“Sure there is,” Teague said. “It was inevitable from the moment we met.” So saying, he waded in.
Fargo blocked a jab, ducked a short swing, slipped a third blow. He flicked a right cross, then countered another flurry. He had the impression Teague wasn’t trying all that hard, and it occurred to him that Synnet was testing his skill. Fine, he thought, and warded off the blows without overexerting himself. Synnet wasn’t the only one who could play cat and mouse.
Shouts broke out, and the others came running to witness the fight.
“Ten dollars says Mr. Synnet wins!” Horner bawled.
“Make that twenty and you have a bet!” Leslie whooped.
Teague slowed and glanced at her as if he could not believe what he had just heard. For an instant his guard was down, and it was all Fargo needed. He drove a straight right from the shoulder that caught Teague on the cheek and sent him crashing to earth. But where that would have been enough to put most men down and keep them there, Teague Synnet merely shook his head, blinked a few times, and surged to his feet, his face flushed with anger.
“I’ve got five dollars to bet on Fargo, too!” Wildon yelled. “Any takers?”
“I’ll see that!” Garrick yelled.
Teague touched his cheek. “Don’t let that lucky punch go to your head. It won’t happen twice.”
Fargo waited for Synnet to take the next swing. “You can stop this if you want to.”
“Who says I do?”
Teague flew into Fargo like a tornado unleashed. Fargo blocked the first swing but the second slammed into his ribs and the third clipped his jaw. He skipped back but Teague pressed in close again, as unrelenting as an avalanche.
Fargo felt knuckles scrape his chin, felt excruciating pain in his gut. Planting himself, he gave as viciously as he received, his arms always in motion, blocking, hitting, deflecting, jabbing.
Teague Synnet was smiling. He threw a solid left and arced an uppercut and sidestepped and delivered a combination to the ribs, all the while smiling his mocking smile.
Ducking, dodging, weaving, Fargo circled to the right, then the left, seeking an opening that would end things, an opening that proved elusive. Teague Synnet was perhaps the best boxer he ever came up against, certainly leagues better than a common saloon brawler.
A fist streaked at Fargo’s face. Instantly, he ducked, and his hat went flying from his head. He answered with a feint that caused Teague to lower his left arm a fraction too far, then followed through with a cross to the jaw that rocked Teague on his heels.
Synnet stepped back, smiling his damnable smile. Then he did something Fargo never anticipated: He bowed. “My highest respect, Trailsman. No one has ever lasted this long. It’s time to get serious.”
Under a barrage of fists that would crumple most men in their tracks, Fargo was forced to slowly give ground. For every blow of his that connected, three of Teague’s slipped his guard. His ribs were spikes of torment, his left shoulder was numb, and he tasted his blood in his mouth.
And still, Teague Synnet smiled. He was enjoying himself, enjoying the pain he inflicted. He looped a right, drove in a left. He warded off a jab, delivered one of his own before Fargo could draw his arm back.
Everyone else had gone quiet and was awaiting the outcome with bated breaths. Fargo was vaguely aware of Leslie with her hand to her mouth and Garrick grinning in bloodthirsty glee.
Teague twisted to one side and then the other, and ended his double feint with a flesh-and-bone battering ram down the middle. Fargo dropped an arm to ward it off but he was only partially successful, and the next instant his sternum exploded like a keg of black powder. It was the time in Santa Fe all over again, when he was kicked by a mule in the exact same spot and almost blacked out. Only in Santa Fe the mule had been content with one kick. Synnet wouldn’t be content until he was unconscious at Teague’s feet.
Fargo countered a left but couldn’t avoid a smashing roundhouse to his ear. The world flashed bright white and the grass traded places with the clouds. For a few paralyzing seconds he thought Teague had laid him out flat but a shake of his head dispelled the dizziness and confirmed he was still on his feet.
Teague had paused. He was still smiling, still supremely confident, his attitude an insult in itself. He added another by asking, “Care to give up while you still have your teeth?”
