Thunderhead Trail

by Jon Sharpe

  “What about it?” Kyler said.

  “They talked about a gambler they’d heard of who had shot five men and a marshal who is quick on the shoot and that Captain Davis who kilt those ten or eleven bandits. You remember?”

  “So the hell what?” Kyler said.

  “So they told us about another feller,” Rance said. “A scout, he was. Big man, hard as nails, who’s killed a heap of gents.”

  “I sort of remember it,” Kyler said. “So?”

  “One of those fellers mentioned you can tell this scout by the horse he rides. A handsome pinto or some such.” Rance bobbed his head at the front window. “Look out yonder and tell me what you see at the hitch rail.”

  Kyler and Grizz both looked, and Kyler said, “Well, I’ll be.”

  “You’re him, ain’t you?” Rance said to Fargo. “The man-killin’ scout?”

  Fargo had never been called a man-killer before. Yes, he’d shot more than few, but always in self-defense, or to protect others. He didn’t go out and look for men to kill.

  Life just kept throwing them at him.

  “You don’t want to say?” Rance said. “That’s fine. We got no quarrel with you, mister. We’ll take our leave now.”

  “We’ll what?” Grizz said.

  Rance took a step toward the batwings, saying, “You heard me, brothers. Our frolic is over.”

  “No,” Fargo said.

  Rance stopped. “Why not?” he uneasily asked.

  “Candice.”

  “What’s she to you? Do you know her personal?”

  “Never met her until today.”

  “My brother is drunk. He didn’t know what he was doin’.”

  “Who are you talkin’ about?” Grizz asked.

  “You,” Kyler said.

  “What did I do?”

  “You hit that dove.”

  “Oh. I forgot.”

  Rance had lowered a hand from the Sharps and tilted the muzzle at the ceiling. “You can see how he is, mister. How about if I have him say he’s sorry and we call it even?”

  “All your weapons on the floor,” Fargo said, “or use them.”

  Rance’s jaw muscles twitched but he slowly tucked at the knees and held his Sharps out in one hand to show he wasn’t going to use it.

  Kyler was flabbergasted. “What the hell are you doin’?”

  “Keepin’ us from bein’ killed.” Rance carefully set it down and straightened.

  “You’re eatin’ crow, is what you’re doin’,” Kyler said in disgust.

  Rance glared at him. “Little brother, shut the hell up. That Sharps ain’t no feather. He’d put three or four slugs into me before I could point it.”

  “Now you, boy,” Fargo said. “The knife.”

  Kyler swept his hand to the hilt and took a half step as if he intended to try to use it. But it must have occurred to him that he couldn’t cover the fifteen feet that separated them before he was gunned down in his tracks. With an angry oath, he yanked the knife out and let it drop.

  That left Grizz.

  “Your turn,” Fargo said, “and then we’ll get to it.”

  “Get to what?” Grizz said. He looked at Rance, his brow furrowed. “What do I do? Do I shoot him or stab him or what?”

  “You’d be dead before you cleared your belt. Just do as he says.”

  “I don’t like this,” Grizz said. “I don’t like this at all.” But he jerked his six-shooter and bowie and placed them at his feet. “Now what?”

  “Now I beat the hell out of you,” Fargo said.

  4

  It had begun to sink in to those along the walls that the worst of the danger was over. Low murmurs broke out and a few drifted toward the overturned tables.

  Grizz’s face was scrunched up as if he was in the outhouse and couldn’t. “You are fixin’ to beat me?”

  Fargo pried at his buckle with his left hand, careful to keep his right hand close to his holster.

  “With your fists?” Kyler said, and laughed.

  Rance appeared perplexed. “I don’t savvy you, mister. My brother will break you like a twig. And for what? A gal you don’t even know.”

  “You two are to stay out of it,” Fargo said.

  Rance looked down at his Sharps, and slyly smiled. “Why, sure, mister. Whatever you say.”

  Spurs jingled behind Fargo, and the man with the black hat and mismatched revolvers came up on Fargo’s right. His thumbs were still hooked in his gun belt. “I’ll make sure they do.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Rance said.

  “Handle’s Crown,” the man answered. “Rafer Crown.”

