by John Benteen
“Yes, sir.” The proprietor counted out double eagles, shoved them across the bar. Roaring Tom frowned, sorting through them. Then he barked: “Jess!”
“Yes, Pappy.” The big young man joined him at the bar. He was, Fargo saw, one of the few who carried a repeating rifle, an ancient, long-barreled Henry.
“Maybe my head fer figgers ain’t too good today. Count thet thar money and see whut ye come out with.”
Jess’s thin lips moved as he went through the pile of gold. Then he slowly raised his head. “I make hit a hunderd and ninety dollars Pappy.”
“Thet’s whut I got, too,” said Roaring Tom. “Mr. Forrest.”
Forrest was a short, plump, pale man whose round face went even paler. “I shoulda told you first, Mr. Canfield. There’s been a drop in the price of whiskey. We get the best Kentucky bourbon in now for fifty cents a gallon less than it cost last month.”
“Oh, do ye now?” Roaring Tom’s voice was deep, yet soft. “Well, Kaintucky bourbon ain’t Canfield corn. We ain’t cut our price none.”
“All the same, I can’t afford—”
“I figger we’re thutty dollar short.” Roaring Tom looked at him a moment. Then he sighed. “All right, boys. Haul hit back out and put hit in the wagon.”
“Yeah, you heard Pappy,” Jess barked. “Go git thet whiskey and load hit up.”
“Now, wait a minute, Mr. Canfield. That’s a fair price. Especially since if you don’t sell it here, you’ll have to haul it another fifty miles.”
“Thet ain’t the point,” Canfield said. “The point is, we done set our price and we aim to git hit. Even if we got to haul hit clear back across the Mississippi River. I don’t care whut ye pay fer thet Kaintucky cat pee, thar ain’t no whiskey made thet’s good as Canfield corn. It’s wuth whut we git fer hit, and we don’t take no less.” He shoved the gold back across the counter. “Thar’s your money, Mr. Forrest. Looks like we won’t do no more business.”
“Now, there ain’t no reason for you to be so touchy. Dadblame it, Canfield, it’ll cost you twice thirty dollars, three times to—” He looked into Canfield’s eyes, broke off. “All right,” he said bitterly. “Here’s your extra thirty dollars. When the cowboys come in on payday, they don’t want nothin’ but Canfield corn. They’ll pay extra for it, have to now, I reckon.”
Canfield took the money. “Canfield liquor’s worth extra. Mr. Forrest, lemme give ye a leetle bit of advice. Don’t ye ever try to shortchange us again, ye hyar me? Next time ye do, we’re likely to fergit our raisin’ and jest mortally tear this hyar place of yourn plumb apart.” He spat tobacco juice into the sawdust on the floor. “Sharp business is one thing. But cheatin’s another. One thing us Canfields cain’t abide is a cheat.” He took the coins, dropped them into his shot pouch. “Feller’d do well to recollect thet in the future. Might help him to stay healthy.”
Forrest mopped cold sweat from his forehead. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “Yes, sir, Mr. Canfield. I didn’t mean to git your feathers ruffled.”
“They don’t ruffle easy. But when they do, they stay ruffled. Ye b’ar thet in mind, Mr. Forrest. All right, boys. Tote the stuff on back thar.” He turned, hitching at his gunbelt. His eyes met Fargo’s again, for an instant. Then he went out, boots clumping on the board floor. Jess followed him, shooting a ferocious glance at Forrest, and the others filed out behind him.
When they were gone, Fargo went to the bar. “Let me have a shot of that Canfield corn.”
“Sure.” Forrest looked toward the swinging doors, lowered his voice. “They are the damndest people to do business with I ever seen.”
“Maybe they expect a man to keep his word,” Fargo said.
Forrest looked at him keenly, a little apprehensively. “Good God, you ain’t a Canfield, too?”
“In most ways, no,” said Fargo. “In some ways, yes. The drink.”
Forrest poured it. Fargo held it to his nose, sniffed it. Good corn whiskey had a mellow bouquet; bad corn, poison moonshine, was so rank no man in his right mind could get it to his mouth if he smelled it first. This whiskey caressed his nostrils with its odor. He drank, found it raw, yet oddly smooth. It went down, exploded in his belly like a bomb’s detonation.
