mister,â Orley spat. âI donât forget a thing like that.â
âWhere did your pards get to?â Fargo asked, sliding his right hand to his boot.
âThe lieutenant put the fear of the stockade into them, but not into me.â
Hiking his pants leg, Fargo slid his fingers into his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. âYouâll be clapped in irons if Colonel Chivington finds out.â
âWhoâs going to tell him?â Orley motioned. âLook around you. Itâs just you and me.â
Fargo rose to his knees. The camp looked deserted. It was the hottest part of the day, too hot for drilling or most anything else, and few troopers were out and about.
âYou just going to kneel there?â Orley said. âDefend yourself. Or did you become yellow all of a sudden?â
âIâm surprised you didnât just stab me,â Fargo said as he rose with his right arm, and the toothpick, behind his leg.
âWhat do you take me for?â Orley said. âIâll give you a chance, like Iâd give anybody. This will be fair.â
Fargo showed his hand, and his blade. âYes,â he said, âit will.â
Undaunted, Orley grinned. âIf youâre thinking to scare me, think again. Thereâs something you donât know.â
âWhat would that be?â
âI may not look like much but Iâm a hellion with a knife.â
âProve it.â
Orley did. He leaped to the attack, flashing his knife high and low and slashing from side to side.
It was all Fargo could do not to be cut. Parrying, evading, he was forced to give way. He retreated a couple of steps, and planted himself. Orley wasnât all brag; he truly was good. But so was Fargo.
Jerking his arm away to avoid having his wrist opened, Fargo cut Orley and drew blood.
Now it was Orley who took a step back. He glanced at the red drops, and swore. âYouâre quick, scout. Mighty quick. But it wonât help.â
âAnd you talk too much.â
Orley raised his hand to his mouth and licked his knuckles. Smirking, he spat blood at Fargoâs face but Fargo got his hand up.
Tucking at the knees, Orley came at him again. âNo more talk. We end this.â
Fargo was glad to oblige. He feinted, twisted, lunged. Orley countered, shifted, drove his knife at Fargoâs neck. Cold steel rang on cold steel and they parted.
Orley growled in frustration. âSo far youâve been lucky.â
âThought you were done talking,â Fargo taunted. âOr are you building up your nerve?â
âIâll show you nerve,â Orley said.
Their knives became streaks. This time it was Fargo who felt a sharp sting and looked down to see scarlet drops on his hand.
âNot so tough, are you?â Orley gloated.
Fargo stabbed at Orleyâs throat, expecting to drive the trooper back a couple of steps, but Orley ducked and drove the tip of his blade at Fargoâs gut. Fargo barely countered in time. Swiveling, he retaliated with a lightning flick of his wrist and felt his blade slice deep into Orleyâs upper arm. Bleating in pain, Orley skipped away, or tried to. With a swift bound, Fargo kicked Orley in the shin. Momentarily off balance, Orley glued his gaze to the Arkansas toothpick. It was doubtful Orley saw Fargoâs left fist but Orley certainly felt the full force on his chin. Orleyâs legs buckled, and Fargo slugged him again. He didnât hold back.
The trooper crumpled.
Fargo took a few deep breaths. He had half a mind to report Orley to Lieutenant Bremmer, but no, this was personal. Wiping the toothpick on Orleyâs shirt, he replaced it in his ankle sheath, reclaimed his bedroll, and left the shade of the building for the inferno of the sun.
Fargo came to a decision. He was tired of the nonsense at Fort Bowie. Heâd go find Colonel Chivington, find out if the colonel did indeed want him to go after the
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