  Fargo had heard of him. Crown made his living hunting men for bounty money. He’d also been involved in a few shooting affrays and was considered a bad hombre to trifle with.

  “What’s this to you that you’re stickin’ your nose in?” Rance said.

  “It interests me,” Crown said.

  “You didn’t say nothin’ when we were havin’ our fun with that dove.”

  Crown shrugged. “Don’t know her. No stake in it.”

  The next moment the man in the buckskin shirt was on Fargo’s other side. He’d come up so silently, Fargo hadn’t heard him. “I’d like to see this be a fair fight, too.”

  “What the hell?” Rance said. “And who are you?”

  “Dirk Peters. I’m not as famous as Fargo, here, but I’ve done some scouting and tracking, and now and then, I shoot bastards like you three.”

  “You talk big now,” Rance said, “but I didn’t hear a peep before.”

  “You had that cannon trained on us,” Dirk Peters said. “And my ma didn’t raise no simpletons.”

  Fargo held out his gun belt to Peters. “I’d be obliged if you’d look after this.”

  Rafer Crown finally unhooked a thumb and jabbed it at Rance and Kyler. “You two, over by the window. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “And if we don’t?” Kyler snarled.

  Crown’s hand flicked, and the Remington was in it. Everyone heard the click of the hammer. “I’m not this gent next to me. I don’t care about fair. Sass me, I’ll gun you. Cuss me, I’ll gun you. You don’t get your asses over by the window, I’ll gun you.”

  Rance went to say something but closed his mouth and motioned for his younger brother to follow him to the window. “Will this do, you—” He caught himself before he finished.

  Rafer Crown twirled the Remington into his holster as slick as could be. “Stay over there and behave.” He looked at Fargo. “The dumb one is all yours.”

  Dirk Peters pointed at a couple of townsmen. “You two, scoot over and put their weapons on the bar.”

  “Why us?” one of them replied.

  “Because I said so.”

  Reluctantly, the pair edged forward. They were scared to death of Grizz, and when they snatched his revolver and bowie, moved quickly to one side to get out of his reach.

  Fargo stepped around a table and a chair and planted himself. “You hit that girl for not sitting in your lap?”

  Grizz still seemed confused. He was slow to digest what was going on, and he made no move to defend himself. “That was part of it.”

  “What was the other part?”

  “I hankered after a kiss and she wouldn’t give me one.”

  “So you beat her and ripped her clothes off?”

  “I only hit her once,” Grizz said. “That’s all it ever takes.” He bunched his huge fists. “You’re thinkin’ you should punish me, is that it? That if you hurt me it’ll teach me to be nicer?”

  “I doubt you know what nice is.”

  “My pa used to think like you. When I was little, he’d take me out to the woodshed when I acted up. And I acted up a lot. But do you know what?”

  Fargo di
dn’t respond.

  “It didn’t change me none. And when I was big enough, I took that stick from him and broke it in half and beat him with it.”

  Fargo began to suspect that the hulking brute wasn’t quite as dumb as he appeared.

  “My ma used to say they had a word for me. Vicious, it was. She called me the most vicious boy who was ever born.”

  Grizz chuckled. “I broke her nose the last time she called me that.”

  “Your own parents,” Dirk Peters said.

  Grizz ignored him and glowered at Fargo. “What I did to that bitch in the street is nothin’ to what I’m goin’ to do to you. I’ll break your bones and have you spittin’ teeth.”

  In the back of Fargo’s mind a tiny voice asked why he was doing this. They were right. He didn’t know the girl. He had no personal stake, as Rafer Crown put it. But he never had been able to look the other way when an innocent was mistreated. It always stirred an anger in him.

  That, and he had a vicious streak of his own. There were few things he liked more than to dose out a taste of their own medicine to sons of bitches like this Grizz.

  “Nothin’ to say? Cat got your tongue? Or is it you’re afraid?”

  “Of you?” Fargo snorted.

  “Any last words?” Grizz asked.

  “Is there a sawbones in this town?”

  “Not that I know of,” Grizz said. “Why?”

  “You’re going to need one.”

  5

  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.

  6

  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.