21

Holding his wrists up, Rufus said, “Cut me loose, somebody, and I’ll do the bastard in.”

Hoby turned to Granger, who drew a knife from a sheath on his hip and passed it over. Twirling it, Hoby grinned, and with precise slashes cut the ropes binding Rufus. “There you go.”

Rufus held out his hand for the knife. “I’ll use that.”

“Not so fast.” Hoby moved back a couple of steps and thoughtfully tapped his chin with the tip of the blade. “We should be fair about this.”

“Fair how?” Rufus said. “Why not just let me kill him?”

“Because I’ve been a mite bored today.” Hoby widened his eyes and made a face as if a great idea had occurred to him. “I know! Let’s have a knife fight.”

“As in him and me both have knives?” Rufus said.

Semple and Granger laughed. Timbre Wilson continued to glare at Fargo. Abe Foreman appeared relieved that he wasn’t Rufus.

“Both of you have blades, yes,” Hoby said gleefully. “It wouldn’t be a knife fight if only one of you did.”

“You can’t do this to me,” Rufus said.

Hoby cupped a hand to his ear. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“You wouldn’t,” Rufus amended.

“Somethin’ the matter?”

“I’ve ridden with you all these years and you do this?”

“Rufus, Rufus, Rufus,” Hoby said. “You keep bringin’ that up as if it counts for somethin’. It doesn’t. It’s not what you’ve done in the past. It’s what you did to get my dander up.”

“I tried to kill him like you wanted.”

“Only you gabbed when you shouldn’t have. He heard you. And worse, you were complainin’ about me.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Honest. You know how I gripe all the time. Abe was sayin’ earlier that I do too much of it for my own good.”

Hoby looked at Abe and laughed. “We think alike, you and me. I’m as tired of it as you are.”

“As are we all,” Semple said.

Rufus gnawed his lip and regarded them as if he’d never set eyes on them before. “I thought we were pards.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Hoby said. “Nothin’ has happened yet and you’re blubberin’ about it. I said we do this fair and I meant it.” He reversed his grip on the knife and extended it, hilt-first, to Rufus. “Take this.”

As if he were gripping a rattler, Rufus obeyed.

Hoby turned to Semple. “You still got that foldin’ knife you always carry around for pickin’ your teeth and cleanin’ your nails and such?”

Semple nodded and stuck several fingers in a pocket and produced the small folding knife in question. “This?”

“That.” Hoby grinned and pried the blade open with his thumbnail and held it out to Fargo. “This is yours to use.”

Fargo took it. The blade was about two and half inches long, whereas the blade on Rufus’s knife had to be eight inches or better. “You call this fair?”

“You did hear me say I’m bored?” Hoby chuckled and moved farther back. “Give them room, everybody. Rufus, you cut Abe loose so he can scoot out of there. Semple and Granger, keep your guns on the scout in case he tries to be tricky.”

Fargo was tempted to reach into his boot for his Arkansas toothpick but he didn’t want them to know he had it. Moving back a couple of yards to give himself more room to move, he hefted the folding knife. As weapons went it was pitiful.

As for Rufus, he was smiling like a kid who had been given the greatest gift ever. “Your little knife against this?” he said, and wagged his. “I’ll carve you to pieces.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hoby said.

Rufus took a step but stopped when Hoby said, “Ah, ah.”

Puzzled, Rufus said, “What now?”

“Not so fast, you eager beaver, you,” Hoby said. “You haven’t heard the rules yet.”

“In a knife fight? There aren’t any that I ever heard of.”

“Of course not,” Hoby said. “I just made them up.”

Semple and Granger thought that was hilarious.

Fargo was glad they were having so much fun. They might let down their guard. It was a straw but it was something.

“Do I want to hear these rules?” Rufus asked.

“Probably not,” Hoby said. “You see, the problem with most knife fights is that they’re over too quick.”

“Oh God,” Rufus said.

“There you go again,” Hoby said, “blubberin’.”

Rufus clamped his mouth shut and seemed to regain some of his confidence by staring at Fargo’s small knife.

“Now then,” Hoby said, “this is how it will be.” He paused. “When I say go, you go at it. If I say stop, you stop.”

“In the middle of the fight?” Rufus said.

“If you don’t, Semple is to shoot you.”

Semple said merrily, “Pleased to.”

“Those are the rules?” Rufus said.

“Silly man,” Hoby said. “That was just the first. The second is that there will be no stabbin’ or cuttin’ above the waist. You do and Semple will shoot . . .”

“What?” Rufus interrupted. “No goin’ for the neck or the heart? What kind of knife fight is this?”

“A damned interestin’ one,” Hoby said. “I want you to go for his pecker and him to go for yours.”

“What?”

“Say that one more time. I dare you.”

Rufus opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Now then,” Hoby continued. “The only place you can stab the other fella is in the pecker or the leg. Anywhere else and Semple will shoot you. It’s the pecker to win and only the pecker.”

“Just the pecker?” Rufus said.

“I swear,” Hoby said.

“What?”

A flick of Hoby’s hand and his Colt was in it. He pointed it at Rufus’s leg but after a couple of seconds he twirled it back into his holster. “No. You’re already hurt. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why would you shoot me?” Rufus asked.

Hoby looked at Fargo. “I hope you win.”

“What?” Rufus said.

“God, I hope you win.”

Fargo wagged the folding knife. “With this little thing?”

Hoby showed all his teeth and grandly gestured. “Gentlemen. Are you ready for the world’s first-ever pecker duel?”

“I never thought my life would come to this,” Rufus said.

“When I say go, you go,” Hoby said. He looked at Rufus and then at Fargo and quivered with glee. “Go!”