Flathead Fury by Jon Sharpe Page A

for? I’m not helpless.”
    â€œWhat about that griz—” Fargo began.
    â€œOld One Ear? Don’t start with him again. He is practically my pet.”
    The mention sparked Fargo to ask, “That reminds me. Have you heard anything about Mike Durn having a pet of his own?”
    â€œIs it a polecat?” Thaddeus rejoined, and cackled.
    â€œI take it that is a no.”
    â€œIf he has one, no one has told me. Now be on your way. I have half a bottle yet to drink and the night ain’t half over.”
    â€œAre you sure you can make it? You look fit to bounce off trees.”
    â€œHow do you think I stay on my feet?” Beaming, Thaddeus fondled the bottle and walked on by. His off-key singing again rose to the stars.
    Shaking his head, Fargo clucked to the Ovaro.
    The lights of Polson were a mile off when hooves pounded and half a dozen riders swept across the trail, blocking it. Fargo drew rein, his elbow crooked so his fingers brushed his Colt. He did not recognize any of them except the small man in the middle.
    Tork hefted his Sharps, then said, “Well, look who we have here. Mr. Durn was wondering what happened to you. Where have you been?”
    â€œNone of your damn business,” Fargo said.
    â€œDon’t prod me, mister,” Tork snapped. “We have about ridden our horses into the ground hunting for whoever took one of Mr. Durn’s squaws. He is of the opinion it might be you.”
    â€œI better go have a talk with him. Where is he?”
    â€œBack at the Whiskey Mill,” Tork answered. “We will escort you in. But first, hand over your six-shooter.”
    â€œNo.”
    Tork bristled with, “There are enough of us that you will be lucky to get off a shot.”
    â€œSo long as the shot I get off is aimed at you,” Fargo called the little man’s bluff.
    â€œYou don’t scare me none,” Tork sneered. But he did not make an issue of it. “Go on ahead of us and we will follow.”
    â€œI will do the following,” Fargo told him. “Less chance of a bullet in the back that way.”
    â€œIf you and me tangle, it will be head-on,” Tork predicted. “I am no coward.” He reined his mount around, bawling, “We will do as he wants, boys. He gets to go on breathing until Mr. Durn says different.”
    A hardcase on the right spat on the ground. “I don’t much like how he tells us what to do.”
    â€œI am the one telling you,” Tork said. “And I speak for Mr. Durn. Now spur that critter of yours or your neck will need a new head.” So saying, he trained his Sharps on the malcontent.
    Fargo half hoped they would shoot one another but the other man did not have the backbone to buck Tork, and fell in with the rest.
    On the ride back Fargo had plenty of time to think over what he was going to say.
    Polson had quieted. Fewer people were on the street and some of the houses were dark. He let Tork’s bunch go in first. At the batwings he paused to check the lay of the saloon.
    Big Mike Durn was at the bar. He was not alone. Seven of his men were drinking with him. Kutler was nowhere to be seen, but Grunge was there. About half the tables had card games going. Fewer maidens were mingling with the customers.
    Fargo pushed on through.
    Tork had reached the bar and said something to Durn, who turned with his elbows on the counter and regarded Fargo with his usual cold smile. The cardplayers paid little attention as Fargo wound among the tables and planted himself a good six feet from the ruler of the Polson roost. “What is this about me helping one of your girls get away?” he started right in.
    â€œMr. Fargo,” Durn said with feigned politeness. “Perhaps you would be willing to account for your whereabouts tonight.”
    â€œI would not.”
    â€œMight I ask why?”
    â€œI will tell you what I told your cur,” Fargo said. “What I do is my