Badlands Bloodsport

19

Fargo fought like most men on the frontier, in a wide-open brawling style where both men traded punches until the stronger left the weaker prone. There was not much “technique” to it, either offensively or defensively. Western men did not see fistfighting as an art or a science, because most serious encounters were settled with weapons.

But Fargo knew as he lowered his body and transferred his balance to his heels, moving in on Derek, that frontier brawling would fail him now. He would have to think on his feet and avoid letting Derek use all those slabs of iron-hard muscle against him. And body blows against the Tyburn hangman would be useless, like punching the Rock of Gibraltar. Just as Fargo always tried to score a head shot with his guns, he would have to land head blows now.

“Cor! Look at the knight in buckskins!” Derek mocked. “Timid little mouse, he is! There you are, Jessica and Rebecca—the American hero who pumped it to you and made you bark like dogs. Have you seen how the lad likes to clean his teeth with a hog-bristle brush? He’ll have no teeth to clean after I’ve done with him.”

Derek was so confident he had not even taken a guard position. “I told you I’d allow you a free facer, Fargo. Look, I’m even leading with my chin to make it easy for you. Come baste me a good one, there’s a stout lad.”

Fargo closed with his opponent, fists clenched but arms hanging to his sides. A facer was tempting, all right, but six lives hung in the balance now, his own included. Years in the saddle, as well as climbing trees and rock pinnacles to scout terrain, had left his long legs knotted with muscles. There was one spot even the strongest man could not build up, and Fargo shifted his weight to his left foot, bringing his right up in a vicious kick that landed squarely on Derek’s crotch.

The flat sound of impact carried well in the cold, still air. Derek instantly jackknifed, sucking in a hissing breath. Fargo followed with a savage kick to his face that sent the man sprawling.

Fargo had learned that most fights end up on the ground as wrestling matches, but he wanted nothing of the sort with this opponent. He waited while Derek, cupping his crotch, struggled to recover his breath.

“You filthy bugger,” the hangman finally managed. “Kicking like some sissy bitch. That’s not according to Hoyle.”

“You mean like murdering Skeets from behind with a rock? Or leaving all of us to die after you rape Lady Blackford? Take your Hoyle and stick him where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m making the medicine and you’re by God taking it.”

“So that’s the way of it? I’ll pound you to paste, Fargo. And I’ve changed my mind about killing you—the death blow is coming. You won’t be standing one minute longer.”

“I’ll be on my feet until hell freezes over and then a little while on the ice. C’mon, it’s cold out here—let’s waltz.”

Derek backhanded blood from his mouth and rose slowly to his feet. Now his fists came up, close together and far out from his face in the style of the trained English pugilist. “Come on, then, sissy bitch,” he taunted Fargo. “Try another kick.”

The two men circled, Derek quickly lunging out with a hard right thrust. Fargo knocked it aside with his left arm and followed up with a quick jab to Derek’s bleeding mouth. But Derek surprised him with a roundhouse left that made a bright orange light explode in Fargo’s skull. It left his ears ringing.

“Cat and mouse,” Derek boasted. “That’s how Derek the Terrible takes them down, what? Well, Lady Blackford, here’s the famous American frontiersman who ‘knows fifty ways to kill a man before breakfast.’ Why don’t you sketch your hero now?”

“He’s acquitting himself rather nicely,” she replied. “And though he doesn’t have your artificial muscles, he is a strong man driven by a strong will. He is ‘a man unafraid,’ and he will vanquish you.”

“You forgot to add amen,” Derek taunted. “That was a prayer. This little kicking sissy is bound for the bone orchard, I’ll warrant.”

In a bit of dazzling footwork, Derek feinted left and then spurted to the right, sending a crushing blow toward Fargo’s left temple. But the honed reflexes of a bobcat saved Fargo as he jerked his head backward. The force of this empty swing left Derek momentarily off balance, and Fargo pummeled his face with several hard-hitting jabs.

“Go it, Fargo!” Slappy shouted. “By God, you’re the Trailsman! Crush this cockroach!”

But the cockroach, Fargo knew, was one of nature’s toughest creatures, and Derek proved it by quickly shaking off the blows and rushing Fargo. A powerful uppercut made Fargo’s teeth clack like dice and almost upended him. Backpedaling to avoid another blow, arms wildly flailing to keep his balance, Fargo knew he was gone beaver if he fell to the ground and let Derek pin him under those ham-sized fists.

“Run, you bloody sissy bitch!” Derek taunted. “The God-Almighty Trailsman, scout, hunter, guide—and yellow poltroon. King George may have shown the white feather to you Colonials, Fargo, but Derek the Terrible will not.”

Fargo was balanced again, slowly circling. He could feel his jaw swelling. “You know something, Derek? Your mouth runs like a whippoorwill’s ass. If you mean to kill me, get thrashing.”

