Flathead Fury (6 page)

As quietly as he could, Fargo put himself together. No sounds came out of the encircling cottonwoods but he could not shake the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them. Fully dressed and lying on his side, he bent toward Birds Landing to warn her.

Suddenly a figure in buckskins glided into view, cat-footing stealthily toward them.

Fargo froze, hoping the man would think he was asleep. Then he saw that the stalker had a bow, and spied what could be the top of a quiver poking above the man's right shoulder.

It was an Indian, not a white man.

Since they were in Flathead country, odds were the warrior was a Flathead, or Salish, a member of Birds Landing's tribe. They were on friendly terms with whites but Fargo never took anything for granted. He had his thumb on the Colt's hammer, ready to snap off a shot the moment the warrior raised the bow to unleash a shaft.

That was when Birds Landing stirred and muttered in her sleep in the Salish language.

The warrior stopped. He appeared to be staring intently at Birds Landing. When she did not stir or sit up, he edged forward.

Waiting until the warrior was almost to his saddle, Fargo sprang. The warrior's hand flew to the haft of a tomahawk at his waist but before he could wield it, Fargo was on him. Fargo gave him a hard shove while cocking the Colt and declaring, “Don't move or I will shoot!”

Fargo had no idea if the warrior spoke English. He did not want to kill him, if he could help it. It was bound to stir up trouble, which was the last thing the Flatheads needed, what with the promise of a reservation in the offing.

The warrior fell onto his back and stayed there. He made no attempt to draw the tomahawk or resort to his bow.

Birds Landing sat up with a start. “What is it? What is going on?” Her eyes fastened on the warrior and she exclaimed something in her own language.

The warrior calmly answered.

Rising, Birds Landing said to Fargo, “Do not shoot! He will not harm us.”

“How can you be so sure?” Fargo demanded.

“He is my brother.”

Fargo slowly holstered the Colt but kept his hand on it as the two Salish warmly embraced and addressed one another in their own language. He waited for Birds Landing to explain what her brother was doing there, and when it became apparent she had forgotten about him, he coughed and said, “Remember me? I want to know what your brother is doing here. How did he find us?”

Birds Landing tore herself from her sibling. “Forgive me. His name is Thunder Cloud. He was off hunting when Kutler and Tork came to our village, and when he learned what they had done, he came to Polson to find me. Since he dared not let himself be seen, he watched from a gully.” Birds Landing spoke to Thunder Cloud and he replied. “He says that he saw Indian women going in and out of the Whiskey Mill, and guessed that is where I must be. He was nearby when you rescued me.” She squeezed her brother's hand. “He followed, and only now caught up.”

Fargo noticed how young Thunder Cloud was, and the look of dislike the warrior gave him. “Have you told him you and I are friends?”

Birds Landing hesitated. “He knows what we did and he does not approve. But he never likes it when I am with a man, whether the man is white or red.”

Just what Fargo needed. “What is he liable to do about it?” He was not fond of the idea of taking an arrow in the back.

After a brief, sharp exchange, Birds Landing said, “He will not do anything. He understands it is between you and me.”

The way the warrior was looking at him, Fargo was not entirely convinced. “Has he seen any sign of Durn and his men?”

Another flurry resulted in: “He says we have lost them. That they gave up and turned back toward Polson.”

That was good news in two respects. “Then we are safe,” Fargo said in relief, “and I can leave you here with your brother and get on with what I came here to do.”

“Leave me? So soon after—” Birds Landing caught herself. “Must you?” she asked simply.

“Yes.” Fargo had learned a lot so far, about how Durn was taking over Polson. But one thing he had not learned, and which the army would want to know, was how Big Mike Durn intended to take over the entire territory.

“If you go back, Durn will have you killed.”

“He is welcome to try,” Fargo said, and began gathering up his saddle blanket and saddle.

“I am worried for you,” Birds Landing said. “You are one and they are many.”

“I'll be fine.”

Fargo walked to the Ovaro. Were it not for the brother's glares, he might be inclined to stay the night. He threw on his saddle blanket and smoothed it out, then saddled up. Tying his bedroll and saddlebags on took no time at all. As he stepped into the stirrups, Birds Landing came over and held out her hand to shake, white fashion.

“I better not kiss you. Thunder Cloud would not like it.”

“He sure doesn't like me much,” Fargo remarked.

“Do not take it personal,” Birds Landing said. “If we had not made love, he would like you fine.”

Fargo doubted it.

As if she had read his thoughts, Birds Landing said, “Then again, he is not all that fond of whites. He resents being forced to live on a reservation.”

