Range War (9781101559215) by C. J. Cherryh Page B

hoisted high to bash his brains out.
    â€œNow, gringo! Now!” Carlos screamed.
    Fargo rolled and the stock thudded into the dirt. Scrambling onto his knees, Fargo crossed his left hand to his right boot to try to draw the Arkansas toothpick. But Carlos came at him again, swinging. It was all he could do to twist away. His right arm was tingling but he still couldn’t bring the Colt to bear.
    And Pablo was slowly getting up.
    Carlos swung the rifle low, seeking to sweep Fargo’s legs out from under him. Leaping into the air, Fargo kicked Carlos in the chest. Gripping the Colt by the barrel with his left hand, Fargo whipped it out and around and had the satisfaction of seeing Carlo’s mouth explode with blood and bits of teeth.
    Carlos screeched and dropped the rifle and clutched at his face.
    Fargo hit him again. There was a crack and Carlos dropped where he stood.
    Pablo was almost to his feet. He had a hand to his head and was shaking it to clear it.
    â€œHad enough?” Fargo said.
    Pablo spun. Glaring, he clawed at the knife on his hip.
    Fargo kicked him in the groin. The tip of his boot caught the young sheepherder where it would hurt any man the most and Pablo shrieked and folded as Carlos had done. Pablo’s eyelids fluttered and his body convulsed before he lay still.
    Fargo looked at the three of them.
    â€œJackasses.”
    He tried his right arm and although it was tingling to where it hurt, he could move it. He proceeded to climb on the Ovaro and gathered up their horses. “Enjoy the walk,” he said to the limp figures, and headed down the mountain.
    The camp was quiet when he arrived. Most of the women were in their wagons; most of the men were off tending the sheep.
    A few children scampered about but paid him no mind. He had tied the horses and was pouring himself a cup of coffee when Constanza stalked over, her flinty face pinched with wrath.
    â€œWhere are my grandson and his friends?”
    â€œHere we go again.”
    â€œDon’t treat me like fool,” Constanza said. “I saw you ride up with their horses and I know they went to have a talk with you.”
    â€œTalk?” Fargo sipped and peered at her over the tin cup. “Your grandson tried to bash my brains out. And I bet it was with your blessing.”
    Constanza smiled.
    Insight dawned, and Fargo said, “It was your idea, wasn’t it? That grandson of yours wouldn’t do anything without your say-so. Was it you who told him to kill those cows, too?”
    â€œMy grandson stands up for us, which is more than I can say about my husband.” Constanza folded her arms. “Now where is he? Have you killed them?”
    â€œI should have,” Fargo said.
    â€œYou are a tough hombre, senor,” Constanza said. “I will grant you that much.”
    â€œI don’t give a damn what you think.”
    â€œGood. Then you won’t mind my telling you that I hate you and your kind.”
    â€œKind?” Fargo said.
    â€œAnglos. All Anglos.”
    â€œYou’re one of those.” Fargo had a special dislike for bigots. He’d seen too many of them in his travels—whites who hated red men, red men who wanted all whites dead, whites who loathed blacks, blacks who despised whites, whites who looked down their noses at those they called greasers . . . and on and on it went.
    â€œ Si , senor,” Constanza was crowing, “and proud of it. You would never understand.”
    â€œWhat’s your excuse for hating so much?”
    â€œWho needs one?” Constanza said. “But if you must know, I am a pureblood Spaniard, as were my father and mother and their parents and all those before them. Can you say as much?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Of course not, because you do not have a heritage like mine. You are nothing, and less than nothing. You are a mongrel.”
    â€œI’d rather be a mongrel than a bitch.”
    In