hired you?”
“You are a hardheaded son of a bitch.” Brun started to turn and suddenly whipped around, swinging his rifle like a club.
Fargo was ready. He ducked and drew but as he cleared leather Brun’s foot slammed his wrist and the Colt was jarred from his grasp. He lunged for it but Brun’s rifle caught him on the shoulder, spinning him half around. He expected Brun to swing again and sidestepped, only to have a pair of arms twice the size of his own encircle his chest from behind.
“I’ve got you now, little man.”
Fargo struggled mightily as Brun lifted him off the ground and shook him as a bear might shake a hound. Fargo’s hat fell off. He tried to surge free but Brun’s arms were bands of iron.
“I warned you not to rile me.”
The pressure on Fargo’s chest grew worse. The stable swam. He’d swear his ribs were about to stave in. In desperation he drove the back of his head against the Missourian’s face. There was a
“Damn your hide!” Brun roared. “You’ve done busted my nose!”
Fargo rammed his head back again. Brun howled and spun and Fargo was sent stumbling. He smashed against a stall and sprawled onto his side, dazed. A black boot hooked down and agony lanced his ribs. Another blow flipped him onto his back. Struggling to stay conscious, he saw the boot rise over his face.
“I’m goin’ to stomp you to a pulp.”
Fargo drove his own boot up and in and caught Brun where it would hurt a man the most. The hulking slab of gristle and sinew cried out and stumbled, his hands over his groin.
Fargo made it to his hands and knees. He shook his head to clear it, saw Brun’s legs, and slammed into them. His intent was to bowl Brun over and in that he succeeded. What he hadn’t counted on was Brun falling on top of him.
Fargo was pinned. He sought to heave Brun off but it was like trying to heave an anvil. Brun growled and raised his big hands and wrapped them around Fargo’s throat.
“If I can’t stomp you I’ll strangle you.”
Fargo gripped Brun’s wrists and pushed but couldn’t budge them. He butted Brun in the face but all Brun did was grin and keep squeezing. Fargo’s breath was cut off. He sucked air into his nose but it did no good. He was on the verge of plunging into a black well when he did the only thing he could think of to do: he dug his thumbs into Brun’s eyes.
The Missourian howled. The pressure on Fargo’s throat slackened but not enough; Fargo gouged his thumbs deeper. Suddenly Brun had hold of his wrists and Fargo was jerked to his feet. He could breathe and he could see again. Blood was trickling from both of Brun’s eyes. Pits of hell, those eyes—filled with unbridled rage and undiluted hate.
“God
A knee as big as a sledge smashed Fargo in the sternum. He was hurled against the wall and fell into some straw. Groping to get his hands under him, he felt something hard under his right hand. The shape took a few seconds to register. He gripped it just as Brun gripped him by the shoulders and spun him around. Brun cocked a huge fist. “It ends now.”
“You’ve got that right.” Fargo swung the horseshoe. Metal
“Don’t,” Brun said. He was swaying. Scarlet oozed from his split temple as he held out a hand. “I’ve had enough.”
“You started it.” Fargo hit him so hard it hurt his own hand. The crash of Brun striking the ground sent a tingle down Fargo’s spine. He raised the horseshoe to strike once more but lowered his arm. He never could beat on someone once they were down.
Fargo cast the horseshoe aside and wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow. He shuffled from the stable. Every muscle was sore. He was battered and bruised but he would live.
He hadn’t learned much. He still didn’t know which of the Clyborns had hired Brun and Anders. He still didn’t know which of them had hired the brother and sister. He suspected Tom guilty of the former, possibly Charlotte of the latter. But it could be any of them.
A pair of servants in purple walked by and gave him odd looks. One of them asked, “Are you all right, sir? If you don’t mind my saying, you look positively dreadful”
Fargo supposed he did. “Fine, thanks,” he said, and shuffled on, gaining strength as he went. When he reached the lodge he went straight to his room. He made sure to throw the bolt and as an added precaution propped the chair against the door.
Fargo stood in front of the mirror. He did look awful. He threw his hat on the bed and stripped off his buckskin shirt. His chest and arms were a welter of black-and-blue marks. He filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed the grime from his face and the dirt from his hair.
Weariness seeped in. It had been a long, eventful day. It was early yet but he stretched out on the bed on his back with the Colt in his hand, and closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but his mind wouldn’t shut down. He reviewed all that had happened since he arrived. One fact was plainer than ever. He couldn’t trust any of them. The Clyborns, Cletus Brun, the brother and sister assassins—any of them might try to do him in.
It promised to be an interesting hunt.
Fargo placed his forearm over his eyes. He yawned and willed himself to relax. It hit him that he was under no obligation to stay. He could leave if he wanted. Take a day’s pay and forget the rest. His life was worth more than two thousand dollars. To him, at least.
He mulled it over and decided that no, he couldn’t go. He owed it to himself to see the hunt through. Too much had happened. He took it personal, the attempts on his life, and Brun trying to beat him senseless. He had never been one to turn the other cheek and he would be damned if he would start now.
Fargo started to drift off. A sound brought him out of himself, the faint scrape of the latch being tried. He opened his eyes. The latch was moving, but slowly. He swung his legs to the floor and crept to the door. He put his ear to it but couldn’t hear anything. As quietly as possible he moved the chair. He eased the bolt, gripped the latch, and flung the door wide.
No one was there.
Fargo stepped out and looked right and left. The hallway was empty. He wondered if it could have been his imagination, but no, he had seen the latch move.
Someone had tried to enter.
Backing into the room, he secured the latch and once again propped the chair against it. He also took the pitcher and placed it next to the chair’s leg so that if someone forced the door the racket would wake him from even the deepest sleep.
Voices from outside drew Fargo to the window. Tom and Charles were under a maple, arguing. Tom looked fit to punch his brother and was shaking his fist in Charles’s face. As Fargo looked on, Charles wheeled and walked away.