Fargo spat out a mouthful of blood. Tucking his chin to his chest, he let fly, determined not to be budged until one or the other had proven the tougher man. His right fist smashed into Teague’s mouth, Teague’s left gashed his forehead. He recoiled from a punch to his neck that narrowly missed his jugular, then retaliated with a swift combination to the jaw, the cheek, and the right eye.
Now it was Teague who stepped back. He was bleeding in several places and bruises were sprouting like black-and-blue flowers. He spat blood, and smiled. “So,” he said.
“Care to give up?” Fargo mimicked him.
Someone laughed.
Teague’s cruel slash of a mouth twitched and he assumed a wider stance. “You’re good. I will grant you that. But only your reflexes have saved you so far, and you will tire before I do. I guarantee.”
Unexpectedly, Jerrold stepped between them, saying, “This has gone on long enough.”
Teague was dumfounded.
“End it before one of you comes to harm,” Jerrold said.
Pushing Jerrold aside, Teague snapped, “Don’t ever do that again, or so help me, by all that’s holy, I’ll show you what harm really is.”
“Teague!” Leslie exclaimed. “You can’t talk to him like that. He’s your own brother.”
“Stay out of this! Both of you!”
“But Teague—” Jerrold began.
Teague wasn’t listening. Like a wolverine that had caught the scent of fresh blood and would not be denied, he closed in, his face a mask of unbridled fury and seething intensity.
13
The smart thing to do was to give ground. Avoid the onslaught, and when an opening presented itself, attack with a vengeance. But Fargo refused to retreat. He met Teague Synnet’s battering rush head-on and slugged it out in silent grim ferocity, trading blow for blow.
It was man to man, strength against strength, flesh-pulping fist against flesh-pulping fist.
To Fargo it was as if he had blinders on. Everything around them faded into nothingness. There was only Teague and him, hammering, countering, pounding; their punches were backed by all the power in their finely honed sinews. It was brutal. It was fierce. It was the ultimate test of Fargo’s will and grit, and he rose to the challenge with a savage glee he could scarcely contain.
Some of Teague’s blows were getting through but Fargo did not feel them. He only felt his own, only felt his knuckles grate on bone, felt flesh yield and the damp feel of blood on his knuckles and fingers.
Teague threw a cross that Fargo blocked. Then, rather than counter with his other fist, as Teague would expect, Fargo used the same arm he had blocked with to chop Teague on the chin. It wasn’t his best blow. It wasn’t his most powerful punch. But it jarred Teague sideways and created the opening Fargo had been waiting for. His uppercut started at his knee and ended with explosive contact with Teague Synnet’s jaw.
Fargo was vaguely aware of a loud gasp from an onlooker as Synnet staggered back, his arms flailing wildly, and crashed to the earth like a tree uprooted at its base. He thought he had won. He thought he had knocked Synnet out and the fight was over. But Teague only lay there a few seconds, shaking his head and gritting his teeth, before unsteadily pushing to his feet to continue.
“No more!” Jerrold cried, and rushing to his brother, clamped his arms around Teague’s. “That’s enough, do you hear?”
“Let go of me!” Teague cried, struggling to break free. “I’m not done with him!”
“Yes, you are,” Jerrold said, and glanced in appeal at his sister, who sprang to help him. Between the two of them they held Teague motionless, preventing him from
doing that which he so dearly desired to do.
“Damn both of you to hell! You have no right to do this.”
“We have every right,” Leslie disagreed. “We’re family!”
Teague’s face was a battered, blood-spattered wreck. One eyebrow was split, the other eye half-swollen and growing worse. His cheeks, his ears, his lips would take weeks to heal. Blood oozed from his lower gum. “This proved nothing,” he said to Fargo.
“It proved you’re both hardheaded idiots,” Leslie snapped. “Look at you! You won’t be fit to travel for hours.”
“That’s what you think,” Teague said. “We ride in fifteen minutes.”
Fargo slowly turned. Every muscle ached. He was sure he must look as awful as Synnet, if not worse. Untying his bandanna, he wiped his face. His right cheek was a welter of pure pain. His left eyebrow was puffy to the touch. Moving to a log, he sat and removed his hat.
“Here. Let me help.” Shelly had a wet cloth. Squatting, she gingerly dabbed at his cuts and scrapes. “You should see yourself. You look like a boulder rolled over you.”
