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lasted as long as you have, mister.”
    “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
    A looping swing nearly took Fargo’s head off. He planted his left in Slag’s gut, but it was like punching a board. He followed with a right cross that Slag blocked.
    They were too evenly matched, Fargo realized. The fight could go on a good long while yet unless one of them made a mistake. In order to end it quickly, he suddenly dropped his arms and dove at Slag’s legs. His intent was to bowl Slag over, straddle his chest, and punch him senseless. But slamming into those legs was akin to slamming into a pair of tree trunks. Fargo didn’t knock him down. Worse, when Fargo quickly wrapped his arms around Slag’s legs and sought to wrench them out from under him, Slag bent and clamped his hands on Fargo’s neck.
    “Now I’ve got you.”
    It was like having his neck in a vise. Fargo pulled and pried and hit Slag’s forearms but the vise tightened and he was lifted bodily off the ground. Slowly but surely, he was being throttled to death.
    Slag leered, confident he had won. He gouged his thumbs in deeper, saying, “How does it feel to die?”
    Fargo drove his knee up and in.
    It caused Slag to stagger and gurgle and turn near purple. His grip slackened. “That was dirty.”
    So is this, Fargo thought, and drove a finger into Slag’s eye.
    Slag howled and let go. He stepped back, pressing a hand to his eye. “Damn your bones!” he roared.
    Tucking at the knees, Fargo swept his fist up from down near his boots and buried it in the pit of Slag’s stomach.
    Breath whooshed from Slag’s lungs and he doubled over. Between his groin and his eye and his gut, he was in no shape to prevent the next blow from landing.
    Fargo drew back his arm. He was set to end it.
    Suddenly Lester Winston stepped between them and pushed against Fargo’s chest. “Enough! We won’t have this sort of thing, do you hear? You’re upsetting the women and children.”
    Fargo almost hit him. Slowly lowering his arm, he looked around, and sure enough, many of the women were aghast at the violence and several small children clung to their mothers’ legs in horror.
    Winston wagged a thick finger. “Honestly. What were you thinking? I saw that you started it.”
    “My horse stays with me,” Fargo said.
    Victor Gore was only a few feet away, flanked by Rinson and Perkins. “Is that what this was about?”
    Fargo unclenched his fists. His knuckles were sore and skinned, and his fingers hurt. “Your man wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
    “He was only doing as he’s been told,” Gore said. “I’m beginning to regret inviting you to eat with us. But if you give me your word there will be no more of this petty behavior, you can stay.”
    “My horse stays with me,” Fargo said again.
    “Yes, yes, we’ve got that. I’m willing to make an exception. But don’t test my good nature further.”
    A couple of Gore’s men were helping Slag to stand. He angrily shook them off and glared at Fargo. “This isn’t over, mister. No one does to me what you just did.”
    Gore shook his head. “You’ll drop it, do you hear? Too much is at stake for this nonsense.”
    Fargo wondered what he meant by that.
    “This is personal,” Slag said. “You have no say.”
    Despite being a full head shorter and nowhere near as muscular, Victor Gore stepped up to Slag and put his hands on his hips. “Did I hear you right? Aren’t you forgetting who’s in charge, and why?”
    “Damn you, Slag,” Rinson said.
    Slag wouldn’t look Victor Gore in the face. Abruptly as meek as a lamb, he said quietly, “All right. I forgot. I’m sorry, Gore. I lost my temper when he hit me. It won’t happen again.”
    “It better not.”
    Fargo was dumfounded. Slag wasn’t the sort to back down to any man, yet here he was, cowed by a man twice his age, a man he could break as easily as he could snap a twig. Something was going on here, something more than met the eye. But what? he