“That,” he said, in sincere tribute, “is drinkin’ whiskey.” He smacked his lips, hitched at his gun-belt, turned, and went out on the street, still crowded with Canfields.
~*~
Neal Fargo had ridden into town on a big bay gelding he’d bought in Del Rio. For his conference with Steed and Hanna, he’d tethered it outside the one general store of this little town, seat of an enormous, sprawling county. When the Apaches had been rampant, Fort Davis had been an important army post, but once the Indians were quelled and it, no longer needed, had been abandoned, the town that serviced it had shrunk drastically, cut off as it was from the main El Paso road, isolated here in the high hills. Now only cattle and sheep kept it alive.
The bay snorted as Fargo tightened the cinch. Then he went to its head, started to unknot the reins looped around the hitch rack. At that moment, the two women came out of the store.
The Canfield women—in their sunbonnets and long dresses, their arms heaped high with purchases. Fargo watched them come down the steps, the old crone and the young girl, whose lithe swing of stride was visible even under the gingham that swathed her legs. He paused a moment in curiosity and admiration. Over her armload, her eyes met his again. Then—he never knew whether it was on purpose or accidental—she stumbled and the packages fell from her arms into the dusty street, almost at Fargo’s boot toes.
“I swear, Bonnie, ye’re clumsy as an ox.” The old woman’s voice was shrill.
“I’m sorry, Mama.” The girl stooped, but Fargo had already bent to retrieve her packages. For a moment, the two faces were very close together: the young, fresh, pretty one of Bonnie Canfield and the weathered, scarred, ugly one of Neal Fargo. In that instant, their eyes met, and the girl smiled, covertly, yet with boldness. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” Fargo murmured, eyes still locked with hers. Then a big hand clamped on his shoulder, jerked him upright, spun him around. A hard fist slammed his jaw, literally picked him up with the blow’s force, and dropped him in the dust. Shaking his head, trying to clear his eyes, he looked up at Jess Canfield, standing over him, the muzzle of the Henry rifle pointed at his belly.
“Stranger,” the young man said, eyes blazing, “it’s powerful bad medicine to mess with Canfield women.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jess!” Bonnie Canfield shouted. “He was just helpin’ me with whut I dropped.”
“Ye be quiet, sister. I seen what went on between ye two. All right, mister. On yer feet, slow and easy and hand away from thet gun.” He backed off a step or two.
The other Canfields had seen this. As, still covered by the young man’s rifle, Fargo got warily to his knees, all those gun-hung men came up and ringed around them. Roaring Tom pushed his way through the crowd as Fargo gained his feet. “All right,” he snapped, planting himself between Fargo and his son. “Whut’s a-happin’ hyar?”
“He was lollygaggin’ round Bonnie and she was teasin’ him on like she always does. Was I you, I’d take a strap to her when we git home. Meanwhile, I figger on teachin’ this ugly feller in the soldier hat to keep away from other folks’ women.”
Fargo was on his feet, now. There were too many gun-muzzles trained on him to risk a draw. He stood there, eyes shuttling from Canfield to his father.
“You got the wrong idea, feller,” he said. “But you hit the wrong man, too. You want to lay down that Henry and show me how you can use that sixgun?”
“No guns!” Roaring Tom shook his fierce hawk’s head. “I’ll shoot the first man goes for his gun. Jess, ye knothead, ye’re too damned sudden. Maybe the man didn’t mean no harm.”
“Back in the saloon, I seen him come outa the same room as Steed and Hanna,” Jess said fiercely. “Anybody runs with them means harm to the C
anfields.” Suddenly he passed the Henry to the old man. “All right, Big Ugly. Pappy says no guns. But ye better be powerful good at knuckle and skull, because as soon as I git this side-gun off, I aim to come after ye and chop ye into stew beef.” And his hand dropped to unlatch his gunbelt.
Chapter Two
Overhead, a buzzard swirled on lazy wings. The wind sent dust sifting down the street; the sun was hot on Fargo’s head, his hat knocked off by the force of Canfield’s surprise blow. He stared into Jess’s eyes for a moment, saw the mindless anger, the lust for violence in them. He knew he was not going to be able to leave this town without fighting Canfield. That was all right with him. His temper had been stretched to the last inch; now it snapped.
He smiled, a grin like that of a wolf sighting prey.
