At the Fargo Ranch, all seemed ready to explode. The men were waiting for the word from Jim Fargo to wage an all-out war. They could not figure out why he was waiting, but he was like a Rattlesnake ready to strike. Fargo stepped out on the porch of his two-story Colonial House. A Cuban cigar stuck in his fat lips, and a haze of Blue smoke circled his head.
Those who had been going about their business stopped and looked at him. He just stood there smoking that raunchy cigar and puffing out his chest like the Headcock he thought he was. He did not say a word to anyone. Not even to Mitch, his Foreman, who stood not three feet by him. He knew who he had been waiting for these past few weeks, the Outlaw Mendoza and his gang of cutthroats. Fargo had wired him to take care of a little problem, namely, all the smaller Ranchers and Farmers.
Jim Fargo smiled when he heard galloping horses drawing near, many of them. It was about time. They were long overdue in his mind.
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