Flint circled briefly, then feinted a left to the body, and when Baldwin dropped a hand to block the punch, Flint hit him in the mouth, the feint and the punch one smooth, continued action. The punch jolted against Baldwin’s teeth.
“I’m getting tired of that,” Baldwin said, and he came in fast. Flint’s stiff leg slowed him, and he caught a wicked right to the side of the face that rocked him to his heels. He was driven back by the weight of Baldwin’s charging body, and the bigger man’s hammering fists landed to the head and body. Ducking his head against Baldwin’s shoulder, Flint caught the other man’s right wrist under his arm and, clasping Baldwin’s right elbow in his left hand, he spun the big man off balance and hit him in the belly.
Releasing him suddenly, Flint followed up with two hard blows to the head before Baldwin could get set. Then toe to toe they stood and slugged.
Baldwin’s wind was surprisingly good, and he knew what he was doing. He bulled Flint back into the hitch rail which splintered beneath him and they both fell to the ground. Baldwin smashed a right at Flint’s head, but Flint rolled out of the way and caught Baldwin’s sleeve at the shoulder and jerked. Coupled with the weight behind the punch, the jerk took Baldwin off balance. Flint bucked him off and scrambled to his feet.
Baldwin lunged at him from a runner’s starting position, driving Flint back and into the dust. Rushing in, Baldwin swung a kick at Flint’s head, but Flint threw his weight against Baldwin’s anchoring leg.
They fought bitterly, brutally, driving, punching, butting, without letup. Flint’s breath was coming in ragged gasps. For the first time, under the bigger man’s weight and the driving pace, he was realizing how much his illness had taken out of him. He was in no shape for a long fight.
He had to slow the bigger man down, and Baldwin handled himself well. Flint feinted a left and smashed Baldwin under the heart with a hard right. He took two stiff punches but belted Baldwin in the stomach again. Boxing more carefully, he landed two long lefts to the body.
Baldwin backed away and ripped the last shreds of his shirt from his body, flexing his big hands. Shrewdly, he could see that Flint favored one leg, and that his condition was not too good. Bobbing his head to duck Flint’s left, he crowded close and knocked Flint to the ground.
Deliberately Baldwin fell, dropping his knee to strike Flint’s injured leg. Flint grunted, feeling pain knife through him, sure the leg was bleeding again, for it was cut deeply in one place, horribly bruised in another. Baldwin swung both fists to Flint’s head, and then rested his left hand on Flint’s chest and drew back his right for a final blow.
Flint struck swiftly at the left hand. Baldwin lost balance as his hand was knocked away. Flint rolled free and got up. He was bloody and battered, his breath coming in gasps, one eye monstrously swollen from a blow.
Baldwin struck him with a left, then measured him with another. Flint caught his sleeve, stepped in quickly, and threw Baldwin over his back with a flying mare. Baldwin hit the ground hard and Flint backed away.
His leg was stiffening, and there was a searing pain in his side. But he had his second wind and suddenly he felt good.
Baldwin got up. “I think you’re through,” he said, walking toward Flint, and Flint knew he looked it. Despite the sudden feeling that came with his second wind there was the knowledge that there could not be much left within him in the way of strength. He must win now.
Baldwin, too, had been hurt. But now he stepped in and swung, incredibly fast. Flint stepped in swiftly, slipping the punch, and smashed a right to the heart. It was a perfectly timed, perfectly executed punch, and Baldwin’s mouth dropped open in time to catch a sweeping left hook.
Baldwin’s knees buckled and he fell face forward, into the dust.
“Why, now,” Flint said, “I think that does it.”
Turning, he went to the water trough and started to bathe away the blood.
A scream brought him sharply around. Baldwin was coming at him with a three-foot length of the broken hitch rail and, as Flint turned, Baldwin swung viciously. Flint dove under the swing and knocked Baldwin back against the wall of the building with such force he heard cans fall from the shelves inside. Then Flint balled his fist and hit Baldwin. He hit him once, then again.
Picking Baldwin up bodily, he threw him, like a sack of grain, against the trough. He picked him up once more and shoved him back against the wall. “I don’t want to hit you again,” Flint said, “but you owe me five thousand dollars.”
Porter Baldwin stared at Flint, and it was in him to try again, but he had been fairly whipped and knew it. Moreover, Buckdun was dead and the game was played out.
“You must take my check,” he said, through swollen lips. “I’ve not that much in cash.”
“With your fists you’re an honest man, and I’ll take your check. You’ll be wanting to write it before train time.”
They went in the store and, while Baldwin fumbled with a pen in his swollen fist, Flint threw a dollar on the counter, took down a fresh shirt and put it on.
“There you are,” Baldwin pushed the check toward him. “It was surely won. I didn’t think the man lived who could tear down my meathouse.”
Lottie Kettleman was in the dining room when they walked in, and she said, “So you have beaten him, then? I knew you would.”
Jim reached into his pocket and took out a small jeweled medallion. “This is yours, Lottie. I found it in Buckdun’s pocket. I will be writing to Burroughs and he will arrange a divorce.”
“You’re staying here, then?”
Nancy Kerrigan moved up beside him and he said, “Why, yes. I’ll be staying here.” He turned to Nancy. “Flint is a hard name over much of the West, but I’d like you to share it with me.”
“It is the man who makes the name,” she said. “I am glad Flint is the name you will keep.”
He thought then of a cold and bitter dawning and a lonely boy who sat on the edge of a splintery boardwalk, huddled against the chill, and of a tall man in a sheepskin coat.
“I think I owe him that,” he said.