“Good,” Fargo said.
“How can that be good?” Shelly wanted to know.
“Because I feel like one rolled over me.” Fargo grinned, and regretted it when his cracked lips flared with more pain.
“If I live to be a hundred, I will never understand men,” Shelly commented. “What was that all about, anyway?”
“He claimed my hat was on crooked.”
Shelly frowned. “All right. Don’t tell me. But I still think it’s stupid for two grown men to behave that way.” She wiped his chin. “Garrick would always drag me to Teague’s boxing matches even though I hated going. The stink. The noise. The beatings. It was terrible.”
Fargo saw Leslie doing the same for Teague, who kept jerking his head back. “He likes to hurt things.”
“No. You’re wrong there. I’ve known him a lot longer than you, and it’s not that.” Shelly dabbed at his temple. “Teague just has a competitive nature. Everything he does, he has to be the best at. The best boxer. The best hunter. You name it.”
Fargo disagreed. Teague boxed because he liked beating others into the ground. Teague hunted because he liked killing things.
“The worst part of this silliness,” Shelly said, “is that you won’t be kissing anyone for a while. And I was hoping the two of us could get together some night soon.”
“Like hell I can’t,” Fargo said, and puckered his lips to show her she was wrong. But his mouth wouldn’t work as it should, and the pain that knifed through him made him grimace.
“I told you so,” Shelly said. Her cloth was red with dripping blood. “That’s the best I can do. If you want, I’ll fetch my mirror so you can see how bad it is.”
“I don’t need to see,” Fargo said. He watched her walk off and noticed Wildon staring at him from over by the horses. The little man had never explained why he slipped away in the middle of the night to talk to him, but it must be something important. Fargo motioned, and Wildon promptly disappeared.
Teague Synnet had risen and was barking orders to get underway. He avoided looking at Fargo until he was in the saddle, and then reined his mount over to say, “I still think you’re making a mistake but you’ve earned the right to make it. I’ve never been hit so hard in my life.”
It wasn’t hard enough, Fargo thought. Aloud he said, “I should catch up in two hours at the most.”
“Even if it’s an entire war party and not just one man?” Teague gigged his horse on, muttering, “And people say I’m too confident for my own good.”
Leslie and Shelly and Jerrold smiled down at Fargo as they rode by. Horner, too, although why he would smile, Fargo couldn’t fathom. Wildon would not even glance at him.
Fargo was glad to be shed of them for a while. He led the Ovaro into the trees, shucked the Henry from the saddle scabbard, and moved to a spot overlooking the slope below. Lying flat behind a small pine, he placed the rifle at his side, folded his forearms under his chin, and waited for the rider shadowing them to appear.
His face was throbbing. Whatever else he might think of Teague Synnet, the son of a bitch could hit. Fargo could count the number of men who hit as hard on one hand and have fingers left over.
Now that the two-legged intruders were gone, the woods around him came to life; a squirrel began chattering, a couple of jays flew from tree to tree, squawking noisily, and further off a robin warbled.
Fargo was tired. Bone tired. He had not gotten much sleep the night before. Twice he came close to dozing off. Each time the pain snapped him back to full wakefulness. He lightly touched his eyebrow and cheek and mouth and had to admit Shelly had been telling the truth.
Half an hour dragged by. Then an hour. Fargo shifted now and then to relieve stiff muscles. He kept his gaze fixed on their back trail but now and again his concentration lapsed and he would gaze at the distant peaks far across the valley or watch an eagle glide effortlessly over the verdant woodland in search of prey.
A magnificent buck came out of thick brush a couple of hundred yards away and stood testing the breeze. It was rare to see a big buck abroad during the day. Fargo thought of how delicious a venison steak would taste, and his mouth watered. He shifted his gaze from the buck to the lower slope, and tensed.
The rider had come out of the trees and was climbing directly toward the switchback. Instantly, Fargo flattened, but he need not have worried. The rider had his hat pulled low and was focused on the tracks he was following.
Picking up the Henry, Fargo wedged the stock to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. Then, just like that, he lowered it again, stood up, and showed himself.
