Read Idaho Gold Fever for Free Online Page A

to?
    Toward sunset another halt was called, and Fargo had to hand it to Gore’s men. They knew their business. They formed the wagons into a circle, gathered the horses and the teams and placed them under guard, and sent two men into the woods after firewood and two more out after something for supper. The farmers gathered in the circle while their womenfolk broke out pots and pans and whatnot.
    Fargo brought the Ovaro into the circle. He was loosening the cinch when a shadow fell across him.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” Slag demanded.
    “What does it look like?” Fargo replied. “I’m not going to leave the saddle on all night.”
    “I didn’t mean that, stupid.” Slag took a step and smacked the Ovaro. “No animals are allowed in the circle. We don’t want their droppings all over the place. Take him and put him with the rest.”
    “No.”
    “I wasn’t asking. It’s a rule. The plow-pushers abide by it, and so do we. I’ll take him myself if you won’t.”
    “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
    Slag gripped the reins, and smirked. “Oh? Why not? What do you aim to do about it?”
    “Just this,” Fargo said, and slugged him.

5
    On the frontier, men were touchy about their horses. To steal one was an invitation for the thief to be guest of honor at a hemp social. Many a horse thief had died gurgling at the end of a rope. Even laying hands on another man’s horse was frowned on. The same as laying a hand on another man’s gun. Or, the supreme insult, laying hands on another man’s woman.
    Slag should have known not to try to take the Ovaro.
    Fargo’s fist caught him flush on the jaw and sent him tottering back. But Slag didn’t go down. He swayed, shook his head to clear it, then set himself and did the last thing anyone would expect—he grinned.
    “Not bad.”
    Fargo knew a brawler when he saw one. But he refused to back down. “I’m keeping my horse with me.”
    “Like hell you are.” Slag balled his big fists and rapped his knuckles together. “After I pound you into the dirt, I’m adding him to the night herd.”
    “Like hell you are,” Fargo mimicked him.
    Raising his fists, Slag started toward him. “I’ve yet to meet the man I can’t lick.”
    “There’s always a first time,” Fargo said, and then there was no time for anything as Slag waded into him. Fargo blocked, ducked, backpedaled, taking Slag’s measure and finding that Slag was as good as his boast. Slag’s arms were like the pistons on a steam engine. And God, the man was strong! When Fargo blocked, he felt it to his marrow. Under those dirty clothes, Slag was all muscle.
    Fargo was no weakling, himself. His own sinews had been sculpted to whipcord toughness by his years in the wild. He ducked under a jab and unleashed an uppercut that caught Slag on the jaw. For most men that was enough to bring them down. But all Slag did was stagger a couple of steps and shake his head again.
    “You can do that all night and it won’t hurt me much. I have a cast-iron chin.”
    “An iron head, too.”
    Slag took the insult as a compliment. “I’ve been beat on by three or four men at once and hardly felt it. Now what say I end this so I can eat my supper?”
    And with that, Slag became a whirlwind. It was all Fargo could do to ward off the blows. As it was, some got through. He gritted his teeth and took the punishment, and gave as good as he got. He was dimly aware that others had gathered, and he heard the hubbub of voices. Someone shouted for them to stop—it sounded like Victor Gore—but if Slag heard, he paid no attention. Slag had his mind set on one thing and one thing only: pounding Fargo to a pulp.
    Fargo circled, feinted, flicked a forearm to deflect a punch. He answered with a swift jab to the cheek that snapped Slag’s head back but otherwise had no more effect than the jab of a feather.
    Slag’s brow furrowed. He seemed puzzled by something. Suddenly stepping back, he said, “No one has ever