Flathead Fury

9

By nine thirty Fargo was saddled and ready to ride out. As he was pulling on the cinch he glanced over the Ovaro and spotted a man watching him from the corner of a nearby building. Leaving the Ovaro tied to the fence, he went into the kitchen for a last cup of coffee.

Sally Brook was puttering around trying not to be glum. She filled a china cup decorated with roses and set it on a saucer in front of him. “I am sorry it has to be like this.”

“I keep telling you. It isn’t over. It is just beginning.”

“And I keep telling you that there are too many of them.” Sally brushed at a lock of golden hair that had fallen over an eye. “It might be better if you really did leave. For your own sake, if nothing else.”

“What about the Flatheads and the other tribes?” Fargo responded. “Or don’t you care if they are driven from their land or wiped out?”

“You know better. But I also care about you—” Sally caught herself, and self-consciously smiled. “There. I have said it. I have grown a bit fond of you during your convalescence.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Fargo gripped her wrist, pulled her down, and kissed her on the mouth. She was so startled, she recoiled.

“What was that for?”

“I have grown fond of you, too,” Fargo said. He particularly liked her full, ripe body. It was easy to see why Mike Durn fancied her.

“Oh.” Sally coughed, then said, “You can let go of my arm now.”

“Right after I do this,” Fargo said, and rising, he kissed her again, fusing his mouth to hers. She stiffened, then gradually relaxed, her hands straying to his shoulders. When he pulled back, she had a new gleam in her lovely eyes.

“That was nice.”

“It was supposed to be.” Fargo glanced out the window to be sure no one had seen, and sat back down. “Once this is over, there are a lot more where that came from. If you are interested,” he teased.

“Very much so,” Sally said. “But I should warn you. I am not all that worldly. I have not been with a lot of men.”

Fargo swallowed half the cup at a gulp. “You make it sound like that should matter.”

“I am only saying I do not have a lot of experience,” Sally clarified. “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

Fargo admired the swell of her bosom and the suggestion of willowy legs under her dress. “Don’t worry there.”

Sally gave a nervous little laugh. “Listen to me. I am becoming too brazen for my own good. Next I will be picking up men on street corners.”

“I doubt that.” Fargo glanced out the window again and there was the same man who had been spying on him earlier, in the next yard. He got up and drew the shade.

“Was the sun bothering you?” Sally asked.

“Something was,” Fargo answered, and leaned against the table to finish his coffee.

“How will you get in touch with me if you need to?”

“I will find a way,” Fargo assured her.

“But what if you are killed? How will I find out? Durn is not likely to come right out and tell me.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” Fargo said. He put down the cup and pulled his hat brim low. “Time to be going.”

Sally stepped in front of him. “Be careful. Please.”

Fargo kissed her a third time, a long, languid kiss with her flush against him so that her breasts were cushioned by his chest and he could feel the swell of her thighs against his legs. He started to stir where a man always stirred. Reluctantly, he went out, opened the gate, and forked leather. She stayed in the doorway, a portrait of sadness.

“I will be thinking of you.”

Fargo would be thinking of her a lot, too. Without her clothes on. He gigged the Ovaro and rode around the house and on down Polson’s dusty main street.

Big Mike Durn and half a dozen of his underlings, including Kutler, Tork, and Grunge, were waiting out front of the saloon. Durn saw him and came out into the street. “You are early,” he said when Fargo drew rein.

“No sense in testing your good nature,” Fargo remarked.

“No danger of that since I don’t have one,” Durn shot back.

Fargo lifted the reins to go on. “Until we meet again.”

“This is the last time we will see one another,” Durn informed him. “And I can’t say it has come soon enough to suit me.”

“You take an awful lot for granted.”

Big Mike Durn did not take offense. Instead, he called out, “Hoyt!” From around the Whiskey Mill came a trio of tough characters on horseback.

“What is this?” Fargo asked.

