Mountain Manhunt

by David Robbins

  Fargo had no idea.

  “Teague has killed lions and tigers. He’s shot leopards and cheetahs. Elephants, rhinos, some kind of buffalo that he claims are bigger than ours. And a hog with tusks that grow up to two feet long, if you can believe that.” Beckman winked. “Personally, I think he likes to tell tall tales. But don’t ever say that to his face.”

  One of the tents was larger than the rest and open on two sides. Inside were long tables with benches to sit on.

  “You packed these all the way in?” Fargo marveled, giving one of the tables a smack. The wood was finely finished, clear proof it came from a mill. He guessed each one had to weigh two hundred pounds.

  “I told you, Teague likes his comforts,” Beckman said. “So we packed in everything, dismantled, and he had his hirelings rebuild them when we got here.” The old scout eased onto a bench. “Got to hand it to him. When he wants something done, he doesn’t let anyone or anything stand in his way.”

  The tent was deserted. Over a minute went by and no one appeared. Fargo was about to suggest they come back later when in walked a portly man in a white apron carrying a coffeepot and two china cups.

  “I assumed you would want the usual, Mr. Beckman,” the cook said in a heavy accent. He had thick arms covered with hair and extremely bushy eyebrows. His nationality was difficult to pin down but Fargo reckoned it was a country bordering the Mediterranean.

  “You figured rightly, Hesperos,” Beckman said. “I’d walk a hundred miles barefoot for a sip of your brew.”

  “You are too kind, senor,” Hesperos said, clearly pleased. “Most of the people here take my skill for granted. I only hear from them when something is not to their liking.”

  Fargo took a sip and grunted in surprise. It was delicious. He had tasted a lot of coffee in his time but none that could compare. “What do you put in here besides the coffee?”

  “The ingredients are a secret, I am afraid,” Hesperos said. “They have been in my family for generations. My father was a cook before me, my grandfather before him, his father before him.” Grinning, he patted his big belly. “As you can see, we enjoy eating as we enjoy cooking.”

  “Any chance you could rustle up some grub for my friend?” Beckman requested. “It’s a couple of hours yet until supper and he’s been in the saddle most of the day.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Hesperos promised.

  “Nice gent,” Beckman commented after the cook was gone. “Doesn’t look down his nose at others, like Synnet and his bunch.”

  “If it’s that bad, why not come with me to Fort Laramie?” Fargo proposed. “We’ll play cards, get drunk, maybe treat ourselves to a few females.”

  “The women are why I stay,” Beckman said. “My conscience won’t let me run out on them. As sure as you’re sitting there, this outfit would waltz into an ambush without me along. They don’t take hostiles seriously enough.”

  Into the tent came four men cut from the same coarse cloth as Link and Charley.

  They came straight toward the table, the man in the lead with his thumbs hooked in a wide leather gun belt.

  “Uh-oh,” Sam Beckman whispered. “This could be trouble.”

  The leader had good ears. “You’re damn right it’s trouble.” He stopped next to Fargo and nudged Fargo’s shoulder. “I’m Horace Campbell. Link Weaver and me were friends. Now word has it that you were there when he was ripped apart by a griz today?”

  “So?” Fargo said.

  “So the word is, you did nothin’ about it,” Campbell said. He had bloodshot eyes and yellow teeth and breath that would gag a hog. “Word is, you could have shot the bear but didn’t.”

  “Your friend brought it on himself,” Fargo said, raising the china cup to his mouth. “He ran when he should have stood still.”

  “Is that so?” Horace Campbell said, and with no forewarning, streaked a punch at Fargo’s jaw.

  Only Fargo’s razor reflexes spared him. Campbell’s big fist missed by the width of a whisker, struck the cup, and sent it flying. Hot coffee spilled over the table and onto Fargo’s buckskins, the cup shattering when it hit the ground. Twisting on the bench, Fargo answered Campbell’s violence in the only way Campbell would understand: with more violence. He drove his fist deep into Campbell’s gut and the big bruiser folded like a piece of paper.

  The three men with Campbell were unsure what to do. One lowered his hand toward his revolver.