“You begged for it, mate.”

Derek shuffled closer and threw a hard right at Fargo. Fargo moved his head in the nick of time and took a glancing blow to his cheek. But now Derek was open, and Fargo had the opportunity he’d been looking for. Although not a trained pugilist, he had learned from hard experience about the “sweet spot”—a point on the jaw line halfway between the tip of the chin and the ear. A strong enough blow to that spot could knock even the biggest man out.

Fargo set his heels and sent a powerful haymaker toward Derek’s jaw. But Derek jerked his head slightly, and the blow did not land precisely. Nonetheless, Derek reeled backward trying to shake it off.

Fargo, however, closed relentlessly, sending another punishing kick to Derek’s groin. Under the weight of this double attack Derek folded to his knees, his breath blowing and snorting like a played-out pack animal. Fargo quickly snatched the Remington from Derek’s waistband.

“You spent too much time bragging, hangman,” Fargo said as he thumbed back the hammer. “You prob’ly could have killed me if you’d just set to it. Slappy, get that rope out of the fodder wagon. We’re taking no more chances with this one.”

“Lady Blackford was right!” Slappy chortled as he hurried toward the wagon. “You vanquished that son of a bitch, all right!”

Derek finally found his voice. “In a pig’s ass, you old fart sack. The sodding blighter had to kick me. That’s not in the rules.”

“I daresay, Derek,” Lord Blackford’s reedy voice spoke up, “the rules governing a match in an English pub hardly apply to a life-or-death situation on the wild frontier of America. I might add that legs are human appendages no less than arms—by what logic are kicks not permissible in a fight? And finally, what ‘rules’ permit you to . . . outrage my wife? Fargo would have been justified in gouging out your eyes.”

“Fargo, how we gonna haul this big galoot?” Slappy asked, bringing the rope over.

“The earl is an experienced horsebacker,” Fargo said. “The saddle horses are just about done in, but we’ll have to tack one for him to ride. That way we can toss the hangman into the fodder wagon without adding too much weight.”

“Together again, eh, Jessie?” Derek taunted between rasping breaths. “P’r’aps you might give me a reach-around while you’re driving, what?”

Fargo’s second attempt to tag the sweet spot was successful—his well-aimed blow sent Derek into the grass dreaming.

“Truss him up good and tight,” Fargo told Slappy. “And use one of those blindfolds the ladies just made to gag the mouthy son of a bitch. I’ve had my belly full of his chin music.”

Fargo raised his voice to address everyone. “We’ve lost valuable time and we’ll lose even more straightening out that tangled harness and tug chains. It’s only a few hours until sunrise, and it won’t take those fast Cheyenne mustangs long to catch up to us. I’d guess maybe an hour at the outside. That’ll give me some time to send mirror signals to the fort.”

“But how, Skye?” Jessica asked. “The sun will be behind us and very low.”

“You ladies are going to help me with that,” Fargo said. “But I owe it to you to be honest—mirror signals may be useless. There’s supposed to be a sentry in the gate tower to watch for them, but discipline at these frontier outposts is lax. And even if a sentry spots them, the fort is still at least forty miles off. Still, it’s worth a roll of the dice. But my advice is not to count on any soldiers riding to our rescue. Get this set in your minds—we can survive what’s coming but only if everybody stays frosty. Panic is like a wildfire—it spreads fast and it kills everything. You English folks are famous for stout hearts and a stiff upper lip, and I believe every one of you will do the Union Jack proud.”

* * *

Despite his stirring words to the Blackford party, Fargo knew full well the fighting prowess of the Cheyenne and their limitless courage where their sacred law-ways were concerned. He and Slappy were the only ones in this luckless group with any experience fighting Indians, which made it long odds against a force that was at least a dozen or more strong. Imagination’s loom wove some ugly pictures of what was in store, but Fargo forced them from his mind.

“Fargo, I recall how you tried to talk us out of coming this far north,” Lord Blackford said as the two men rode just ahead of the others. “But we were warned about Comanches terrorizing the southern plains, and a hotel keeper in Santa Fe assured us that was one tribe we must avoid.”

“He was right as rain,” Fargo said. “And if Skeets and Derek hadn’t tried to play great white hunter, the Cheyenne would be no big threat. Most of the time the braves are horse raiders, stealing from other tribes’ herds, and they got no great thirst for scalps.”

“Yes, but I dearly wish I had followed your advice to cross the Missouri River into eastern Dakota. My wife claims there are some men whom bees will not sting, and she believes you are one of them. At any rate, I have complete faith in you, despite my high-handed arrogance early on, but I fear we shall all—what is the phrase?—go a cropper.”

