Thunderhead Trail (3 page)

Grizz lumbered toward Fargo, saying, “Do you know why they call me Grizz?”

“It's a common name for lumps of stupid,” Fargo said.

And then there was no more talking.

Grizz waded in, his knobby fists raised in an awkward boxing stance. He flung an overhand that Fargo easily ducked. Quickly, Fargo retaliated with two jolts to the ribs that would have knocked other men onto their toes. All Grizz did was grunt.

Fargo sideslipped a jab and rammed a solid right to Grizz's jaw. Grizz's head barely moved an inch. A huge fist drove at Fargo's face and he got his left up to block it. Even so, the force of the blow sent him back on his bootheels and sent pain flaring down his arm to his toes.

Fargo realized this wasn't going to be a short fight.

Grizz was as strong as the proverbial ox. So what if Grizz possessed little skill. His enormous strength made up for it.

The wisest tactic for Fargo to adopt was to wear Grizz down. He slammed a straight-arm to Grizz's jaw, avoided an uppercut, and delivered a punch to the gut that would have folded most men in half.

Grizz grimaced.

A looping left knocked Fargo's hat off. Fargo landed good blows to Grizz's cheek, his side, his ear.

Red in the face with anger and frustration, Grizz roared, “Stand still!” He lunged with his arms spread wide.

Fargo sprang aside. Or tried to. He'd forgotten about the overturned tables and chairs and his boot caught on one of the latter. He tried to wrench free but crashed onto his back on the floor.

Grizz pounced. Grinning, he raised his leg and stomped his big boot down at Fargo's face. Fargo rolled, twisted, kicked Grizz in the knee and in the shin, and was on his feet before Grizz set himself.

Grizz bent and went to pick up the chair but stopped when a gun hammer clicked.

“No,” Rafer Crown said.

Grizz glared at the bounty hunter but dropped the chair. “After I'm done with this jackrabbit, how about I pound you.”

“I don't fight with fists,” Crown said. “Only pistols.” He smiled. “And anytime you reckon you're fast enough, I'll splatter your brains.”

“You think you're somethin',” Grizz said.

From over at the window Rance hollered, “Forget about him, damn you, and take care of the scout.”

Grizz turned. He raised his fists higher and hunched his thick shoulders and advanced.

Fargo unleashed everything he had. Jabs, uppercuts, rights, lefts, from the sides, from the front. Never still, always hitting. Grizz threw one punch to ten of his. But it was like beating on an adobe wall. It had no effect other than to make Grizz madder.

Fargo was growing winded. Instead of wearing Grizz down, he was wearing himself down. He backed off to gain a breather and those animal eyes of Grizz's glittered. Grizz knew.

“You're not so much,” Grizz said.

The hell of it was, so far Fargo hadn't been. He set himself and for a minute they swapped blows and blocks and then he had to step back again.

“Won't be long now,” Grizz crowed.

Fargo had to find a weakness, and quick. He decided to pick one spot and concentrate on that. The ribs wouldn't do. They were like iron bars. Grizz's gut wasn't much softer. Grizz's legs were redwoods. That left from the neck up.

Darting in, Fargo threw all he had in a swing to Grizz's jaw. It didn't have much more effect than the last one. Ducking, Fargo connected with another and then a third.

Now it was Grizz who stepped back. He shook his head and moved his jaw back and forth. “What are you tryin' to do?” he growled. “Break it?”

“Yes,” Fargo said. He feinted, and when Grizz brought both hams in front of his face to protect it, Fargo tromped on Grizz's toes with his boot.

Grizz bellowed and lowered his hands.

Instantly, Fargo let loose with an uppercut. It caught Grizz flush under the jaw and rocked his head back. Grizz took an unsteady step back, the first weakness he'd shown.

Fargo went after him, Grizz's jaw his target. He was clipped on the shoulder but drove in three jabs to the chin. Despite Grizz's matting of heavy beard, each one jarred him.

The saloon was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.

Fargo glimpsed Rance and Kyler out of the corner of his eye. Rance looked worried.

The townsfolk were gawking in fascination. Fisticuffs were rare. West of the Mississippi, most disagreements were settled with gun smoke.

Grizz shook himself again, and now his eyes were pits of rage. With an inarticulate cry, he hurled himself at Fargo, his arms flung as wide as they would go.

Fargo retreated, collided with a table, and was brought to a stop.

The next moment Grizz had him.

It was like being caught in a giant vise.

Steel bands wrapped around Fargo's arms, pinning them. He struggled as Grizz lifted him bodily off the floor, and squeezed.

