Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe

said.
    Fargo bunched his stomach muscles and the first few blows didn’t hurt as much as before, but he couldn’t do it indefinitely. By the seventh or eighth blow, the agony was excruciating. Bitter bile dribbled up his gorge into his mouth.
    Rance hit and hit, smirking in vicious delight.
    Fargo didn’t know how much more he could take when, unexpectedly, Rance stopped and stepped back.
    â€œYour turn, brother,” he said to Grizz. “Time to break some of his bones.”

27
    Fargo was in serious trouble. Rance’s blows were bad enough. Grizz was strong enough to not just break bones but burst his organs, besides. He’d once seen a man who had been beaten so severely, the man’s intestines ruptured.
    Grizz grinned as he moved to where Rance had been standing and Rance grasped Fargo’s arm. Grizz held up a fist the size of a ham to Fargo’s nose. “See this? I can bust boards with this.”
    Fargo spat on a walnut-sized knuckle.
    Grizz drew his fist back and looked at the spit. “That wasn’t nice.”
    â€œGet to it,” Rance snapped.
    Nodding, Grizz cocked his arm. “How about I start with his ribs?”
    â€œFine. Just so you don’t kill him.”
    â€œHere goes,” Grizz said.
    Just then three shots rang out,
crack
-
crack
-
crack
, and Grizz clutched at his shoulder and cried, “I’m hit!”
    â€œMe too!” Kyler yelled, clasping his left forearm.
    Rance had set down his Sharps to take hold of Fargo, but now he scooped it up and fired off into the trees. “I don’t see anybody!”
    â€œIt must be the redskins!” Kyler bawled.
    Two more shots sounded, and Fargo heard the buzz of lead.
    â€œI’m hit again!” Grizz bellowed, pressing a hand to his thigh.
    â€œRun!” Rance hollered.
    And they did, racing to their horses and scrambling onto their saddles. Grizz nearly fell off but managed, and as more shots cracked, they wheeled and jabbed their heels and fled. Several more shots were fired after them as if for good measure.
    Then the woods fell quiet.
    Fargo waited with half-bated breath. He, too, figured it must be the Blackfeet, although why they had contented themselves with shooting when they could have snuck up and taken the Hollisters captive was a mystery.
    Figures appeared, three of them, sauntering toward him with smiles on their freckled faces and their red hair dappled by sunlight.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Fargo said.
    â€œWell, look at you,” Solomon Johnson said. “Trussed up and helpless.”
    â€œPlumb pitiful,” Seth said.
    â€œScouts ain’t much, are they?” little Jared said.
    â€œHe got caught easy enough,” Sol said.
    â€œPlumb pitiful,” Seth said a second time.
    â€œAnd he never once caught on we were followin’ him,” Jared said.
    â€œPlumb pitiful,” Seth said a third time.
    Fargo had recovered from his initial surprise and growled, “Are you done insulting me?”
    â€œBe nice,” Sol said. “We just saved your bacon.”
    â€œCan’t let you die,” Seth said.
    â€œWe think you’re the one who will do it,” Jared threw in.
    â€œCut me down,” Fargo said. “My toothpick is on the ground there next to my Colt.”
    â€œDon’t need it. We carry our own blades.” Sol handed his squirrel rifle to Seth, slid his right hand up his left sleeve and drew out a double-edged dagger.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Fargo said. “You boys don’t miss a trick.”
    â€œThe way we live, we can’t afford to,” Sol said, stepping to the tree.
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    Instead of answering, Sol pressed his dagger to the rope and slashed. That was all it took.
    Fargo tensed his shoulders and shifted so they took the brunt and not his neck and head. He lay there a few moments, collecting himself, the pain in his gut still bad enough to make