A lot of Indians resented it, with good cause, Fargo reflected. In too many instances, a tribe was marched hundreds of miles to their new home, which often was in a region with too little game and not enough water, areas the whites did not want for themselves. The Flatheads were lucky in that respect; the government was permitting them to stay on their own land.

“Make yourself scarce until Durn has been dealt with,” Fargo advised. “He will not be riding roughshod over people much longer.” Fargo touched her cheek, then gigged the Ovaro. He swore he could feel the brother's eyes bore into his back as the night engulfed him.

Fargo held the Ovaro to a walk. Once he was down out of the hills, he swung toward a trail that would take him into Polson from the south. All things considered, it seemed wise to ride in from a different direction.

The wilderness was alive with the cries of animals, predators and prey alike. None of the meat-eaters came anywhere near him, though, and he reached the trail without mishap.

Fargo was bone tired. He had been on the go all day without much rest. He intended to treat himself to a cozy bed and to treat the Ovaro to a stall in the stable. The prospect set him to grinning but his grin faded when a loud caterwauling fell on his ears. “It can't be,” he said.

But it was.

Fargo went around the next turn, and there, staggering toward him while merrily singing off-key, was none other than Thaddeus Thompson, the ever-present bottle in hand.

Thaddeus took a swig, went to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and took a step back. “You again!”

“Small world,” Fargo said drily.

“What are you doing? Following me?”

“If I was, wouldn't I be behind you?”

Thaddeus looked over his shoulder, and chuckled. “When I am this booze blind, I can't tell front from back and sometimes up from down.”

“How are things in Polson?” Fargo asked.

Slurring his words atrociously, Thaddeus said, “There was a ruckus earlier. I heard that one of Big Mike Durn's Indian girls got away, and he is none too happy.”

“You don't say.” Fargo feigned innocence.

“Yep. Somebody knocked two of Big Mike's toughs over their noggins and lit out with her.” Thaddeus tittered. “It serves him right, the murdering bastard.”

“Has Durn returned yet?”

“A couple of hours ago. Him and his men were plumb tuckered out, and he was growling at them fit to bite off their heads.”

“Have you heard who took the Indian girl?”

“No one knows. Of if Durn does, he hasn't said.” Thaddeus wet his throat again. “Sally Brook is right pleased, though. I heard her tell Durn that it was too bad all those girls didn't get away.”

“How did Durn take that?”

“How do you think? He stomped into his saloon as mad as an old bull. Sally takes an awful chance mouthing off to him, but she is the only one who can get away with it.”

Fargo looked forward to talking to her. “Want me to see you to your cabin, old-timer?”

Thaddeus snorted. “What the hell for? I'm not helpless.”

“What about that griz—” Fargo began.

“Old One Ear? Don't start with him again. He is practically my pet.”

The mention sparked Fargo to ask, “That reminds me. Have you heard anything about Mike Durn having a pet of his own?”

“Is it a polecat?” Thaddeus rejoined, and cackled.

“I take it that is a no.”

“If he has one, no one has told me. Now be on your way. I have half a bottle yet to drink and the night ain't half over.”

“Are you sure you can make it? You look fit to bounce off trees.”

“How do you think I stay on my feet?” Beaming, Thaddeus fondled the bottle and walked on by. His off-key singing again rose to the stars.

Shaking his head, Fargo clucked to the Ovaro.

The lights of Polson were a mile off when hooves pounded and half a dozen riders swept across the trail, blocking it. Fargo drew rein, his elbow crooked so his fingers brushed his Colt. He did not recognize any of them except the small man in the middle.

Tork hefted his Sharps, then said, “Well, look who we have here. Mr. Durn was wondering what happened to you. Where have you been?”

“None of your damn business,” Fargo said.

“Don't prod me, mister,” Tork snapped. “We have about ridden our horses into the ground hunting for whoever took one of Mr. Durn's squaws. He is of the opinion it might be you.”

“I better go have a talk with him. Where is he?”

“Back at the Whiskey Mill,” Tork answered. “We will escort you in. But first, hand over your six-shooter.”

“No.”

Tork bristled with, “There are enough of us that you will be lucky to get off a shot.”

“So long as the shot I get off is aimed at you,” Fargo called the little man's bluff.

“You don't scare me none,” Tork sneered. But he did not make an issue of it. “Go on ahead of us and we will follow.”

“I will do the following,” Fargo told him. “Less chance of a bullet in the back that way.”

“If you and me tangle, it will be head-on,” Tork predicted. “I am no coward.” He reined his mount around, bawling, “We will do as he wants, boys. He gets to go on breathing until Mr. Durn says different.”

A hardcase on the right spat on the ground. “I don't much like how he tells us what to do.”

“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.”

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.

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?”