Flathead Fury (3 page)

“What did you just call me?” The man was compact and muscular and had the shoulders of a bull.

“Want me to spell it?” Fargo tore loose and took another step, only to have his arm grabbed a second time. He turned, just as a fist arced at his face.

Fargo sidestepped and the fist missed his cheek by a whisker. Before the man could recover his balance, Fargo slammed the Henry's stock against his head. It rocked the man onto his boot heels but he did not go down. With a bellow that drew the attention of those around them, he drove a fist at Fargo's gut. Again Fargo used the Henry, flicking it so that the man's fist connected with the barrel and not his body. The man howled and shook his hand, then feinted with his other fist while kicking at Fargo's groin. Twisting, Fargo took the kick on the outside of his thigh.

The man was red with rage and drink, and Fargo was mad, himself. Stepping back, he struck the Henry against the man's left knee. That brought a roar of pain and the man doubled over, clutching his leg and exposing the back of his head. Fargo brought the stock sweeping down and the man groaned and pitched to the floor, unconscious.

Fargo slowly lowered the Henry. He had half a mind to kick the bastard's ribs in. Instead, he turned and found himself the center of attention. The saloon had gone quiet and nearly everyone was staring at him. Ignoring them, he strode on. People scampered aside to let him pass. Those at the bar parted to give him space.

The hothead had done Fargo a favor. Now he was someone to be reckoned with. Word would spread, and be exaggerated in the telling, and by tomorrow everyone in Polson would take him for a bad man. That could work to his advantage.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind than all those around him were giving him even more room. Not because of what he had done but because a knot of four men were coming toward him from the back. Fargo watched them in the mirror while saying to the bartender, “A bottle of your best. And if you have watered it down, God help you.”

Two of the four men Fargo had already met: Kutler and Tork. The third had to be the man called Grunge. He was about Fargo's size but his hands were incredibly huge, three times as big as normal hands would be, and his knuckles were walnuts.

The fourth man had to be Big Mike Durn. He stood head and shoulders above everyone else. His chest was immense. From what Fargo had heard, he expected Durn to be an unkempt river rat. But Durn was clean-shaven and freshly scrubbed, his suit immaculate. He did not wear a hat. Nor, to Fargo's surprise, did he wear a revolver—that Fargo could see. Durn's eyes were a steely gray, and when he smiled, as he did now, the smile did not touch them. “That was nicely done, Mr. Fargo.”

Fargo arched an eyebrow.

“Kutler told me about running into you,” Big Mike said. “You are everything the gossips claim.”

“A man shouldn't listen to biddy hens,” Fargo said.

Durn leaned an elbow on the bar. “Welcome to my saloon. To my town. To what will one day be my territory.”

Fargo glanced at him, and damn if the man wasn't serious. “I seem to recollect that Polson was here long before you showed up.”

“That it was,” Mike Durn said. “But there was no one in charge. No top dog, if you will.”

“And there is now?”

“You are looking at him.”

“I admire your modesty,” Fargo said as the bartender placed a bottle and a glass in front of him.

Durn laughed, but the laughter was as cold as his smile. “Modesty is for the weak, for those too timid to reach out and take what they want from life. I am not timid.”

Fargo opened the bottle and filled his glass. “Care to wet your throat?” he asked.

“Don't mind if I do,” Durn said. All he had to do was crook a finger at the bartender, and a glass was in front of him. He smiled as Fargo poured. “I am obliged. Usually I limit myself to two drinks a night, but for you I will make an exception.”

“You never get drunk?” Fargo had never met a riverman who did not like to drown himself in liquor.

“Not anymore, no. A man in my position cannot afford to be weak when there are those who would tear him down.”

“You seem fond of that word,” Fargo noted. “Weak.”

Big Mike Durn tipped the glass to his mouth but took only a sip. “There are two kinds of people in this world. The strong and the weak. The wolves and the sheep. Most people are sheep. They do what they are told and abide by the law from the cradle to the grave. They are nobodies while they live, and no one remembers them after they die.” He set down the glass. “That is not for me. I am a wolf. I take what I want when I want. I wrest what I need from those that have it, and bury them if they get in my way. I have taken over this town, and in another couple of years I will take over the entire territory.”

Fargo smothered a smirk. The man sure was fond of himself. “The United States government might have a say about that,” he remarked.

“Oh, I have no doubt they will try to stop me,” Durn said somberly. “It would not surprise me if reports have already reached them, and they have sent someone to check on those reports.” He paused. “Say you, for instance.”

It took every iota of self-control Fargo had not to betray his surprise. Whatever else Big Mike Durn might be, he was not stupid. “I work for the army from time to time,” he admitted. “But as a scout, nothing more.”

“So I have heard,” Durn said. “But I wonder. Some might call it a coincidence, you showing up here, but I am not a big believer in coincidence. Convince me I am wrong and I will allow you to stay.”

Fargo had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but he did not say it. He suddenly noticed that the other three had spread out and were ringing him, Kutler with his hand on his bowie, Tork with the Sharps casually pointed in his general direction, and Grunge with those enormous fists of his balled. “How do I go about doing that?”

“I leave that to you,” Durn said. “But I will grant you one night in Polson. Entertain yourself as you see fit, and if you want to stay longer, come see me in the morning and persuade me to let you stay.”

“I do not like being told what to do.”

“That makes two of us.” Durn smiled, and was about to walk off when a shout rose to the rafters.

“You, there! The son of a bitch who bloodied me!”

Fargo looked in the mirror. He had forgotten about the jackass who took a swing at him. The man was on his feet, swaying slightly, blood trickling down his cheek, his teeth bared in a snarl. “Go bother someone else,” Fargo said.

“Like hell!” The man was poised to draw, his fingers inches above his revolver. “Turn and face me! Or so help me, I will shoot you in the back.”

