“I am the one telling you,” Tork said. “And I speak for Mr. Durn. Now spur that critter of yours or your neck will need a new head.” So saying, he trained his Sharps on the malcontent.
Fargo half hoped they would shoot one another but the other man did not have the backbone to buck Tork, and fell in with the rest.
On the ride back Fargo had plenty of time to think over what he was going to say.
Polson had quieted. Fewer people were on the street and some of the houses were dark. He let Tork’s bunch go in first. At the batwings he paused to check the lay of the saloon.
Big Mike Durn was at the bar. He was not alone. Seven of his men were drinking with him. Kutler was nowhere to be seen, but Grunge was there. About half the tables had card games going. Fewer maidens were mingling with the customers.
Fargo pushed on through.
Tork had reached the bar and said something to Durn, who turned with his elbows on the counter and regarded Fargo with his usual cold smile. The cardplayers paid little attention as Fargo wound among the tables and planted himself a good six feet from the ruler of the Polson roost. “What is this about me helping one of your girls get away?” he started right in.
“Mr. Fargo,” Durn said with feigned politeness. “Perhaps you would be willing to account for your whereabouts tonight.”
“I would not.”
“Might I ask why?”
“I will tell you what I told your cur,” Fargo said. “What I do is my own affair.”
“I ask you to reconsider,” Big Mike said.
“And if I don’t?”
Durn snapped his fingers. Instantly, Tork and Grunge and the others turned with their rifles leveled or their revolvers out and pointed.
Fargo froze.
“If you don’t,” Durn said, still acting polite as could be, “I will snap my fingers again and my men will turn you into a sieve.” His cold smile widened.
“It is your choice.”
7
Fargo had a contrary streak in him a mile wide, and he showed it now. He clamped his jaw and said nothing.
Mike Durn arched an eyebrow. “I have heard of stubborn but you are ridiculous. Or is it something else?” His forehead knit in perplexity.
Fargo stayed silent.
“Whether you are or you aren’t, you are damned clever,” Durn paid him the same compliment Birds Landing had. “But I can be clever, too.”
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.