Fargo chuckled. “Come a cropper, not go. That could happen, Earl, but it’s not carved in stone. And I’ve been stung by bees, wasps, yellow jackets, and hornets, but don’t tell Lady Blackford. Anyhow, I always try to use wit and wile when main force won’t do it. Those braves haven’t put the quietus on us yet, and I don’t plan to let them.”

“After seeing how you handled Derek, I am imbued with your confidence. That miscreant will no longer pride it over the rest of us, I daresay. Do you plan to turn him over to the soldiers?”

“They have no authority to imprison a civilian, especially a foreigner, unless it’s a crime against the government.”

“Then I suggest summary execution. Blast him to hell. He not only murdered one man, but he clearly detailed his plans for raping my wife and leaving us all stranded.”

“He’ll get his comeuppance,” Fargo promised, “one way or another.”

Fargo slewed around in the saddle and studied the weak “false dawn” in the east. He estimated sunrise would come in about an hour and a half.

“Earl,” he said after a minute’s thought, “you can use a pistol, right?”

“Yes, but my experience is limited to shooting at fixed targets.”

“Still, that’s experience. Have you ever shot a rifle?”

“Only a shotgun while hunting grouse.”

Fargo said, “I think it might be a good idea if you join me and Slappy when the attack comes. That fancy German rifle of Aldritch’s has a good scope on it. For this first attack, we’re going back to dropping their horses. Since I scattered their herd, they should have fewer remounts on their strings.”

“I will certainly do what you tell me. But I believe there are only six rounds left for that weapon. Sylvester wasted most of them shooting at trees and coyotes.”

“Yeah, so to cut down on misses you’ll have to use cross-sticks to rest the barrel. With a pistol, the target is usually close and you just point and shoot. With a rifle, you have to remember the word ‘brass.’”

“Brass?”

“Brass,” Fargo repeated. “Start running it through your mind. ‘B’ stands for breathe—before you pull the trigger you take a deep breath and let it out slow. The ‘R’ stands for relaxing your muscles. ‘A’ is for aiming, and you don’t shoot until your bead is steady. The first ‘S’ is for trigger slack—you take it up steady until you feel the resistance of the sear. The second ‘S’ is mighty important—it stands for squeezing the trigger slow instead of jerking it. Jerking it will buck the rifle and throw you off bead.”

“I see. Breathe, relax, aim, slack, squeeze. Jolly good, Fargo. I shall endeavor my utmost.”

Fargo grunted. “If that means you’ll do your best, that’s all I can ask.”

The Trailsman dropped back to check with Slappy. “How they hangin’, old roadster?”

“Fargo, both these teams is drag-footed. They’re ’bout a cunt hair away from foundering.”

“Mr. Hollister!” Lady Blackford’s voice objected from inside the mud wagon. “I thought you promised to ‘launder your talk’ around the ladies?”

“God dawg, pardon me all to perdition, ma’am. I was baptized, but the water must not a’ been hot ’nough on account it didn’t take. “

Fargo lowered his voice. “It won’t be long before all the horses get a rest. We’ll be forting up at sunrise, and that’s as far as we’re going. With luck we’ll survive their first attack and make them fade back before the second.”

“Uh-huh. And when them red lubbers jump us the second time, we’ll be down to three six-shooters, some prissy muff guns, and them fuc—I mean, all them rocks we gathered up.”

“That’s not holy writ,” Fargo replied. “Sometimes it’s best to quarter the wind than to charge right into it.”

“Happens you got a plan, long shanks, why keep it dark from me?”

“Because you’re ugly as a mud fence,” Fargo replied in a cheerful voice.

“What in tarnal blazes does that have to do with it?”

“Not a damn thing,” Fargo admitted as he gigged the Ovaro back toward the fodder wagon. “Well, Jessica, is your passenger giving you any trouble?”

“Mum’s the word, Skye. But he’s much heavier than Lord Blackford and a frightful burden to the horses. They won’t even pick up their heads anymore, and you can hear how terrible their breathing sounds—much like a leaky bellows.”

“It’s no way to treat horses,” Fargo said. “If we could have exerted them in broken doses, they’d be in good shape. Usually my stallion has a belly full of bedsprings, but right now he’s got no bottom left. But we got no choice—we need to get as close to Fort Laramie as possible.”

“But you said they may very well not see your mirror signals, so how could they help us?”

Fargo leaned low from the saddle and checked the knots binding Derek. “Even if they see the signals, I doubt that they could form up and reach us in time. But these horses are already stale and will founder, and if we manage to survive the Indian attacks, we’ll all have to hoof it—at least thirty miles—to safety. Without water. That’s why we need to be as close as we can get if we want to wriggle off the hook.”

Jessica sighed audibly. “In England, the American West has become a great fairy tale filled with noble red men and great, shaggy buffaloes. Everyone is keen to see it. And now we may all die here, mightn’t we?”

“It’s do or die,” Fargo admitted, “so let’s all just make sure we do.”