“As if you didn’t expect it,” Durn said. “These three will make sure you leave Mission Valley. Try to turn back and they will bury you.”

Fargo suspected they were under orders to plant him anyway. He studied them from under his hat brim. His Colt was in the holster of the heaviest of the three. Hoyt, evidently.

“Any message for Sally when I see her tonight?” Durn rubbed it in. “On second thought, I don’t want to hear your name mentioned ever again.” He moved out of the way. “Off you go. Six months from now, when I am in control, you are welcome to come back and we will toast my good fortune.”

“That will be the day.” Fargo clucked to the Ovaro and pretended he did not notice Grunge rub his oversized knuckles and grin, or hear Tork mutter something about people who did not live up to their reputations.

The morning was crisp and clear, the sky a vivid blue from horizon to horizon, with only a few puffs of cloud. A golden eagle soared high on the currents off the mountains, making for Flathead Lake.

Fargo rode south at a leisurely pace. It would not do to unduly tire the Ovaro, not with the hard riding that was to come later. Every now and again he glanced over his shoulder. Hoyt and the others stayed a couple of hundred yards back, close enough that they would not lose him if he tried to slip away. Little did they know what he had in mind.

Midway between Polson and the St. Ignatius Mission, Fargo reined to the east toward the foothills. His plan was to get the three men up into the hills and spring a nasty surprise, but he went only a short way when hooves pounded and they swept down on him on either side, Hoyt swinging ahead to block his path, then drawing rein.

“Where in hell do you think you are going, mister?”

“Is something the matter?” Fargo innocently asked.

“Don’t take me for a fool,” Hoyt rasped. “Mr. Durn said you are to leave this valley.”

“What do you think I am doing?”

Hoyt leaned on his saddle horn, his other hand on Fargo’s Colt. “I told you not to take me for a fool. I know all the trails in and out of here, and there isn’t one in the direction you are heading.”

“You don’t say.” Fargo looked all around as if he was confused. No one was in sight. He decided not to wait until they reached the hills.

“I thought you are supposed to be some sort of scout,” Hoyt said. “How can you not know where you are heading?”

“This is my first time here,” Fargo lied. Without being obvious, he slipped his boots free of the stirrups.

“If you ask me, you are next to worthless,” Hoyt said, eliciting chuckles from his companions. He motioned to the south. “Keep going in that direction. I will holler when we get to the trail out of here.”

“I am obliged,” Fargo said. He lifted the reins as if he was about to ride on. They relaxed a trifle, thinking they had him buffaloed, and were unprepared when Fargo suddenly whipped around in the saddle and backhanded the man on his right across the face. Almost in the same instant he thrust his left leg up and out and caught the man on his left in the middle, nearly unhorsing him.

“Look out!” Hoyt squawked, and went for the Colt.

A jab of Fargo’s spurs, and the Ovaro bounded forward. Fargo pole-armed Hoyt across the chest, then was in the clear. He bent low as a revolver cracked and a leaden bee buzzed his ear.

The valley floor was broken by stands of trees and patches of thick brush. Fargo raced for a cluster of spruce and pines. Another shot boomed but it, too, missed. Then he was in the stand and undoing his rope. He swept around a spruce, drew rein, and shook out the noose.

One of the cutthroats came galloping past. The second man was only a few yards behind.

That left Hoyt.

Fargo timed it perfectly. His arm rose and the noose licked out and over, settling as neatly as could be over Hoyt’s head and shoulders. A lightning dally, and the deed was done.

Hoyt was catapulted backward off his horse and crashed brutally hard to the earth. He rolled after he hit and more of the rope wound around his arms, pinning them. His horse kept going.

Vaulting down, Fargo flipped Hoyt over. Hoyt’s holster was empty. Keenly aware he did not have much time, Fargo scoured the grass, turning in circles. The Colt was nowhere to be seen.

“Frank! Sam!” Hoyt recovered enough to bellow. “He has me! Get back here!”

