Badlands Bloodsport

“Well said, milord,” Derek said, “but I didn’t ask you to stick your oar in my boat, now, did I? Fargo, you just signed your own death warrant. However, I will only beat you senseless, not kill you. That would be too merciful, and mercy is no part of my nature. But first . . .”

Derek looked at Slappy in the silver-white moonlight. “You, pus bag. Use your hat to collect up all three of the ladies’ muff guns. And collect that little piss-shooter Lord Blackford carries between his weskit and coat. Then pick up Fargo’s weapons and bring them over to me. Play the fox and I’ll burn you down, to use Fargo’s words.”

“I’m clemmed if I will, you British jackanapes! You’re crazy as a pet coon.”

“Do it, Slappy,” Fargo ordered. The Trailsman knew he would rather take on three Minnesota lumberjacks than grapple with this mountain of muscle. Fargo had observed the British style of boxing in saloon matches, and while it had a queer sort of look to it, English fisticuffs could be dangerous for those not trained in it. But he saw no other way out of this death trap—either he whipped Derek, and whipped him soundly, or there was not even a slim chance of survival for the rest.

Slappy brought the hat and Fargo’s weapons over and thrust them out to Derek, who counted the guns and set everything behind him. “Right we are, then. Now all five of you sit in a circle where I can see you—far away from the fodder wagon.”

When everyone had complied, Derek said, “Turn around, living legend, and come at me with all you have. I’ll even let you give me a facer to open the match. But by the Lord Harry, it’s the last hand you’ll lay on me.”

19

Fargo fought like most men on the frontier, in a wide-open brawling style where both men traded punches until the stronger left the weaker prone. There was not much “technique” to it, either offensively or defensively. Western men did not see fistfighting as an art or a science, because most serious encounters were settled with weapons.

But Fargo knew as he lowered his body and transferred his balance to his heels, moving in on Derek, that frontier brawling would fail him now. He would have to think on his feet and avoid letting Derek use all those slabs of iron-hard muscle against him. And body blows against the Tyburn hangman would be useless, like punching the Rock of Gibraltar. Just as Fargo always tried to score a head shot with his guns, he would have to land head blows now.

“Cor! Look at the knight in buckskins!” Derek mocked. “Timid little mouse, he is! There you are, Jessica and Rebecca—the American hero who pumped it to you and made you bark like dogs. Have you seen how the lad likes to clean his teeth with a hog-bristle brush? He’ll have no teeth to clean after I’ve done with him.”

Derek was so confident he had not even taken a guard position. “I told you I’d allow you a free facer, Fargo. Look, I’m even leading with my chin to make it easy for you. Come baste me a good one, there’s a stout lad.”

Fargo closed with his opponent, fists clenched but arms hanging to his sides. A facer was tempting, all right, but six lives hung in the balance now, his own included. Years in the saddle, as well as climbing trees and rock pinnacles to scout terrain, had left his long legs knotted with muscles. There was one spot even the strongest man could not build up, and Fargo shifted his weight to his left foot, bringing his right up in a vicious kick that landed squarely on Derek’s crotch.

The flat sound of impact carried well in the cold, still air. Derek instantly jackknifed, sucking in a hissing breath. Fargo followed with a savage kick to his face that sent the man sprawling.

Fargo had learned that most fights end up on the ground as wrestling matches, but he wanted nothing of the sort with this opponent. He waited while Derek, cupping his crotch, struggled to recover his breath.

“You filthy bugger,” the hangman finally managed. “Kicking like some sissy bitch. That’s not according to Hoyle.”

“You mean like murdering Skeets from behind with a rock? Or leaving all of us to die after you rape Lady Blackford? Take your Hoyle and stick him where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m making the medicine and you’re by God taking it.”

“So that’s the way of it? I’ll pound you to paste, Fargo. And I’ve changed my mind about killing you—the death blow is coming. You won’t be standing one minute longer.”

“I’ll be on my feet until hell freezes over and then a little while on the ice. C’mon, it’s cold out here—let’s waltz.”

Derek backhanded blood from his mouth and rose slowly to his feet. Now his fists came up, close together and far out from his face in the style of the trained English pugilist. “Come on, then, sissy bitch,” he taunted Fargo. “Try another kick.”