“All right, Canfield,” he said quietly. His hand slid the belt tongue through the buckle. The holstered Colt made dead weight in his hand as he held it out to Roaring Tom. “You’ll hold this for me and give it back when I’ve whipped him?”
“Ye whup him, ye’ll git it back,” Tom said. “You don’t whup him, likely ye won’t be in shape to need it. But if he’s bound to fight ye, thet’s his business.” Then he turned to his son. “One thang. You fight him, thet’s the end of it. No matter which way it goes, it stops hyar, this ain’t no fambly affair. If he whups you, don’t look for nobody else to take up the quarrel.”
Jess only laughed. “I don’t need nobody else.” He was stripping off his shirt, now, baring a torso bronzed and rippling with hard muscle. His biceps were enormous, bulging as he flexed his arms; his clenched hands looked like chunks of flint at the ends of thick wrists.
Now the ring of men gave way a little, spreading out. Fargo peeled away his own shirt. In this kind of fight, bare, sweaty skin was harder to seize and hold. A kind of murmur went up from the Canfields at the sight of his upper body. As bronzed and muscular as Jess’s, less knotty and put together with more grace, it was scarred and blazed with old wounds of battle. Even Jess’s eyes lit with a sort of admiration. “Feller, you been around.”
“Yeah,” Fargo said. He threw his shirt to Roaring Tom. It had no sooner left his hand than Jess charged.
Knuckle and skull: No holds barred, anything went. Fargo danced into a fighting crouch, but before he could get on balance, young Canfield hit him like an express train, clamped his arms around Fargo’s body, bore him over and down by sheer weight and force. Fargo landed hard on the street, with Jess’s solid weight on top of him, Canfield trying to get his knee in Fargo’s groin, and his thumbs going for Fargo’s eyes.
Fargo shielded himself with a practiced thigh from Jess’s driving knee, and did not try to protect his eyes. Instead, he threw out his arms wide, like a man crucified, then brought them in again, fast and hard, palms open and turned. The tough edges of his hands bladed into Canfield’s neck, one on either side, with terrible impact. Canfield grunted, went momentarily lax. Fargo bucked, rolled, slid out from under. As he scrambled to his feet, Canfield lurched groggily up to his knees. He looked at Fargo, dazed eyes clearing, and his lips peeled back in a snarl. Before he could shove erect, though, Fargo moved in, caught him hard beneath the chin with a knee.
He heard the click of Canfield’s teeth; blood ran out Jess’s mouth from a bitten tongue. Jess flopped backward, and Fargo moved in to kick, stomp. It was the only way in a fight like this, the way Canfield fought.
But Jess was tough; even half unconscious, he reacted instinctively. Rolling away from Fargo’s boot, he half somersaulted, came to his knees; then, as Fargo turned, was on his feet. He wasted not a minute, came in again, slugging this time with those huge fists. Fargo crouched again to meet the charge, sought an opening, but before he found one Jess landed a blow that would have killed a buffalo. It would have killed Fargo, too, if it had connected full and solid, but years in the prize ring had sharpened Fargo’s every reflex. He rolled his head, swung his body. Jess’s fist clipped his chin, slid off, slammed his shoulder. The blow sent Fargo spinning and Jess changed direction and came in once more and hit him in the belly before he could recover. All the breath went out of Fargo and then he was on the ground, gasping; and Jess’s huge boot was blotting out the sun, about to crush his head.
Fargo caught that foot with both hands, exerting every ounce of steel-cable strength he possessed. And it took it to slow that hammering drive, stop the foot before it smashed his face. Then Fargo surged up, twisting, and Jess, off balance, staggered back. His foot slid out of Fargo’s grasp, but as that happened, Fargo’s grip pulled his boot half off. Jess jumped back, yanking at the straps, hobbling, and that gave Neal Fargo time to come up. The boot was still half on, half off, when he came at Jess.
This time he came in low, ready, on balance. Jess straightened up, raised his fists, trying to retreat and hampered by the boot. His guard, nevertheless, was surprisingly good; he and his brothers must have practiced. But it was not good enough; to a man with Fargo’s trained eye and speed, Canfield’s defense was full of holes. He lashed in with a short, hard flickering left, knuckles opening a slash on Canfield’s cheekbone, whipping his head around. Fargo followed with another left, not driven more than six inches, but full of torque and power, and caught the raw spot again. Jess grunted, raised his hands, and Fargo dropped and came in with a right that caught him on the breastbone. Before Jess recovered, Fargo hit him with a left again.