The pain was excruciating. It filled Fargo's chest, numbed his arms, blurred his vision.

Grizz laughed. “Got you now,” he gloated. “Got you good as dead.”

Fargo grit his teeth and twisted and kicked. With someone as immensely strong as Grizz, a bear hug could prove fatal. He needed to break free before his ribs gave under the pressure. They'd fracture and break and maybe puncture a lung.

Over at the window, Rance was laughing too. Kyler let out a whoop of joy.

Fargo couldn't pry loose, couldn't get leverage. In desperation he tried to drive his knee into Grizz's groin.

He heard himself gasp. He saw Grizz's chin swimming before him, and in fury slammed his forehead into it. To his surprise, it cleared his sight. He did it again and again and yet once more.

Grizz swayed.

Fargo's forehead was pure torment but he smashed it into Grizz's jaw two more times.

Grizz tottered and his grip weakened slightly. Not much but it fired Fargo with hope. He tucked his chin to his chest and slammed his head up under Grizz's jaw. There was a sharp crack and the crunch of teeth and Grizz howled and cast him to the floor.

Scrambling out of reach, Fargo regained his feet. His arms were tingling but he could use them. He countered a weak jab and kicked Grizz in the knee.

Grizz cursed, and his leg partly buckled. It brought his chin lower.

Now! Fargo thought. He whipped into an uppercut that snapped Grizz's head toward the ceiling. Once. Twice. And a third uppercut that left his hand hurting like hell—and brought Grizz crashing to the floor.

Fargo didn't know who was more surprised, him or the onlookers. He waited, his fists hiked, for Grizz to get up and renew their fight, but Grizz lay still, spittle flecking his mouth.

“Well,” Fargo said.

Behind him, someone let out a long breath.

“You did it, by God,” a townsman said.

Fargo's whole body was a welter of pain. He was barely aware when someone shoved something into his hand.

“You'll be wanting your six-shooter back,” Dirk Peters said.

Fargo looked down at his holster. He drew his Colt and gave it a twirl and turned to the pair at the window. “Get over here.”

Rance was boiling with hate. Kyler stared at Grizz in disbelief.

“What do you want now?” Rance snapped.

“Strip him.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Fargo said. “Take off his clothes and leave them in a pile.”

“Why in hell—” Rance began, and stopped. “Oh. I savvy. For the damn girl.”

Fargo pointed the Colt. “You don't have all day.”

They set to it, Kyler saying, “Grizz will by-God kill you for this, mister.”

“He's welcome to try.”

It took some doing. Grizz was so heavy, they had to work together, lifting him and rolling him so they could peel his shirt and pants. Tugging off his boots was a feat in itself. But at last they were done.

“What now, bastard,” Rance snarled.

“Tote him out and light a shuck.”

“We won't forget you for this,” Rance vowed.

Each grabbed a huge arm. Bodies straining, they dragged their brother toward the batwings.

The saloon stayed still until Grizz had been pushed and shoved over a horse and Rance and Kyler climbed on theirs and Rance led the third animal off by the reins.

Then whoops and hollers broke out.

A small man in an apron came over. “I'll remember this all my born days. Would you care for a drink, mister?”

“I sure as hell would,” Fargo said. His throat was parched.

“Coming right up. It's on the house for what you did for Candice.”

That reminded Fargo. “Bring a blanket if you have it.”

“What?” the bartender said. Then, “Oh. Sure. I have one in the back.”

A gray-haired townsman approached and offered Fargo his hand, saying, “Mister, you have done us a favor. Those three have been the terrors of the territory for some spell now.”

“I wish you'd just shot them,” said someone else.

Fargo turned and offered his own hand to Dirk Peters. “I'm obliged for the help.”

“Hell, it wasn't nothing,” Dirk said.

Fargo did the same to Rafer Crown, saying, “Heard tell of you down to Denver.”

“Heard of you all over,” Crown said.

“Are you here after the bounty, too?” Dirk Peters asked.

“I don't hunt men for money,” Fargo said. Which wasn't entirely true. He'd done it a couple of times but would never take it up as a profession. He liked scouting too much.

“Who said anything about a man?” Dirk Peters said, and chuckled.

“This bounty is for a bull,” Rafer Crown said.

Fargo wasn't sure he'd heard right. “A what?”

“A bull,” Crown repeated himself.

“The most valuable in the country, or damn near,” Dirk Peters said.

Before Fargo could ask them to explain, the bartender returned with a blanket and a bottle of Monongahela.

