“You don’t think he could be lying?”
“To what end?” the big farmer demanded. “What purpose would it serve, him luring us off to the middle of nowhere? We hardly have any money and little else of value save our possessions and our wagons. I can’t see anyone doing us harm over that. It’s not worth the bother.”
Lester had a point, Fargo reflected. But if Gore wasn’t out to rob them, what
Toward sunset another halt was called, and Fargo had to hand it to Gore’s men. They knew their business. They formed the wagons into a circle, gathered the horses and the teams and placed them under guard, and sent two men into the woods after firewood and two more out after something for supper. The farmers gathered in the circle while their womenfolk broke out pots and pans and whatnot.
Fargo brought the Ovaro into the circle. He was loosening the cinch when a shadow fell across him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Slag demanded.
“What does it look like?” Fargo replied. “I’m not going to leave the saddle on all night.”
“I didn’t mean that, stupid.” Slag took a step and smacked the Ovaro. “No animals are allowed in the circle. We don’t want their droppings all over the place. Take him and put him with the rest.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t asking. It’s a rule. The plow-pushers abide by it, and so do we. I’ll take him myself if you won’t.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Slag gripped the reins, and smirked. “Oh? Why not? What do you aim to do about it?”
“Just this,” Fargo said, and slugged him.
5
On the frontier, men were touchy about their horses. To steal one was an invitation for the thief to be guest of honor at a hemp social. Many a horse thief had died gurgling at the end of a rope. Even laying hands on another man’s horse was frowned on. The same as laying a hand on another man’s gun. Or, the supreme insult, laying hands on another man’s woman.
Slag should have known not to try to take the Ovaro.
Fargo’s fist caught him flush on the jaw and sent him tottering back. But Slag didn’t go down. He swayed, shook his head to clear it, then set himself and did the last thing anyone would expect—he grinned.
“Not bad.”
Fargo knew a brawler when he saw one. But he refused to back down. “I’m keeping my horse with me.”
“Like hell you are.” Slag balled his big fists and rapped his knuckles together. “After I pound you into the dirt, I’m adding him to the night herd.”
“Like hell you are,” Fargo mimicked him.
Raising his fists, Slag started toward him. “I’ve yet to meet the man I can’t lick.”
“There’s always a first time,” Fargo said, and then there was no time for anything as Slag waded into him. Fargo blocked, ducked, backpedaled, taking Slag’s measure and finding that Slag was as good as his boast. Slag’s arms were like the pistons on a steam engine. And God, the man was strong! When Fargo blocked, he felt it to his marrow. Under those dirty clothes, Slag was all muscle.
Fargo was no weakling, himself. His own sinews had been sculpted to whipcord toughness by his years in the wild. He ducked under a jab and unleashed an uppercut that caught Slag on the jaw. For most men that was enough to bring them down. But all Slag did was stagger a couple of steps and shake his head again.
“You can do that all night and it won’t hurt me much. I have a cast-iron chin.”
“An iron head, too.”
Slag took the insult as a compliment. “I’ve been beat on by three or four men at once and hardly felt it. Now what say I end this so I can eat my supper?”
And with that, Slag became a whirlwind. It was all Fargo could do to ward off the blows. As it was, some got through. He gritted his teeth and took the punishment, and gave as good as he got. He was dimly aware that others had gathered, and he heard the hubbub of voices. Someone shouted for them to stop—it sounded like Victor Gore —but if Slag heard, he paid no attention. Slag had his mind set on one thing and one thing only: pounding Fargo to a pulp.
Fargo circled, feinted, flicked a forearm to deflect a punch. He answered with a swift jab to the cheek that snapped Slag’s head back but otherwise had no more effect than the jab of a feather.
Slag’s brow furrowed. He seemed puzzled by something. Suddenly stepping back, he said, “No one has ever lasted as long as you have, mister.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
A looping swing nearly took Fargo’s head off. He planted his left in Slag’s gut, but it was like punching a board. He followed with a right cross that Slag blocked.
They were too evenly matched, Fargo realized. The fight could go on a good long while yet unless one of them made a mistake. In order to end it quickly, he suddenly dropped his arms and dove at Slag’s legs. His intent was to bowl Slag over, straddle his chest, and punch him senseless. But slamming into those legs was akin to slamming into a pair of tree trunks. Fargo didn’t knock him down. Worse, when Fargo quickly wrapped his arms around Slag’s legs and sought to wrench them out from under him, Slag bent and clamped his hands on Fargo’s neck.
“Now I’ve got you.”
It was like having his neck in a vise. Fargo pulled and pried and hit Slag’s forearms but the vise tightened and he was lifted bodily off the ground. Slowly but surely, he was being throttled to death.
Slag leered, confident he had won. He gouged his thumbs in deeper, saying, “How does it feel to die?”
Fargo drove his knee up and in.
It caused Slag to stagger and gurgle and turn near purple. His grip slackened. “That was dirty.”
Slag howled and let go. He stepped back, pressing a hand to his eye. “Damn your bones!” he roared.
Tucking at the knees, Fargo swept his fist up from down near his boots and buried it in the pit of Slag’s stomach.
Breath whooshed from Slag’s lungs and he doubled over. Between his groin and his eye and his gut, he was in no shape to prevent the next blow from landing.
Fargo drew back his arm. He was set to end it.
Suddenly Lester Winston stepped between them and pushed against Fargo’s chest. “Enough! We won’t have this sort of thing, do you hear? You’re upsetting the women and children.”
Fargo almost hit him. Slowly lowering his arm, he looked around, and sure enough, many of the women were aghast at the violence and several small children clung to their mothers’ legs in horror.
Winston wagged a thick finger. “Honestly. What were you thinking? I saw that you started it.”
“My horse stays with me,” Fargo said.
Victor Gore was only a few feet away, flanked by Rinson and Perkins. “Is that what this was about?”
Fargo unclenched his fists. His knuckles were sore and skinned, and his fingers hurt. “Your man wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“He was only doing as he’s been told,” Gore said. “I’m beginning to regret inviting you to eat with us. But if you give me your word there will be no more of this petty behavior, you can stay.”
“My horse stays with me,” Fargo said again.
“Yes, yes, we’ve got that. I’m willing to make an exception. But don’t test my good nature further.”
A couple of Gore’s men were helping Slag to stand. He angrily shook them off and glared at Fargo. “This isn’t over, mister. No one does to me what you just did.”
Gore shook his head. “You’ll drop it, do you hear? Too much is at stake for this nonsense.”
Fargo wondered what he meant by that.
“This is personal,” Slag said. “You have no say.”
Despite being a full head shorter and nowhere near as muscular, Victor Gore stepped up to Slag and put his