  “Hold it right there!” Beckman bellowed. “Go pester someone else before I report you to Teague Synnet! He’ll fire you on the spot and send you packing!”

  The threat deflated the other three but not Campbell, who unfurled and attacked, swinging from the hip.

  Fargo ducked the first blow, slipped the second. Then he was on his feet, countering and jabbing and circling clear of the table so he had room to move.

  “Stop it, Campbell!” Beckman hollered, but the enraged roughneck paid him no mind.

  Dodging an uppercut, Fargo slipped in under Campbell’s arm, seized the wrist, pivoted, and levered the arm over his shoulder. Campbell yelped as his boots left the ground and he crashed onto the table so hard it nearly buckled under his weight.

  “No more,” Fargo warned.

  His face inflamed with pain, Campbell clutched his shoulder and swore a bitter streak that ended when he flung himself at Fargo like a wolverine gone berserk. A knife materialized in Campbell’s left hand, the blade glittering like polished brass.

  “Campbell, no!” someone cried. Others were running from all different directions and filling the open ends of the tent.

  Campbell was past listening to reason. In his fury he craved one thing and one thing only: Fargo’s death. He slashed low but Fargo skipped aside. He stabbed high but Fargo backpedaled. Fargo had a knife of his own, in his boot, a double-edged Arkansas Toothpick, but he dared not stoop to retrieve it or the other man would open him like a beached fish.

  “Stand still, damn you!” Campbell fumed. “You hop around like a damned frog!”

  The knife swept toward Fargo’s jugular. He skipped to the right, and realized, too late, that a bench was beside him. He tried to avoid it but his legs became entangled, and the next instant he was flat on his back. A shadow fell across him, and Campbell filled his vision.

  “Now I’ve got you! This is for Link!”

  The knife plunged toward Fargo’s chest.

  5

  Fargo rolled aside and heard the thunk of the blade imbedding itself in the soil. Pushing onto a knee, he turned just as Campbell came at him again. But this time he filled his hand with his Colt and Campbell stopped cold, fear replacing the bloodlust in his small, piggish eyes.

  “Don’t shoot!” The shout came from Teague Synnet, who was among those at the south tent entrance. His fists clenched at his sides, he strode inside. “What is the meaning of this commotion?”

  Sam Beckman pointed at Campbell. “That pecker-wood started it. He blames Fargo for Link’s death!”

  Teague stared at the knife in Campbell’s brawny hand. “Is this true?”

  “I’m mad, sure,” Campbell growled, “but who wouldn’t be? Link was my friend. I have the right to avenge him if I want.”

  “When you are in my employ, the only rights you have are the ones I grant you,” Teague Synnet declared. “And killing someone is not one of them. Collect your belongings and be gone within the hour.”

  Campbell was genuinely stunned. “You’re kickin’ me out?”

  “If you’ll recall, when you were hired I explained the conditions of your employment,” Teague said. “I warned everyone that fights would not be tolerated and are grounds for immediate dismissal.”

  “You can’t do this!” Campbell objected. “I can’t go ridin’ off by my lonesome with us smack in Injun country. I’d be lucky to keep my hair.”

  “You should have thought of that before you let your temper get the better of you.” Teague turned to Fargo, apparently assuming the matter was settled.

&
nbsp; “Go to hell, you damned dandy!” Campbell fumed, his big frame shaking with anger. “I won’t let you run me off. So there.”

  A subtle change came over Teague Synnet. Every muscle in the hunter’s face hardened, and although his voice was civil, his eyes crackled with inner lightning. “Did I hear you correctly, Mr. Campbell? You presume to dictate what I can and can’t do?”

  “All I’m sayin’ is that you can’t throw me to the redskins,” Campbell said. “Anything but that. Punish me some other way and I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

  “I see,” Teague Synnet said, and there was something in the way he said it that caused others to back up a step.

  “It’s only fair,” Campbell insisted. But now he was not so sure of himself, and nervously licked his thick lips. An idea seemed to strike him and he quickly added, “You wouldn’t want the rest of the boys to think you’re not worth workin’ for, would you?”

  Fargo could have heard a feather flutter in the silence that ensued. Campbell’s thinly veiled threat of turning the rest of the hired helpers against Synnet had given Teague Synnet brief pause.

