Clay hit him with a right, a bone-jarring blow that loosened teeth, then swung a right to the body. Devitt gasped and backed up. He tried to cover, but Clay pawed his hand away and struck him in the mouth. Devitt swung wildly, and Clay hit him on the chin.
Devitt bored in, swung a looping right and Clay saw lights burst in his brain. He tottered, and a fist smashed his jaw. He staggered, tried to clinch, but Devitt shook him off.
Devitt swung, and Clay grabbed the arm with both hands, flinging Devitt around and to the ground. Devitt came up and Clay threw a high hard one that caught Devitt on the chin. He went to his knees and Clay grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him erect, smashing his fist twice to Devitt’s face and once into his body. The man’s knees sagged and Clay flung him against the building, where he hit with a thud.
He staggered away, then fell flat. . .
Swaying on his feet, unable to believe it was over, Clay Bell waited. A muscle twitched in Devitt’s back, no more.
Bell turned, mopping blood and sweat from his face.
Hank Rooney jerked a thumb at the fallen man. “What’ll we do with him?”
“Throw him on the night train, stuff his money in his pockets . . . get rid of him.”
Clay Bell’s head was throbbing. He walked to the water trough and ducked his head once, then again. He splashed water on his body, and somebody came running from the hotel with a fresh shirt. He dried himself, then pulled on the shirt.
The crowd stood around, unwilling to believe the savage afternoon was spent, but Clay Bell turned away and began to walk toward Tinker’s. He wanted to get away, to stay away, to be back on his porch with evening coming on and the stars.
Colleen was waiting on the hotel porch and as he came up the steps she went to him quickly. Her eyes went to a gash on his cheekbone and she started to lift her fingers to touch his battered face.
He caught her wrist. “Your father inside?”
“Yes, but don’t you think you should—”
He looked past her shoulder. “Sam, send somebody for that tall piano player from the Homestake. You can be best man.”
“What about me?” Colleen put her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you even going to ask me?”
“Never ask ’em,” Clay tried to smile with his swollen lips. “Tell ’em!”
“Well—” Colleen hesitated.
“Inside,” Clay told her, and held the door open.
Sam Tinker heaved himself to his feet. It was a good town, Tinkersville, a good place to live.
He looked down the street. It was almost empty of men. The crowd had drifted to the bars to talk of the fight. Down the street a cowhand leaning against an awning post struck a match on his chaps. Somewhere a door slammed, and from the corner of the Tinker House Sam looked off toward Deep Creek, beyond Piety, where those thousands of trees were still standing, breathing with the wind, shedding their needles, and where Deep Creek still ran clear and swift over its stones.
It was a good town, a good town. He would get the piano player himself.