“I reckoned this would do you better than a glass.”

“You reckoned right,” Fargo said. He took both and wheeled to go but the bartender had more to say.

“One more thing. That Rance Hollister doesn't own just one Sharps. He totes two on his saddle, one on either side.”

Fargo had never heard of anyone doing that.

The bartender went on. “It wouldn't surprise me none if he only went a short way and is out there waiting to pick you off.”

“Hell,” Fargo said.

Fargo poked his head over the batwings and looked both ways. The street was still deserted expect for the forlorn naked figure a block away.

A cloud of dust to the west assured him that the three brothers were, in fact, gone.

Still, Fargo hugged the buildings until he was almost to Candice and then crossed to her and spread the blanket.

Her head was bowed, her hair over her face as before. She started when he draped the blanket over her shoulders and stiffened in alarm.

“It's only me,” Fargo said. “You're safe now.”

“You shouldn't,” Candice said. “The one who did this to me—”

“They're gone.”

“Oh,” Candice said. “I heard horses but I didn't look.”

Fargo parted her hair. Her swollen eye was worse, her cheek a dark black and blue.

“Did you have anything to do with their leaving?”

“I did,” Fargo said.

Candice managed a smile. “I don't think I ever caught your name.”

Fargo told her and held up the bottle. “Care for some firewater?”

“I damn well would.”

Fargo opened it and offered it to her. She didn't take just a sip. She tilted it and gulped. A third of the bottle was gone when she handed it back.

“I'm grateful.”

“Hell, woman,” Fargo said. “You did know that's whiskey and not water?”

Candice laughed, and winced. “It never affects me for some reason. I can drink all day and all night and never get drunk.”

“We must be twins.”

She laughed again, and a lot of the tension and misery drained away. “Listen to you, Skye Fargo. You are my new favorite person.”

“How about I get you back to the saloon?”

“Wearing a blanket? Hell no. How about you take me to my place. It's just up the street a ways.”

“Need a hand?”

“No.”

Fargo noticed that she sagged and moved stiffly so he put his arm around her anyway. “Here,” he said.

Candice fixed her good eye on him. “Why are you being so nice?”

“I like your tits.”

She snickered, then snorted, then burst out laughing and stopped herself to say, “Damn you. Don't do that. It hurts when I laugh.”

“Don't do what? Like your tits?”

Candice did more laughing, only softer, and leaned into him. “Damn, my face hurts like hell.”

“Maybe you shouldn't talk, then.”

“No, that's all right.” She paused. “So why
are
you being so nice? No one else helped. The men in this town have as much backbone as oatmeal. And the others here for the bounty didn't butt in, either.”

“There's that word again,” Fargo said.

“Which?”

“Bounty.”

Candice tilted her face to him. “Isn't that why you're here?”

“I was just passing through.”

“Oh my. And you came to the aid of a poor, defenseless maiden. Just like that Ivanhoe in that book.”

“I'm not a knight in shining armor,” Fargo said flatly.

“What are you then?”

“Randy,” Fargo said.

Candice tried to stop herself from laughing but couldn't. “Damn you. Will you cut that out?” She took a deep breath. “Take a right at the next corner. We're almost there.”

Fargo had glimpsed faces peering out at them from the windows of businesses and homes.

Candice saw them, too. “Bunch of rabbits. Although I suppose I can't blame them. Those Hollisters are as mean as anything.” She leaned against him even more, until he was supporting most of her weight.

“Do you need me to carry you?” Fargo asked. He admired her grit almost as much as he admired her tits.

“I'm tuckered out, is all,” Candice said. But that didn't stop her from saying, “That bounty I mentioned is for a bull. There's a man, Jim Tyler. He started up the first cattle ranch in these parts about, oh, a year or so ago. A couple of months back he brought in a stud bull all the way from Texas. He paid twenty thousand dollars for it, or so folks say.”

Fargo whistled.

“I know. That's more than most folks make in a lifetime. But now the bull has gone missing and Tyler is beside himself. He thinks it wandered off into the mountains. If he can't find it he's out all that money, and from what I hear, he doesn't have enough to buy another. So he's doing the next best thing.”

“Which is?”

“Offering a bounty to anyone who finds his bull and brings it back safe and sound. You should give it a try.”

“It would take a heap of money to get me to go after some bull,” Fargo said. “How much bounty are we talking about?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Fargo whistled again.

“Is that heap enough for you?”

Fargo thought of the whiskey he could buy and the doves he could treat himself to and the poker games he could sit in on, and had to admit, “It just might be.”