From off in the stand came shouts. The other two were on their way back.

In growing frustration Fargo bent low over the grass. The Colt had to be there somewhere. Hooves drummed, growing louder. He was about to get back on the Ovaro and get the hell out of there when sunlight gleamed off metal. He ran over. Just as his fingers wrapped around the Colt’s smooth grips, the vegetation parted and out thundered the two hard-cases.

A pistol roared, kicking dirt at Fargo’s feet. Whirling, Fargo fired from the hip, fanning his Colt twice in swift cadence. The man on the right was punched backward as if by an invisible fist, and toppled.

The other one was taking aim. Fargo fanned another shot, coring the man’s chest. It jolted him, but he stayed in the saddle and snapped off a reply as he swept on by.

Fargo spun, taking deliberate aim. But the rider was in the trees before he could shoot. He backpedaled toward the Ovaro. Suddenly something hooked him behind his ankles, and his legs were swept out from under him.

It was Hoyt’s doing. He had sat up and was furiously struggling to shed the rope.

Fargo’s shoulders absorbed the fall. In a twinkling he was up in a crouch, only to find the other rider bearing down on him. A slug missed him by a hand’s width. He squeezed off one of his own.

The man jerked to the impact but stayed on. Another second, and he was past, and once again in among the trees.

Normally, Fargo kept five pills in the wheel. That meant he had one shot left. He needed to reload but he was denied the chance. Iron arms wrapped around his legs and he crashed down onto his hands and knees. He raked with the heel of his right boot and felt the spur dig into flesh. The vise around his legs loosened. Heaving upright, he was almost erect when a shoulder caught him in the midriff and he was violently bowled over.

The next moment, Fargo was on his back with Hoyt on his chest. He swung the Colt at Hoyt’s temple but Hoyt grabbed his wrist and sought to tear the Colt from his grasp.

“Sam! I have him! Help me!”

Fargo heaved upward and Hoyt fell off his chest but clung to his arm. In desperation Fargo clubbed him with his other fist but Hoyt still would not let go. The crackle of underbrush warned Fargo that the other one was rushing to help. His back prickled in expectation of taking a slug.

Fargo rammed his left knee into Hoyt’s gut, and at the same instant dropped his left hand to his ankle and the sheath that held his Arkansas toothpick. The hilt molded to his palm. The double-edged blade flashed once, twice, three times, and Hoyt deflated like a punctured waterskin.

A shot cracked.

But Fargo was already moving. He sidestepped, extended his arm, and planted his last shot smack in the center of the rider’s forehead. It snapped the man’s head back, and down he went.

In the quiet that descended, Fargo heard ringing in his ears. He began reloading. The shots would carry a long way; there was no telling who might show up.

Fargo wiped the toothpick clean on Hoyt’s shirt and replaced the slender blade in the ankle sheath. He smoothed his pant leg, then went from body to body, turning out pockets. Between them he found over three hundred dollars, far more than he expected. Each of the three had at least a hundred, which caused him to speculate it was money they had been paid—to kill him.

“Mike Durn is going to be mighty upset,” Fargo said out loud, and wished he could see the look on Durn’s face when word reached him.

Hoyt grunted. He was still alive, if barely. Coughing up blood, he rasped, “I hope to God he makes you suffer before you die.”

“You won’t be here to see it if he does,” Fargo said, and shot him in the head. Gathering up the reins of the riderless horses, Fargo turned to climb on the Ovaro. He left the bodies where they lay. Coyotes and vultures had to eat, too.

Ready to head out, Fargo patted his Colt. Now let Durn try to ride roughshod over him. All he needed was his Henry and he would be whole again.

Suddenly the Ovaro whinnied.

Instantly alert, Fargo glanced in the direction the stallion was looking. A figure was hunkered in the shadows. Thinking it was another of Durn’s wolf pack, Fargo cleared leather in a blur. But as quick as he was, he was not quick enough.

An arrow cleaved the air, seeking his throat.