Big Mike Durn sighed. “That will be enough out of you, Everett. Be smart for once and go sleep it off.”

“Stay out of this!” Everett snapped. “You saw what he did to me. I have the right to repay the favor.”

“You have whatever rights I say you have,” Durn said quietly. “One of the rights you do
not
have is the right not to do whatever I tell you to do. I will say it one more time. Go sleep the booze off. In the morning look me up and apologize.”

By now the saloon had gone quiet again, with all present waiting to see the outcome.

Everett gestured, but not with his gun arm. “I swear. The airs you put on. You might have the rest of these yacks afraid but not me. I will do as I please, and it pleases me to kill this son of a bitch.”

Tork had shifted and was pointing the Sharps at Everett. “Let me take care of this peckerwood, Mr. Durn.”

“No. That buffalo gun of yours would splatter his brains all over,” Big Mike said.

“How about me, then?” Kutler offered, starting to draw his bowie.

“Open him up with that big pigsticker and he will get blood on the floor,” Durn said. “No, I would rather that Grunge do the honors.”

Everett was staring at them as if he could not believe what he was hearing. “I am standing right here!” he declared. “No one is a laying hand on me, do you hear?”

“Not a hand so much as a sledge,” Durn said, and bobbed his head at the man with the enormous fists. “He is yours. Try not to make too much of a mess or you will clean it up.”

Fargo saw it all.

Everett swore and grabbed at his six-shooter. His fingers had not quite reached it when Grunge reached him and swept both giant fists up and in. The double crunch was loud enough to be heard clear across the room.

Everett howled and covered his shattered ears with his hands. He bent slightly, enough that Grunge brought his fists smashing down on top of Everett's head. Instead of a crunch there was a thump, and Everett was belly down on the floor, and did not move.

“Now get him out of my sight,” Big Mike Durn said gruffly. “And if you break a few of his bones while doing it, so much the better.”

Grunge and Tork were quick to obey, each taking an arm and dragging Everett out. Laughter and insults were flung at the unconscious man by some in the crowd.

Fargo observed that some did not laugh or poke fun. Durn's high-handed methods were not appreciated by everyone. He downed the whiskey in his glass at a gulp and set the glass down.

“I did not take you for the squeamish type,” Mike Durn said.

Refilling his glass, Fargo was aware that Kutler had come up on the other side of him. They were slick as grease, this bunch. “I am thirsty, is all.”

“Now where were we?” Big Mike said. “Oh. Yes. I was saying as how I suspect you are working for the army. But I hear tell that you claim you came all this way to have some time to yourself.”

“What is unusual about that?”

“Nothing. Except that you had the whole Rockies to choose from, and they run from Canada to Mexico. Yet you picked our neck of the woods.”

“You have a suspicious nature,” Fargo said.

“As suspicious as they come,” Mike Durn confirmed. “It is why I have lived as long as I have.”

“What is this I hear about a thousand people moving to Polson by the end of next year?” Fargo casually inquired.

“Who told you that?” Durn snapped, and glanced at Kutler, who averted his gaze. “Some people can't help wagging their tongues, it seems. Yes, I am counting on a lot more folks wanting to live here after I have made a few changes.”

“Changes how?”

Durn's grin was no grin at all; it was a vicious sneer. “You have yet to convince me you are not a danger to me and my plans. Until you do—” He shrugged, then finished his drink. “It has been interesting. We will talk again tomorrow if you are still here. If you aren't, I will take that as a sign you were lying, and if I ever hear of you anywhere in Polson or Mission Valley, I will send Kutler and Tork and Grunge to talk to you, along with a few others.”

“Was that a threat?”

“No. A promise.” Big Mike Durn walked off with Kutler in his wake. Three more men fell into step behind them.

Fargo had not counted on this. That sharpshooting contest in Missouri a while back, along with a few other incidents, had brought him notoriety he could do without. Now, most everyone who heard of him knew that he scouted for the army on occasion. He refilled his glass. How in hell was he to convince Durn he was not working for the government when he only had his own say-so? Durn would never accept his word. He might as well ride out by morning. Sure, he could ask around, like the army wanted, but word was bound to reach Durn, and he would be up to his neck in curly wolves out to blow windows in his skull.

“Damn,” Fargo said to himself. He decided to find an empty chair and sit in on a card game. That would take his mind off his problem for a while. Picking up the bottle and glass, he pivoted.

Just then a commotion broke out at the batwings. Two men were blocking the doorway to prevent someone from forcing their way through.

“Let go of me, consarn you!” a woman's voice demanded. “I insist on seeing your boss!” The woman tried to shove them out of her way.

Patrons were stopping what they were doing to stare.

Fargo glimpsed lustrous blond hair and a shapely figure, and then the onlookers were making space for Big Mike Durn. Durn gestured, and the two men at the batwings stepped aside to admit the woman.

“Sally, Sally, Sally,” Durn said with a smile. “The Whiskey Mill is no fit place for a lady. What are you doing here?”

Fargo had it, then. This was Sally Brook, the woman Thaddeus had told him about.

She put her hands on her hips, her emerald eyes flashing. “Not fit for a lady?” she repeated, and bobbed her head at a Flathead maiden. “Then why are she and these others here?”

“Don't start,” Durn said.

“You do not seem to understand,” Sally Brook declared. “I will not rest until you stop using these women for your private gain. It is despicable.”

“My customers don't think so.”

“I just heard that three more were brought in today,” Sally said. “Young ones, too.”

“The younger, the better,” Durn told her. “They are more popular than toothless hags.”

“You have no shame, do you?” Sally Brook said, her tone laced with condemnation.

“None whatsoever. But fortunately for you, I have a lot of patience. Otherwise, you would not still be in my good graces.”