A glancing blow to the head sent Fargo reeling. He shook the effect off but he could tell his vitality was ebbing. He slipped a left jab, retreated from a right uppercut, and thought his ribs had caved in when Grunge caught him in the side. Doubled over, he backpedaled, and the next thing he knew, he bumped into the bar.
“Are you ready to tell Mr. Durn what he wants to know?” Grunge asked.
“Go to hell,” Fargo hissed between clenched teeth.
Grunge glanced at Durn, who nodded and said, “Pound the stubborn fool into the floor.”
Fargo’s world became a haze of fists and pain. His body throbbed with agony. His arms were so heavy, he could barely lift them. His legs wobbled. He was being beaten and there was not a damn thing he could do. Or was there?
Punching with impunity, Grunge had waded in closer.
With an effort, Fargo concentrated on his opponent’s chin. He absorbed more punishment, and then, for a few seconds, Grunge slowed. Fargo threw all he had into a right cross that he hoped would bring the man down. He was sure it landed, but a strange thing happened. Instead of Grunge buckling, Fargo felt his own legs start to give out.
A fist filled his vision, and there was blackness and muffled sounds, and then even the sounds faded.
Fargo’s first sensation was of floating in a sea of pain. He hurt everywhere. From his hair to his toes, every inch of him was in torment. Gradually the pain lessened to where he became conscious that he was conscious, that he was lying on his back on something soft, and that, oddly, he could smell lilacs.
Fargo opened his eyes. The right one worked as it should but the left eye was swollen half shut. Above him spread a flowered canopy. He was in a four-poster bed in a nicely furnished bedroom. The pink walls and pink quilt hinted at the gender of the owner. He licked his lips and found the lower lip puffy.
Fargo raised his right arm. His hand had swelled and his knuckles were scraped raw. Someone had cleaned up the blood and applied ointment to each knuckle.
A blanket covered him to his chest. Fargo did not need to lift it to tell he was naked. He went to sit up but his ribs protested and his head began to throb so he eased back down. He summed up the state of affairs with a heartfelt, “Damn.”
Not five seconds later the bedroom door opened and in swept a lovely blond vision with emerald green eyes and full strawberry lips, wearing a light green dress that swished with each stride of her long legs. “I thought I heard you say something. Good morning.”
“I was out all night?”
“You have been unconscious for three days, Mr. Fargo. For a while it was nip and tuck, and I feared I would lose you.” The blond vision had a radiant smile. “I am Sally Brook, by the way.”
“I know,” Fargo said. “Thaddeus Thompson told me about you.”
“Ah,” Sally said. “And Mike Durn told me a lot about you, but not why he had you beaten and thrown into the street.”
“The street?” Fargo repeated.
Sally nodded. “That is where I found you. No one else would go near you, so great is their fear of Durn. I took it on myself to bring you home and nurse you back to health.”
“I am obliged,” Fargo said. Not many people would put themselves out for a stranger as she had done.
“My motive is not entirely charitable,” Sally Brook said. “From what I gather, you are Mike Durn’s enemy.”
“After what he has done, it will be him or me,” Fargo said.
“I am his enemy, too,” Sally said, “in that I have been trying my utmost to stop his trafficking in Indian girls. They are brought to his place against their will and degraded in ways I can only describe as despicable.” She caught herself. “What am I thinking? Enough about my crusade. You must be famished. I was only able to get a little food and water into you while you were out.”
The mention caused Fargo’s stomach to rumble. “I reckon I am starved,” he admitted. “But there are things I need to know first.”
“Such as?”
“For starters, my horse,” Fargo said. “Did you see an Ovaro out front of the saloon?”
“I am afraid I do not know a lot about horses,” Sally said. “But if by Ovaro you mean a black and white stallion, it was nuzzling you when I first saw you. I assumed it must be yours, and sure enough, Kutler came out of the Whiskey Mill and confirmed it.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Only that you were a fool to buck Mike Durn, and that I was a fool not to accept Durn’s long-standing invitation to supper. All that while he helped me drape you over your saddle.” Sally indicated a window to his left. “Your horse is out back. Don’t worry. My yard is fenced so he can’t wander off.”
“More to be obliged for,” Fargo said.
“Save your thanks. When you hear what I have in mind, you might not be so grateful.”
“Care to give me a clue?”
“Let’s just say that since we share a common enemy, we should work together for the common good.” Sally Brook put a hand to his forehead. “Your fever is down. I will bring you hot soup directly.”
“How about some coffee? Or better yet, a glass of whiskey.”
“I run a millinery, not a saloon,” Sally said, not unkindly. “But I might have an old bottle in one of the kitchen cabinets.” She patted his shoulder and whisked on out.
Fargo settled back. He must have been born under a lucky star. If she had not come along when she did, he might still be lying out in the street, only he wouldn’t be breathing.
Rage bubbled in him like lava in a volcano. Mike Durn had made a mistake in not finishing him off. Because now it was personal. No one did to him what Durn had done. No one. It wasn’t just that his body took a savage beating. It wasn’t strictly pride, either. It went deeper than that. It went to the core of his being.
Fargo had never been one to forgive and forget. When someone hurt him, he hurt back. When someone tried to kill him, he killed them. It went against his grain to be stomped into the floor and then go on with his life as if nothing had happened. Mike Durn had a reckoning coming. Kutler, Tork, Grunge—especially Grunge—must answer for carrying out Durn’s wishes.
Fargo made a silent vow. He was going to tear Durn’s little empire out from under him.
Drowsiness put an end to his musing. He dozed off, only to be immediately awakened by the bedroom door opening.
“Here you are,” Sally said sweetly. She bore a wooden tray with a large china bowl filled to the brim. Several slices of buttered bread were neatly stacked next to the bowl. “I trust chicken soup will do?”
“Will it ever,” Fargo said hungrily. Placing his hands flat on the bed, he pushed himself up and braced his back against the headboard.
Sally carefully settled the tray in his lap and handed him a spoon. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“My rifle. It should be in my saddle scabbard.” Fargo wanted it by his side, just in case.
“I’m sorry. When I stripped your horse, the scabbard was empty. Someone must have taken it.”
“I will add that to the list,” Fargo said.
“List?” Sally said.
Fargo avoided answering by spooning soup into his mouth. It was best she did not know. After all she had done for him, he did not want to upset her. But before he was done, Polson would run red with blood.
8
Fargo was up and around three days later but he was so sore and stiff that the best he could do was hobble about for short spells and then crawl back into bed to rest. He discovered that Sally lived in the back of a frame house. The front half she had converted into a millinery. She sold dresses and bonnets, along with things like hairbrushes and combs and hand mirrors, and even a selection of colored beads prized by Indian women. Her selection was modest compared to millineries in, say, Denver or St. Louis, but since she had the only lady’s store for a thousand miles around, she had a devoted if small number of clients. Her living quarters consisted of the bedroom, a kitchen, a parlor, and a sewing room.