Jess staggered back, awkwardly, thrown off balance by the boot. Fargo came after him with cold precision. Canfield’s huge fists whistled by his head as he drove Jess back with jabbing lefts and solid rights. Then, as he sensed Jess was getting wise to that pattern, mustering a defense against it, Fargo reversed it. What Canfield did not know was that he had been born ambidextrous, able to use right or left hand with equal facility and strength, able to balance his body from either side. He shifted weight and force completely, and Jess’s new defense made no difference.
“Godamighty,” some Canfield whispered. “He’s cuttin’ brother plumb to pieces! Pappy—”
Fargo hit Jess twice, right, left. Heard Roaring Tom’s harsh command. “Lay down thet gun. This h’yar’s Jess’s ball of beeswax! The man’s takin’ him fa’r and squar’!”
“Damn ye,” Jess Canfield breathed. His breath rasped through a nose crushed and swollen, dribbling blood. His right eye was puffed almost shut; huge black bruises already made dark spots on his chest and belly. “Damn ye—” He backed, dragging the flopping boot, and Fargo kept on coming.
Now it was like chopping wood, hacking away at a huge tree that refused to fall. Fargo’s fists, flicking past Jess’s dazed and ever-widening guard, sounded, indeed, like an ax sinking into oak. Young Canfield’s big head snapped back and forth, back and forth; and yet he would not go down. He hit back at Fargo, limply, without steam, but he refused to fall.
Fargo himself was panting, now, his wind almost gone, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. This had to be finished and finished soon. Suddenly he dropped his arms, let them dangle to his side. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, sucking in great gulps of wind. Jess halted, blinking his one good eye in amazement at this sudden reprieve, the cessation of punishment. He shook his head wildly, to clear it, spraying blood from nose and mouth and chopped-up cheek. He raised his hands, braced himself to charge.
Then Fargo had the rest he needed. He came in cautiously, warily, and took his time. Jess started to lurch forward and Fargo saw the opening he wanted and made full use of it.
Every ounce of strength and muscle he possessed was behind that right, coming up from far down his body, gathering force with every inch it traveled, slamming finally into the exact point of Jess Canfield’s jaw—the one place, hit hard enough, in which even the strongest man is vulnerable. Fargo felt the shock of impact all through his body. He stepped back. Jess stood there for an instant, hands falling, fists opening. His one good eye looked at Fargo strangely. Then all expression left it, and he fell forward on his face with an impact that rais
ed a cloud of dust.
Fargo stepped back farther, panting.
Jess Canfleld lay motionless in the dirt. Only the bellows-pumping of his huge torso showed that he still lived.
From close by, Roaring Tom’s voice came, trembling faintly. “Stranger, air ye gonna stomp him?”
Fargo wiped sweat and dust and blood from his own face. He sucked in air.
“Hit’s your right, do whut ye choose to. He woulda done hit to ye.” But fear for his son was plain now in Tom Canfield’s tone.
Fargo looked at the old man through a mist of sweat. He licked dry lips. Roaring Tom stared back tensely. “I said thar’d be no interference. Thar won’t be. Jess took his chances.”
Fargo shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I ain’t gonna stomp him.”
There was a moment, then, when Roaring Tom looked incredulous. Then he sighed, and his shoulders slumped with relief. “I’m much obliged to ye fer thet. He’s my baby boy.”
“Your baby boy,” Fargo mumbled and laughed shortly, rubbing his bruised face again. His eyes ached where Jess’s thumbs had briefly pressed their sockets. “Yeah. All right. Well, you can have your baby boy. Just gimme my shirt and gun.”
“They’re yourn.” Roaring Tom held the shirt, as Fargo slipped it on, passed back the Colt and gunbelt. “Mister, they’re yourn.” He looked into Fargo’s face, and there was an intensity in his blue eyes. “Feller,” he said harshly, “ye coulda stomped Jess plumb to death, and we woulda been bound not to raise a hand or pull a trigger. If it was ye layin there right now, Jess woulda pulped ye head. Them’s the rules, and we stick by the rules.” He hesitated. “I don’t know whut yer name is—”