He came off his chair with an inarticulate roar and I met him with a left that flattened his lip against his teeth. Blood showered from the cut and I threw a right, high and hard.
It caught him on the chin and he stopped dead in his tracks.
He blinked, and then he came on. I doubt if the thought that he might be whipped had ever occurred to him. He rushed, swinging those huge, iron-like fists. One of them caught me on the skull and rang bells in my head. Another dug for my midsection, but my elbow blocked the blow. Turning, I took a high right over my shoulder, then threw him bodily into the bar rail.
He came up with a lunge and I nailed him with a left as he reached his feet. The blow spatted into his face with a wicked sound, and there was a line of red from the broken skin. He hit me with both hands then and I felt that old smoky taste in my mouth as I walked in, blasting with both fists.
He swung a right and I went under it with a hooked left to the belly, then rolled at the hips and drove my right to the same spot. He grunted and I tried to step back, but he was too fast and too strong. He moved in on me and I hit him a raking blow to the face before we clinched. His arms went around me but I dug my head under his chin and bowed my back. It stopped him, and we stood toe to toe, wrestling on our feet. He got his arms lower and heaved me high. I smashed him in the face with my right as he threw me.
Just as he let go I grabbed a handful of hair with my right hand and he screamed. We hit the floor together, and rolling over, I beat him to my feet.
There was a crowd around us now, but although they were yelling, I heard no sound. I walked in, weaving to miss his haymakers, but he jarred me with a right to the head, then a short left. He knocked me back against the bar and grabbed a bottle. He swung at my head, but I went under it and butted him in the chest. He went down, and my momentum carried me past him.
He sprang up and I hit him. He turned halfway around, and when he did I sprang to his shoulders and jammed both spurs into his thighs. He screamed with agony and ducked. I went over his head, landing on all fours, and he kicked me rolling.
Coming up, we circled. Both of us were wary now. My hot anger was gone. This was a fight for my life, and I could win only if I used every bit of wit and cunning I possessed.
His shirt was in ribbons. I'd never seen the man stripped before, and he had the chest and shoulders of a giant. He came at me and I nailed him with a left and then we stood swinging with both hands, toe to toe. His advantage in size and weight was more than balanced by my superior speed.
I circled, feinted, and when he swung, I smashed a right to his belly. An instant later I did it again. Then I threw a left to his battered features, and when his arms came up I smashed both hands to the body. Again and again I hit him in the stomach. He slowed, tried to set himself, but I knocked his left up and hit him in the solar plexus with a right. He grunted, and for the first time his knees sagged. Standing wide-legged, I pumped blows at his head and body as hard as I could swing. He tried to grab at me. Setting myself, I threw that right, high and hard.
My fist caught him on the side of the chin as he started to step in. He stopped, swayed, then fell, crashing through the swinging doors and rolling over to the edge of the porch, where he lay, sprawled out cold.
Turning from the door, I took the glass of whiskey somebody handed to me, and gulped it down. My heart was pounding and my body was glistening with sweat and blood. My breath came in great gasps and I sagged against the bar, trying to recover.
Somebody yelled something, and I turned. Morgan Park was standing there, his feet spread. As I turned, he hit me. It was flush on the chin and it felt like a blow from an axe. I fell back against the bar, my head spinning, and as I fought for consciousness, I stared down at his feet, amazed that such a huge man could have such small feet.
He hit me again and I went down, and then he kicked at my head with those deadly, narrow-toed boots. Only the roll of my head saved me as the kick glanced off my skull.
It was my turn to be down and out. Then somebody drenched me with a bucket of water and I sat up. It was Moira who had thrown the water.
I was too dazed to wonder how she came to be there, then somebody said, “There he is!” I saw Park standing there with his hands on his hips, leering at me through his broken lips.
We went for each other again and how we did it I'll never know. Both of us had already taken a terrific beating. But I had to whip Morgan Park or kill him with my bare hands.
Toe to toe we slugged it out, then I took a quick step back and when he came after me, I nailed him with a right uppercut. He staggered, and I hit him again.
