Grizzly Fury

They ate and returned to the Three Deuces. Fanny had to work so Fargo sat in on a poker game. The cards went from cold to warm to hot and he was on a winning streak and over a hundred dollars to the better when a commotion broke out over at the bar. He wasn’t paying it any mind until a familiar voice caught his ear.

“I say, take that back, you bounder. I will put up with a lot but not an insult.”

Fargo shifted in his chair. Wendolyn Channing Mayal was as impeccably dressed as ever. Wendy was matching glares with a burly man in bib overalls. A farmer from Missouri, as Fargo recollected, another bear hunter. The man had four friends and the five of them were drunk.

Now the farmer poked Wendy in the chest. “I say that any country that lets itself be run by a woman, the men ain’t got no sand.”

“That is so outrageously stupid I don’t know where to begin,” Wendy said. “And I’ll thank you again not to slur the queen.”

“He just called you stupid,” one of the others said to the burly one.

“Real men don’t let females tell them what to do,” the instigator declared.

“You’ve never been married, then?” Wendy said.

“I was once but she ran off with a corset salesman.” The farmer poked the Englishman harder. “And this ain’t about me. It’s about you coming over here from Great England or whatever the hell you call it and trying to take money away from good honest Americans like us.” He gestured at his friends.

“In the first place, it’s Great Britain, and in the second place, I have as much right as any of you to have a go at this Brain Eater.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I’ve just said it was.”

The burly one glanced at his companions.

Fargo sensed what was coming. He hardly knew the Englishman, and it really wasn’t any of his business and he should stay at the table, yet he found himself setting down his cards and saying, “I’ll be right back.”

The farmer swatted Wendy’s ale from his hand and the stein crashed to pieces against the bar.

“You bloody idiot.”

The farmer threw a punch that Wendy blocked. The others sprang and grabbed his arms.

“Let go, damn you. This is most unsportsmanlike.”

The burly one shook a fist. “Mister, I am sick of you and your airs.”

“Knock his noggin off, Leroy,” another of the drunks exhorted him.

“Release me, I say,” Wendy said. “It’s not my fault that so many of you colonials aren’t gentlemen.”

“There you go again.” Leroy leaned in close. “When I’m done, you’ll be laid up for a month of Sundays.” He cocked his arm.

By then Fargo was there. He grabbed Leroy’s wrist. “Enough.”

The farmer turned in surprise and wrenched free. “What the hell? I remember seeing you out at the Stoddard place. Are you his friend or something?”

“I like the name Wendy,” Fargo said.

“What kind of name is that for a man, anyhow?”

“Let go of him and go back to your drinking,” Fargo advised.

They were too drunk and too dense. They looked at one another and Leroy did more fist shaking.

“Mister, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take that big nose of yours somewhere else.”

“Yours is a lot bigger,” Fargo said, and punched him in it.

Cartilage crunched and blood spurted and Leroy roared with rage and attacked.

Wendy kicked one of the men holding him in the knee and was slammed against the bar.

Two others came at Fargo and suddenly he was half surrounded and warding off blows from three attackers at once. He slipped a sloppy cross and let loose with a sharp uppercut that raised the man onto the tips of his toes. A fist to his shoulder made him wince. Another scraped his cheek. He pivoted and rammed his knuckles into a flabby gut, only to have his arm gripped and held. He brought his left arm up but that was seized, too, and now he was in the same predicament as Wendy.

Glowering, Leroy wiped blood from his face with his sleeve. “Hold them, boys.”

“Thank you for trying to help,” Wendy said to Fargo. “Very decent of you, my good fellow.”

“Shut up,” Leroy snarled, and once more cocked his arm. “I’m going to enjoy the hell out of pounding the two of you into the floor.”

The next instant a large figure reared behind him and a hand the size of a ham clamped around his neck.

“What’s going on here, Leroy?”

“Moose!” Leroy exclaimed.

“I asked you a question,” Moose Taylor said, shaking him. “Wendy, there, has been nice to me, and I don’t want to see him hurt.”

“This ain’t any of your affair.”

Moose glared at the others. “Let go of them or I’ll do something you won’t like.”

Leroy gave a tug but couldn’t pull free. “I don’t like you now, damn you. You let go of me. There are five of us and that’s more than enough, even for you.”

“Don’t be mean,” Moose said.

Once more Leroy tried to jerk loose and couldn’t. His temper snapped. “Mean? I’ll give you mean, you big ox. You are nothing but brag, always going on about all the bears you claim you’ve killed.”

A red flush spread from Moose’s neck to his hair. Just like that, he bent and gripped Leroy by the shirt and the belt, and in an incredible display of raw strength, raised the farmer clear over his head.