The rider never slowed or stopped but climbed until he drew rein a few yards away. “I’ve seen chopped meat that looked better than you.”
“Nice to see you again, too, Sam,” Fargo said.
Beckman grunted and shifted his broken leg. “No need to ask how it happened. But I reckoned you for more sense than to go toe-to-toe with Teague Synnet.”
“And I reckoned you for more sense than to go riding up mountains with a broken ankle,” Fargo retorted.
“It couldn’t be helped,” Beckman said. “I had to get word to you and I couldn’t trust any of those other peckerwoods to get the job done.”
“Word about what?”
Beckman leaned on his saddle horn. “This leg is killing me. As soon as I light and rest, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Fargo brought the Ovaro out of hiding and hunkered. His friend had dismounted, untied the crutch from his bedroll, and was hobbling back and forth, complaining of a cramp.
“I couldn’t hook my boot in the stirrup, and my hip was giving me fits.”
“You went through all this for me?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Beckman said gruffly. “I’d have done the same for any jackass who strayed into quicksand.” He paused. “How come you’re by your lonesome? Did you get tired of playing nursemaid?”
“I knew someone was trailing us,” Fargo said. “But I thought it was a Blood.” He told Beckman about the moccasin track.
“Strange. I haven’t seen sign of a war party.” Beckman stopped hobbling and scratched his chin. “If Bloods had struck your trail, I’d know. They’re tricky devils but they’re not ghosts.” He went to ease to the ground but winced and replaced the crutch under his arm. “If there’s a bigger nuisance than a broken leg, I’ve yet to come across it. I always dread it happening.”
“You’ve busted your leg before?”
“Twice this leg, once the other,” Beckman said. “The first time I was ten and fell down the cellar steps at an uncle’s house. Tripped over their damned lazy cat. The second time I was twenty-one or twenty-two and a horse kicked me. The third time was only ten years ago or so. I was helping a Crow collect eagle feathers up on Long’s Peak and slipped.” He smacked his leg. “Now this. I keep this up, I’ll set some kind of record.”
“I can
drag a log over for you to sit on,” Fargo offered.
“Forget it. I’m tired of sitting anyway.” Beckman faced him. “What I came to tell you is more important. It could be someone is out to kill the Synnet party, and I doubt they’ll care to leave witnesses.”
“I can understand someone wanting to kill Teague,” Fargo said. “But Jerrold and the women, too?”
“Hear me out. It was the evening after you left. I was in the woods when I heard someone coming. Turned out to be two of the help who had been off collecting firewood. One was saying how he didn’t like being left behind because he might not get his share.”
“Share of what?”
“He didn’t say. But his friend said not to fret, that they would get what was coming to them once the Easterners had been taken care of.”
Fargo’s interest perked. “Taken care of? Those were his exact words?”
“As God is my witness.” Beckman crossed himself. “The second one said that all they had to do was hold up their end and have horses ready when the others came down the mountain so they could be long gone before anyone else at the base camp discovered what had happened.”
“Did you question these two?”
“Their names are Bart and Sears,” Beckman said. “And no, I didn’t. They’re both mean cusses, and I’m not about to buck them alone, not with my leg as it is, especially since they’d just deny they were up to no good.”
Fargo wondered who was involved, and why they wanted all the Easterners dead. “That’s all you overheard?”
“Then, yes. But I was naturally curious. So I made it a point to keep my eyes on those two, and to sneak within earshot whenever they weren’t paying attention. That night they took a turn standing guard, and when everyone else was asleep, I crawled close to give a listen. They were talking about you.”
“Me?”
Sam Beckman nodded. “Sears was saying how it was a stroke of bad luck that you showed up when you did, and even worse that Teague asked you to be a guide. Sears was worried you would stick your nose in and give them trouble. Bart answered that if you became a problem, you would be breathing dirt before too long. He went on and on about how you’re not as tough as everyone claims, and how you bleed just like everyone else.” Beckman stared at Fargo’s battered face. “He got that last part right but he sure as hell doesn’t know you very well or he would know you’re one of the toughest hombres alive.”
Mountain Manhunt Page 10
