Badlands Bloodsport

The two men circled, Derek quickly lunging out with a hard right thrust. Fargo knocked it aside with his left arm and followed up with a quick jab to Derek’s bleeding mouth. But Derek surprised him with a roundhouse left that made a bright orange light explode in Fargo’s skull. It left his ears ringing.

“Cat and mouse,” Derek boasted. “That’s how Derek the Terrible takes them down, what? Well, Lady Blackford, here’s the famous American frontiersman who ‘knows fifty ways to kill a man before breakfast.’ Why don’t you sketch your hero now?”

“He’s acquitting himself rather nicely,” she replied. “And though he doesn’t have your artificial muscles, he is a strong man driven by a strong will. He is ‘a man unafraid,’ and he will vanquish you.”

“You forgot to add amen,” Derek taunted. “That was a prayer. This little kicking sissy is bound for the bone orchard, I’ll warrant.”

In a bit of dazzling footwork, Derek feinted left and then spurted to the right, sending a crushing blow toward Fargo’s left temple. But the honed reflexes of a bobcat saved Fargo as he jerked his head backward. The force of this empty swing left Derek momentarily off balance, and Fargo pummeled his face with several hard-hitting jabs.

“Go it, Fargo!” Slappy shouted. “By God, you’re the Trailsman! Crush this cockroach!”

But the cockroach, Fargo knew, was one of nature’s toughest creatures, and Derek proved it by quickly shaking off the blows and rushing Fargo. A powerful uppercut made Fargo’s teeth clack like dice and almost upended him. Backpedaling to avoid another blow, arms wildly flailing to keep his balance, Fargo knew he was gone beaver if he fell to the ground and let Derek pin him under those ham-sized fists.

“Run, you bloody sissy bitch!” Derek taunted. “The God-Almighty Trailsman, scout, hunter, guide—and yellow poltroon. King George may have shown the white feather to you Colonials, Fargo, but Derek the Terrible will not.”

Fargo was balanced again, slowly circling. He could feel his jaw swelling. “You know something, Derek? Your mouth runs like a whippoorwill’s ass. If you mean to kill me, get thrashing.”

“You begged for it, mate.”

Derek shuffled closer and threw a hard right at Fargo. Fargo moved his head in the nick of time and took a glancing blow to his cheek. But now Derek was open, and Fargo had the opportunity he’d been looking for. Although not a trained pugilist, he had learned from hard experience about the “sweet spot”—a point on the jaw line halfway between the tip of the chin and the ear. A strong enough blow to that spot could knock even the biggest man out.

Fargo set his heels and sent a powerful haymaker toward Derek’s jaw. But Derek jerked his head slightly, and the blow did not land precisely. Nonetheless, Derek reeled backward trying to shake it off.

Fargo, however, closed relentlessly, sending another punishing kick to Derek’s groin. Under the weight of this double attack Derek folded to his knees, his breath blowing and snorting like a played-out pack animal. Fargo quickly snatched the Remington from Derek’s waistband.

“You spent too much time bragging, hangman,” Fargo said as he thumbed back the hammer. “You prob’ly could have killed me if you’d just set to it. Slappy, get that rope out of the fodder wagon. We’re taking no more chances with this one.”

“Lady Blackford was right!” Slappy chortled as he hurried toward the wagon. “You vanquished that son of a bitch, all right!”

Derek finally found his voice. “In a pig’s ass, you old fart sack. The sodding blighter had to kick me. That’s not in the rules.”

“I daresay, Derek,” Lord Blackford’s reedy voice spoke up, “the rules governing a match in an English pub hardly apply to a life-or-death situation on the wild frontier of America. I might add that legs are human appendages no less than arms—by what logic are kicks not permissible in a fight? And finally, what ‘rules’ permit you to . . . outrage my wife? Fargo would have been justified in gouging out your eyes.”

“Fargo, how we gonna haul this big galoot?” Slappy asked, bringing the rope over.

“The earl is an experienced horsebacker,” Fargo said. “The saddle horses are just about done in, but we’ll have to tack one for him to ride. That way we can toss the hangman into the fodder wagon without adding too much weight.”

“Together again, eh, Jessie?” Derek taunted between rasping breaths. “P’r’aps you might give me a reach-around while you’re driving, what?”

Fargo’s second attempt to tag the sweet spot was successful—his well-aimed blow sent Derek into the grass dreaming.

“Truss him up good and tight,” Fargo told Slappy. “And use one of those blindfolds the ladies just made to gag the mouthy son of a bitch. I’ve had my belly full of his chin music.”