  “You make an excellent point, Mr. Campbell. It would not do to have the others think poorly of me. Their work might suffer. So out of the fairness you so cherish, I will permit you to stay on provided you earn the privilege to do so.”

  “Earn it how?” Campbell asked suspiciously.

  “You must best me in personal combat. No guns, no knives, only our fists.”

  Through the onlookers came Leslie, to grab her brother’s arm. “Teague, no! Think of what you’re doing.”

  “Stay out of this, sister.” Shrugging her off, Teague stared at Campbell. “What will it be? Beat me and stay? Or tuck your tail between your legs and go while you can still sit a saddle?”

  “You’re crazy, mister. I ain’t ever met the jasper I couldn’t stomp.” Chuckling, Campbell slid his knife into its sheath and made a show of cracking his walnut-sized knuckles. “Just don’t hold it against me when you’re swallowin’ your teeth.”

  Now it was Jerrold who came through the opening. “Teague, please. We’ll run him off for you. And anyone who wants to go with him can leave with our blessings. There’s no need to fight him.”

  “I beg to differ, little brother,” Teague said. “For one thing, we need every man we have. For another, it would not do to have them think we can be intimidated.” He motioned. “After you, Mr. Campbell, if you please.”

  Campbell looked at his friends and they all laughed boisterously as he swaggered out, so sure were they of his prowess.

  Fargo and Sam Beckman were last to emerge, Beckman hobbling on his crutch and muttering something about “damned fools.” Word had spread like a prairie fire and everyone was converging on the cook tent.

  “Watch real close and you’ll see what I mean about Teague Synnet,” Beckman whispered. “He’s not much to look at but he’s as tough as an Apache.”

  Teague did not look all that tough. He stood calmly waiting while Campbell undid his gun belt and handed it and the belt knife to a companion.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this, little man?” Campbell gazed down at Teague in scarcely concealed contempt.

  Campbell was a full head and shoulders taller than Synnet. His chest was a barrel, his arms corded with muscle, his hands dwarfed the hunter’s. He appeared strong enough to break a sapling without half trying.

  By contrast, Teague was slim and sinewy, his shoulders not half as wide. Yet he fearlessly met Campbell’s gaze and said, “I was about to ask the same question.”

  Balling his right fist, Campbell struck his left palm. It sounded like the crack of a bullwhip. “I’m going to enjoy this. Someone needs to put you in your place, what with the airs you put on.”

  “Think so, do you?” Teague flexed his knees a few times, unlimbering his legs. Stepping back, he brought both fists up, his left slightly out in front of him at chest height, the other protecting his chin. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Grinning, Campbell circled him. “The last saloon brawl I was in, I crippled a man for life.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t do the same to you,” Teague said, turning so he always faced his much bigger opponent. “But you will take a long time to recover.”

  “The proof, as folks say, is in the puddin’. So how about if we find out what you’re made of?” Campbell closed in, a ponderous bear about to do battle with a sleek mountain lion. He swung his right fist, then his left.

  Neither connected. Teague slipped both blows with ridiculous ease, then unleashed several jabs to Campbell’s ribs. Campbell grimaced and stepped back, surprise registering.

  “You’re not as puny as you look.”

  “Things are not always as they appear,” Teague said. “It’s not too late to change your mind. You’re still free to saddle your horse and go.”

  “That bluff won’t wash,” Campbell responded. “Get set for a lickin’.” And in he waded once more, delivering a blow that would have caved in Teague’s face had it landed. Only it didn’t.

  Ducking, Teague Synnet slipped in close and landed four punches before Campbell could draw his arm back to protect himself. Then, slipping to one side, Teague landed two more, once again low down in the ribs.

  “Damn you!” Campbell fumed, and swung a back-hand that cleaved empty air.

  Teague had glided out of reach. He was not the least winded. Smiling, he asked, “Are you ready for your lesson?”

  “What lesson?” Campbell rubbed his ribs and scowled. “This is about me stayin’, remember?”

  “No. It is about you leaving,” Teague said, and was on the other in a blur, his fists thudding in staccato cadence. This time he did not retreat, he did not skip aside. He held his ground and ducked and dodged while flicking blow after blow after blow, punches that jarred and jolted with the impact of a hammer.