“Stop it, you crazy fools! Stop it or I'll throw you both in jail!”
Sheriff Will Tharp stood in the door with a gun on us. His cold blue eyes meant what he said.
Around him were at least twenty men. Key Chapin was thereâ¦and Bodie Miller.
Park backed toward the door, then turned away. He looked punch drunk.
After that I spent an hour bathing my face in hot water.
Then I went to the livery stable and crawled into the loft, taking with me a blanket and my rifle. I had worn my guns all along.
Outside somebody moved and murmured in the street. Below me the horses stamped and chomped their feed. Slowly, my exhausted muscles relaxed, my fists came unknotted, and I sleptâ¦
Chapter 19
W
HEN I AWAKENED, bright sunlight was filtering through a couple of cracks in the roof, and I lay there, feeling soreness in every muscle. I watched the motes dancing in the stream of light and then rolled over.
The loft was like an oven. Sitting up, I gingerly touched my face with my fingers. It was swollen and sore. Working my fingers to loosen them up, I heard a movement on the ladder. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Morgan Park staring at me. And I knew that I looked into the eyes of a man who was no longer sane.
He stood there, his head and shoulders visible above the loft floor, and I could see the hatred in his eyes. He made no move, just looked at me, and I knew then he had come to kill me.
I could have knocked him off the ladder. I could have cooled him, but I could not take that advantage. This was one man, sane or insane, whom I had to whip fairly or I would never be quite comfortable again. There was no reason in it. He had taken advantage of meâ¦it was simply the way I felt.
Poised for instant movement, I knew I was in trouble. I knew now what enormous vitality that huge body held, and that he could move with amazing speed for his size.
When he came off the ladder, I got to my feet. When he moved I could see he was stiff, also. Yet I was in better shape. My workouts with Mulvaney had prepared me for this.
He did not rush me when he had his feet on the loft floor. He just stood there with his hands on his hips, looking at me. And the advantage was with him.
One side of the loft, where the ladder was, opened to the barn. A fall from there would cripple a man. The rest of the loft, except for a few square feet, was stacked with hay. With his size and weight, in these close quarters, the advantage was on his side.
My mouth was dry and I dearly wanted a drink. He faced me, and I knew at the instant when he was going to move. He came toward me, not fast, taking his time. Morgan Park had come for the kill.
He moved closer, and I struck out. He took the blow on his shoulder and kept coming in, forcing me back into the hay. Suddenly he lunged and swung. I rolled inside the punch but his weight knocked me back into the hay, for I could put no power into my punches.
With cold brutality he began to swing, his eyes lit up with sadistic delight. Lights exploded in my head, and then another punch hit me, and another.
Deliberately I slid down the side of the hay, and threw any weight against his legs. He staggered and, unable to reach me, backed off a step and swung his leg to kick. I threw my shoulder into him, and he fell back to the floor. Jumping past him, I grabbed a rope and slid down to the barn floor.
He turned and started down the ladder. Near the door I heard someone yell, “They're at it again!” And then Morgan Park came for me.
Now it had to be ended, once and for all. Moving away from his first punch, I stabbed a left to his cut mouth, starting the blood again. He was slower than he had been yesterday, and the blood seemed to bother him. I feinted, then hit him solidly in the ribs. Rolling at the hips, I threw three solid punches to the midsection before he grabbed me, then I twisted away and hit him in the face.
He seemed puzzled. He wanted to kill, but I was being careful to avoid his hands. He swung, and I slipped inside the punch with a right to the chin.
He stopped, and I stepped in wide-legged and hit him with both fists on the chin, and he went down. I stepped back and allowed him to rise.
Behind me a crowd had gathered, but it was a silent crowd this time, a crowd awed by what they were seeing.
Morgan Park got up, and when he came off the floor he rushed, head down and swinging. Sidestepping swiftly, I thrust out a foot and he tripped, falling heavily. He got up again, stolidy, with determination. When he turned toward me, I hit him.
