No sooner did my back strike the ground than panic hit me. He was coming for me, and I knew what he could do with those boots of his. I rolled over, came up with a lunge, and he kicked me in the chest. I went down again, knocked well back, and he rushed at me, his body a solid chunk of beef and bone.
Again I came up and again I went down, and then he rushed me to put his boots to my head and guts. I lunged at him and he spilled over me. He was up as fast as I was and dove at me, head down and charging, meaning to butt me over. I’d heard about that skull of his; he boasted he could break down an oak door with it, and I turned just in time, so he missed me and I tripped him up.
I stood back as he got up, not from fair play but simply to catch my wind. He came at me again, feinting a charging butt, but suddenly looping a heavy overhand right at me. That was more my style and I let it go over my shoulder and smashed a short one to the wind. It was the first time I’d hit him, and I think he was surprised, but he clinched and tried to back-heel me.
He had me off balance and I was going down, so I simply kicked up the other foot and fell, thowing up my feet as I hit the ground. He went over me, and I gave a great shove with my hands and he fell free. I came up fast and caught him on the rise with a right that pulped his lips.
He put the back of his hand to his mouth and stared at the blood, then he came at me, slowly, hands poised to grapple. I feinted, but he did not take the offer, coming right on at me. I stepped back, and back. Suddenly I realized the boardwalk was behind me and that in a moment I’d be flat on my back, so I stepped in, punched to the side of his neck; and when he tried to rush me back so I’d trip, I hooked a short one to his ear.
We stood there then, looking at each other. “How do you like it, Stud?” I said. “Don’t welch on me now. I’m going to put a reef in your lip.” My right hand was moving but I jabbed with my left, a solid, bone-jarring blow to the mouth, that sore mouth that was already mashed. Blood started to flow, and he dove at me, swinging his short, powerful arms in hooking blows that hurt, every one of them. I braced my legs and let him come, and moved in at the last instant and grabbed by the belt, front and side, and twisting, whirled him around, smashing him head-on into the hitch rail.
The rail broke under the impact, and he sat there stunned, while I stood back, getting my breath. There must have been a hundred people standing about by now, cheering us on. Pelly got up and staggered a little, but he wasn’t hurt as much as I’d hoped, for he bulled into me suddenly, going under my punch and butting me in the belly. I felt a stabbing pain and my breath left me in a grunt. I hit the dirt, but was saved by his own weight, which carried him by me.
My breath was gone, but I struggled up, backing off to catch my wind. He came in, slower this time, planning to finish me off, and I let him come. He was bleeding now from a scalp cut too, where his skull had met the rail.
I backed off, gasping, and he closed in. He hit me with a heavy left, pushed me into position with another left, and drew back his massive right fist. Then I moved. I knocked his left aside with my right forearm and chopped down with the right fist, catching him on the cheekbone. Then I threw myself into him., butting him in the face, and grabbing his belt, threw him as I had before. This time he went into the dust.
He was up with a lunge and I hit him left and right in the face, and he went down again. He was slower getting up now, and when he was up I feinted to bring his hands up, and I uppercut to his wind. He bent far over and I chopped down with a hammer blow at his kidney. He screamed, and straightened up, his mouth wide with agony, and I took a full swing at his jaw with a roundhouse left and smashed it. I could hear the bone break, and saw the lower part of his face go askew.
The blow turned him half around and I walked in, put a hand on his shoulder and uppercut to his belly. He started to fall, but I held him up and hit him again.
He went down into the dust, and I turned him over with my boot. “Stud,” I said, “the next time you want to take a rope out and hang a man, you remember this little mix-up. When you’re able, you leave town. You go back to Tennessee and tell them what happened, and if I ever see you again, I’ll whip you again.”
Then I walked back to the cowhand who held my rifle and gunbelt. He handed them to me.
“Figured he had you pullin’ leather there at first,” he said, “but you stayed with him.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then I looked at him again. “You working, or rustling work?”
“You hiring?”
“I want a man who can ride, handle cattle, and fight if need be.”
“Well,” he said, “I can fight and ride and handle cattle if need be. That suit you?”
“You just went to work,” I said.
Chapter 14
He walked into the hotel with me, and I washed up in a room back of the bar. I had a welt on my cheekbone and my knuckles were sore from the beating I’d given Pelly. By daybreak I’d be feeling all the sore spots.
“You’re Otis Tom Chancy,” my new cowhand said. “I’m Jumper Cogan. They call me June for short.”
He watched me pull down my sleeves, button them, and then get into my vest again. “Otis Tom Chancy, you’re one hell of a fist-fighter, but when you go out on the street again you’d better be good with a gun.”
“What do you know?”
“Only what the town’s talking. Caxton Kelsey is in town, LaSalle Prince and Andy Miller with him. They’re gunning for you.”
“There were two other men and a woman. What became of them?”
“The woman’s right in this hotel got a room on the street. The other two men were Phillips and Gassner, two-by-four rustlers.” He rolled a smoke. “You got any other friends?”
So I told him about Tarlton, Handy Corbin, and the men riding with the cattle. “Better let me go get them,” he said. “You can always round up the herd if they scatter.”
“Uh-uh. We need those cattle, and we’re starting north right away. You go on out and hold them. I’ll come out when this is over.”
He looked at me, incredulous. “You going to tackle them alone?”
“It’s my fight, isn’t it?”
Thoughtfully, I worked my fingers. My fists had taken quite a beating in the fight. Would my hands stiffen too much? Still, I wasn’t going to rely on a six-shooter, but on the rifle.
“Look,” I said, “there’s one thing you can do.” I dug two gold eagles from my pocket. “Take these down to the hardware store and buy me a six-gun. The best one they have.”
When he had gone I went up to my room. Right now I needed rest. I propped a chair under the doorknob, pulled off my boots and gunbelt, and stretched out on the bed with my rifle near my hand. I needed to relax, but I also needed to do some contemplating.
Caxton Kelsey was no fool. He had no doubts as to his ability to take me in a gun battle, but the way I saw it he wasn’t likely to take any chances at all. There were people in town who still believed I had done the Burgess murder; and I was free simply because all the evidence they had was my possession of Burgess’ gun, and because folks in Cheyenne knew Bob Tarlton—some of them knew him in person, some by reputation—and with a good many western men that association cleared me of any guilt. Tarlton had a reputation as a good man and a good citizen, but just the same if Kelsey killed me a lot of people would say it was good riddance.
Kelsey would try to set this one up, I was sure. He would try to have me boxed so I’d have no chance. The thing I would have to do would be to get the jump on him. Instead of facing them all at once, on their own ground, I’d have to take them one or two at a time.