With a banshee cry, Samantha was on him. She punched at his face, at his eyes, and mouth. In her blind fury she missed more than she hit. Tom got his arms up to protect himself but was driven back. She clipped him on the temple and he staggered and might have fallen but Cletus Brun caught him and steadied him and then backhanded Sam.
It was hard to say who was more shocked, Sam, who reeled in pain, or Tom, who tore loose of Brun and shouted, “Don’t hit her, you clod!”
“You’re payin’ me to protect you,” Brun said.
“From paid killers. The ones who killed my brothers. Not from my own sister. I thought I made that clear.”
By then Fargo reached them. He unleashed an uppercut that caught Brun full on the jaw and raised Brun onto the tips of his toes. Fargo landed a punch to the gut and another to the face. That would be enough to take most men down but it didn’t take down Cletus Brun. The big Missourian snarled, raised fists the size of hams, and waded in.
“This time there’s no holdin’ back,” he snarled.
That was fine by Fargo. He stood his ground and slugged it out. Knuckles grazed his cheek. A sledge slammed his shoulder. He flicked a jab, feinted, and drove his right fist into Brun’s midsection. Brun grunted and took a step back. Fargo blocked a forearm, pivoted, and drove his fist into Brun’s midsection a second time. Growling like an enraged bear, Cletus Brun flung his arms wide and sprang. Fargo was caught flat-footed. Before he could dodge he was enveloped in a bear hug and lifted off his feet.
“Now I have you, you son of a bitch.”
Sam and Tom were yelling but Fargo couldn’t hear what they were shouting for the roaring in his ears. He rammed his forehead at Brun’s nose but the hulking brute had learned from their first fight and jerked his face around so his cheek took the brunt.
“Not this time.”
Fargo’s chest was a mass of pain. Brun had nearly cracked his ribs before; this time he might just succeed. Lowering his chin to his chest, Fargo whipped his head at Brun’s chin. There was the crunch of teeth grinding together and wet drops spattered Fargo’s face.
A hand appeared, tugging at Brun’s arm. It was Samantha, shouting for Brun to let Fargo go. Tom ran up and pulled her away.
Fargo threw all his weight backward. He thought it would unbalance Brun and Brun would fall but the man’s legs were as stout as redwoods. All Brun did was stagger a couple of steps and right himself.
“Nice try.”
Brun grinned through the blood flecking his mouth, and tightened his hug. For Fargo, it was like having his chest caught in a massive vise. Bright dots pinwheeled before his eyes. His consciousness was fading. In desperation he did the only thing he could think of. He craned his neck and sank his teeth into Cletus Brun’s ear.
Brun howled like a gut-shot wolf. He snapped his head back and in doing so lost his earlobe.
Fargo hadn’t meant to bite it off. He tasted skin and blood and spit them out—into Brun’s face. Brun was livid. Letting go, he seized Fargo by the throat and gouged his thick fingers deep.
“I’m going to kill you! Do you hear me? You’re a dead man.”
Fargo grabbed both wrists and tried to tear Brun’s hands off but Brun was too strong. Once again bright lights sparkled like fireflies before Fargo’s eyes. He punched at Brun’s face, to no effect. He hit Brun in the stomach only to have Brun ignore the blows. Bit by bit the life was being strangled from him. It was do or die.
Fargo groped at his waist. His hand closed on the Arkansas toothpick.
Suddenly Samantha was there. She leaped on Brun’s back and raked her fingernails across his face—across his eyes. Brun roared and flung her off. His grip slackened. Not much, but enough that Fargo was able to wrench his arm free and slash Brun across the cheek.
Brun slammed Fargo to the ground and retreated several steps. He touched his face and stared at the fresh blood glistening on his fingertips. Then he slipped his hand under his loose-fitting homespun shirt and when the hand reappeared it held an antler-handled knife with a blade inches longer than the toothpick. He took a step, then glanced at Sam and Tom Clyborn.
“Stay out of this or I’ll kill you.”
Fargo was breathing hard. He crouched, and when Brun came at him, slid out of the way. Brun wheeled and swung. Fargo threw himself back to keep from being decapitated.
The Missourian liked to talk when he fought. “It’s you or me and it won’t be me,” he boasted.
Fargo sought to make him reckless by saying, “Come and try, you lump of lard.”
It worked; Brun roared and attacked. His longer arms gave him an advantage. He could get in close but Fargo couldn’t. Fargo tried several times and was forced back.
“Stop it!” Tom Clyborn yelled. “Stop it or you’re fired!”
Apparently Brun didn’t care. He lanced his knife at Fargo’s face. Fargo ducked. He thrust his blade at Fargo’s heart. Fargo skipped out of reach. Brun took a long stride and cleaved the air to split Fargo’s skull and Fargo dodged and buried the toothpick to the hilt in Brun’s side.
Brun grunted and jerked away. The scarlet that spurted brought a cry of pain. He pressed his hand to the wound, the rage fading from his face.
“Damn you, little man.”
Fargo stayed in a crouch, the toothpick low at his side, blood dripping from the blade to the grass.
Brun moved his hand and more scarlet flowed. Swaying slightly, he covered the hole and said, “I’ve had enough. I’m leavin’.”
“Don’t expect to be paid,” Tom said.
Brun began to say something but stopped and looked at Fargo. “I’m goin’ for the sawbones. It’s over between you and me.” He dropped his knife and started to turn.
“No,” Fargo said.
Brun stopped. “You beat me. I’m bleedin’ to death. If I don’t hurry I might die.”
“Who hired you?”
Brun licked his thick lips. “Tom, there.”
“Who hired Anders and you,” Fargo clarified.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Fargo moved in front of him, blocking his way. “You want to go on lying, you can go on bleeding, too.”
“Damn you.”
“Skye,” Sam said. “You don’t have any proof. Let him go or his death will be on your conscience.”
“I don’t have a conscience,” Fargo lied. But he wouldn’t lose sleep over Cletus Brun. If Brun died it was on Brun’s shoulders, not his.
“You heard her,” the big Missourian said. “You ain’t got any proof.”
“You’re not leaving until you tell me.”
Tom intervened, saying, “This is absurd. I hired Brun. No one else.”
“Stay out of this.”
Brun tried to go around but Fargo again barred his path.
“Get out of my way.”
“Who?”
“What makes you think you’re right?”
“Anders said he had a partner. You’re the only one who fits.”
“You’re guessin’.”
“It’s a good guess.”
Brun glanced at the knife he had dropped but didn’t try to pick it up. His side was stained and his fingers were covered with blood. “I don’t have time for this.”
“No, you don’t,” Fargo agreed. “Tell me and you can go for the doctor.”
“You don’t give an inch, do you?”
“Talk yourself to death if you want.”
“All right.” Brun swore some more, and looked at Tom and Sam. “It’s true. Bucklin Anders and me were hired to see that none of you got that chest. I was to work on the inside and Anders was to shadow us and pick some of you off whenever he could.”
“You miserable clod,” Tom said.
“Who hired you?” Samantha echoed Fargo. “Was it Roland or Charlotte? They are the only two not here.”
Brun grinned. “It will shock you, the one it is. You’d never have figured it in a million years.”