  Campbell tried. He really tried. He had taken it for granted his bulk and muscle gave him an edge but he was being proven wrong in spectacular fashion. Not one of his swings connected. He missed or had his punches blocked. In frustration he swung harder and harder and still could not land a blow. A red tinge crept from his neck to his forehead and he began to huff and puff like a riled buffalo.

  Fargo had witnessed a lot of fist fights but he seldom came across anyone as skilled as Teague Synnet. The man was a master. What Synnet lacked in size he more than made up for in finesse. Compared to him, Campbell was as slow as petrified molasses and as clumsy as a drunk.

  Yet Campbell did not go down. He absorbed blows that would reduce most men to cringing wrecks but kept on fighting. Most of those watching undoubtedly thought Campbell was one tough hombre, but Fargo knew better. The only reason Campbell was still on his feet had nothing to do with Campbell and everything to do with the fact Teague Synnet was toying with him.

  Campbell stepped back to catch his breath. His chest was heaving and he was caked with sweat. Bruises marked both of his cheeks and his jaw. He was favoring his left side, and held his arm against his ribs to spare them further harm. “I don’t reckon you would care to call this a draw?”

  Teague’s laugh was as brittle as ice. Once more he glided in close, only this time he was in earnest. He put more power into his punches and threw them where they would hurt the most. Campbell desperately tried to ward them off but he was a tortoise being harried by a sleek fox, and he had no shell. He grunted or gurgled with each blow that landed, biting his lower lip against the pain. He bit so deep, blood trickled down his chin.

  “That’s enough, Teague!” Jerrold shouted. “You’ve shown him who is boss!”

  Teague did not reply. He drove his fist into Campbell’s stomach, and when Campbell doubled over, boxed both of Campbell’s ears with a quicksilver flurry.

  Staggering back, Campbell raised his left hand to his head. When his fingers came away, they were slick with blood. “You had no call to do that. This fight is over.” He turned to leave but Teague blocked his p
ath.

  “It’s not over until I say it is.”

  “I quit, I tell you,” Campbell said. “I’m packin’ my things and lightin’ a shuck just like you wanted. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “You haven’t begun to learn it,” Teague said. His next onslaught was gruesome to behold. It was a slaughter. Campbell kept trying to break off and flee but Teague’s fists were everywhere, raining like hail, battering and smashing and crunching on bone. Many of the onlookers turned away, unable to endure the sight.

  Minutes passed. Campbell was a blood-soaked ruin. His ears and lips were pulped, his cheeks split open, one eye swollen half-shut. Breathing raggedly through his broken nose, he swayed like a reed caught in the unyielding grip of a hurricane. “Don’t,” he blubbered, waving his hands. “I’ve had enough!”

  The words were hardly out of his wreck of a mouth when Teague Synnet planted himself and unleashed an uppercut that rocked Campbell onto his heels and stretched him out on the ground oblivious to the world around him. Bits of shattered teeth dribbled down Campbell’s lower lip, mixed with blood and drool.

  Teague Synnet slowly straightened and stared at Fargo. Fargo sensed an unvoiced challenge: Teague was daring him to step up and try his luck. Someone else sensed it, too. An iron hand wrapped around his arm and Sam Beckman urged, “Don’t even think it, pard. He’s not worth the bother.”

  Teague spun and snapped at Campbell’s friends, “Throw him on his horse and give it a slap on the rump!”

  “But we should revive him first,” one protested.

  “Do what you want.” Teague raised his voice. “You all saw. No one can say I didn’t give Campbell his chance. Anyone who thinks I treated him unfairly is welcome to collect their pay and ride out with him. I won’t hold it against you.” He walked off. “I’ll be in my tent.”

  Talking in hushed tones, the helpers drifted elsewhere in small groups and in pairs. Only three remained to help Campbell to his feet, which would take some doing.

  Jerrold Synnet, though, did not budge. He was deep in thought, his head bowed, contemplating his older brother’s handiwork. When he looked up and saw Fargo, he gave a nervous cough. “You must excuse Teague. He tends to get carried away now and then.”