Read Online Flathead Fury by Jon Sharpe - Free Book Online

scared.”
    â€œThere is no one to be scared of.”
    â€œInsulting me isn’t all that smart,” Grunge said, and hit him.
    The blow to Fargo’s chest sent him tottering. He was more in shock than pain; he had not seen Grunge’s fist move.
    â€œThat was a taste of what is in store for you. I have never been beaten in a fist fight. Not ever,” Grunge stressed, and raised his hams with their walnut-sized knuckles.
    Fargo raised his own fists. He had been in more than his share of bruising brawls and usually held his own. He told himself that Grunge had caught him by surprise, and it would not happen again.
    Then Grunge closed, and thinking became a luxury Fargo could not afford. He was up against a human whirlwind.
    Grunge rained blows: jabs, thrusts, uppercuts, overhands. He did not pause, did not stop to catch his breath, did not relent whatsoever. He punched and punched, each blow a blur.
    Fargo was driven back under the onslaught. He blocked and ducked and weaved but as quick as he was, Grunge was his equal. For every three or four blows Fargo countered or evaded, one got through, and each that landed felt like a hammer.
    The plain truth was, Fargo had never been hit so hard.
    Durn’s men were whooping and hollering, their brutal natures relishing the spectacle. Durn, oddly, was quiet.
    Fargo did not give up hope. One punch was all it would take, a solid blow to Grunge’s jaw and the fight would be over. As he circled, he was alert for an opening, and suddenly it came. Grunge unleashed a roundhouse right that missed. Before he could recover, Fargo slammed an uppercut to his chin, putting everything he had into it.
    But all Grunge did was take a step back, and blink. “Is that the best you can do?”
    Fury boiled in Fargo. Fury that he was being treated as if he were a no-account weakling. He threw a left jab as a feint and, when Grunge sidestepped, landed another blow to the chin. This time Grunge nearly went down.
    Smiling grimly, Fargo said, “I can do better.”
    â€œFor that,” Grunge said, “I will stop going easy on you.” He waded in, his arms driving like pistons in a steam engine.
    Giant fists seemed to be everywhere. Fargo blocked as best he could and dodged as best he was able but blow after blow still scored, and each jarred him to his marrow.
    Vaguely, Fargo was aware of the onlookers cheering Grunge on and calling for his blood. Not just Durn’s men, but nearly everyone in the saloon. Cardplayers had interrupted their games to come and watch. Drinkers had put down their drinks and were adding their shouts and cheers to the uproar.
    A glancing blow to the head sent Fargo reeling. He shook the effect off but he could tell his vitality was ebbing. He slipped a left jab, retreated from a right uppercut, and thought his ribs had caved in when Grunge caught him in the side. Doubled over, he backpedaled, and the next thing he knew, he bumped into the bar.
    â€œAre you ready to tell Mr. Durn what he wants to know?” Grunge asked.
    â€œGo to hell,” Fargo hissed between clenched teeth.
    Grunge glanced at Durn, who nodded and said, “Pound the stubborn fool into the floor.”
    Fargo’s world became a haze of fists and pain. His body throbbed with agony. His arms were so heavy, he could barely lift them. His legs wobbled. He was being beaten and there was not a damn thing he could do. Or was there?
    Punching with impunity, Grunge had waded in closer.
    With an effort, Fargo concentrated on his opponent’s chin. He absorbed more punishment, and then, for a few seconds, Grunge slowed. Fargo threw all he had into a right cross that he hoped would bring the man down. He was sure it landed, but a strange thing happened. Instead of Grunge buckling, Fargo felt his own legs start to give out.
    A fist filled his vision, and there was blackness and muffled sounds, and then even the sounds faded.
    Â 
    Fargo’s first sensation was of