Backwoods Bloodbath

BUSTED

Fargo glared. There was only so much abuse he would take. “Don’t lay a hand on me again.”

“Or what?” Phil mockingly demanded.

“Or this.” Fargo hit him. He swept his right fist up from below his waist and planted it solidly on the cocky idiot’s jaw.

The blow jolted Phil onto his heels. He staggered and fell to one knee. His companion sprang to help and paid for his eagerness with a punch to the gut that doubled him over.

Thinking that was enough, Fargo swiveled to run after Draypool and the man in the dark suit, but he had taken only two steps when iron fingers locked onto his wrist and he was spun around a second time.

“I will bust you, mister!” Phil raged. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth, and bloodlust was in his eyes. He drew back his other hand, his fist balled. “Bust you good!”

The Colt was in Fargo’s hand before any of them could blink. “Bust this,” he said, and slammed the barrel against Phil’s temple.