The blow struck his chin solidly, like the butt of an axe striking a log. He fell, not backwards, but on his face. He lay there quiet and unmoving, and I knew my fight was over.
Sodden with weariness and for once fed up with fighting, I picked up my hat and walked by the silent men. I got my rifle again and shoved it in my saddle boot. Nobody said anything, but they stared at my battered face and torn clothing.
At the door I met Sheriff Will Tharp coming in. He stopped, measuring me. “Didn't I tell you to stop fighting in this town, Brennan?”
“What am I to do? Let him beat my head off? He followed me here.”
“Better have some rest,” Tharp said then. “When you're rested, ride out of town for a while.”
When I was in the doorway, he stopped me again. “I'm arresting Park for murder. I have official confirmation on your message.”
All I wanted just then was a drink of cold water. Gallons of it.
Yet all the way to Mother O'Hara's I kept remembering that bucket of water dashed over me in the saloon. Had that really been Moira, or had it been an illusion?
When I had washed my face and patched my shirt together I went into the restaurant. Key Chapin was there.
He said little, watching me eat, passing things to me. My jaw was sore and I ate carefully.
“Booker's still in town,” Chapin said. “What's he want?”
Right then I didn't care. But as I drank my coffee, I began to wonder. This was my country now, my home. It did matter to me, and Moira mattered.
“Was I crazy, or was Moira in there last night?”
“She was there, all right.”
Refilling my cup, I thought that over. She was not entirely against me then.
“You'd better get over to Doc West's. That face needs some attention.”
Out in the air I felt better. With food and some black coffee inside me I felt like a new man. The mountain air was fresh and good to the taste, and even the sun felt good.
I walked along the street. Out of the grab bag of the world I had picked this town. Here in this place I had elected to remain, to put down my roots, to build a ranch. Old man Ball had given me a ranch, and I had given my word. Here I could cease being a trouble-hunting, rambunctious young rider and settle down to a citizen's life. It was time for that, but I wanted one more thing. I wanted Moira.
Doc West lived in a small white cottage surrounded by rose bushes. Tall poplars stood in the woodyard and there was a patch of lawn inside the white picket fence. It was the only painted fence in town.
A tall, austere man with a shock of graying hair answered the door. He smiled at me.
“No doubt about who you are, Brennan. I just came from treating the other man.”
“How is he?”
“Three broken ribs and a broken jaw. The ribs were broken last night, I'd say.”
“There was no quit in him.”
“He's a dangerous man, Brennan. He's still dangerous.”
After he had checked me over and patched up my face, I got back on my feet and buckled on my guns. My fingers were stiff. I kept working them, trying to loosen up the muscles. What if I met Jim Pinder now? Or that weasel, Bodie Miller?
Picking up my sombrero, I remembered something. “Have Tharp check Morgan Park's boots with those tracks Canaval found. I'm betting they'll fit.”
“You think he killed Maclaren?”
“Yes.”
On the porch I stopped, gingerly trying to fit my hat over the lumps on my skull. It wasn't easy.
Scissors snipped among the rose bushes. Turning I looked into the eyes of Moira Maclaren.
Her dark hair was piled on her head, the first time I had seen it that way. And I decided right then it was much the best way.
“How's Canaval?” I asked.
“Better. Fox is running the ranch.”
“He's a good man.”
My hat was back in my hands. I turned it around. Neither of us seemed to want to say what we were thinking. I was thinking that I loved her, but I was afraid to say it.
“You're staying on at the Two-Bar?”
“The house is finished.” When I said that, I looked at her. “It's finishedâ¦but it's empty.”
Her voice faltered a little, and she snipped at a rose, cutting the stem much too short.
“Youâ¦you aren't living in it?”
“Yes, I'm there, but you aren't.”
So there it was, out in the open again. I turned my hat again and looked down at my boots. They were scuffed and lost to color.
“You shouldn't say that. We can't mean anything to each other. Youâ¦you're a killer. I watched you fight. You actually
like
it.”
Thinking it over, I had to agree.
“Why not? I'm a manâ¦and fighting has been man's work for a long time on this earth.”