Dean stopped with a brick poised over a line of mortar.
“Just what exactly do you mean?” he asked cautiously. “I’ve chilled my fair share and traveled a long way.”
Rysh shrugged. “Chilling’s just a way of life, boy. I mean, have you ever had any pussy?”
Dean blushed despite himself, and felt the eyes of both Rysh and Emerson on him. The heavyset, dark workman pushed the point home.
“Hellfire, Rysh, just look at the boy, blushing hot as a forest fire. He’s been there with them.”
“And I’ll bet they’re good—they’d have to be with those five boys to keep happy,” Rysh added, winking.
“Dunno about the old guy.” Emerson chuckled. “He don’t look like he could keep it up enough.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Dean said, keeping his voice as even as possible, “but it’s not going to work. There’s no way that you’ll get anything out of Krysty and Mildred, and we sure as hell aren’t going to fight you over it.”
“You saying you a virgin, then, boy?” Emerson goaded.
“That’s my business,” Dean replied shortly. “But it’s not like that with Mildred and Krysty.”
Rysh looked closely at Dean’s hand, at how the brick was trembling in the boy’s grip. He decided to push it further. “I reckon as how those gaudies could pull a train for us when we finish the wag stop. What do you think, Emerson?”
The comment fulfilled its purpose. Dean swung around, the brick still in his grasp and following through in a roundhouse punch that would have caved in Rysh’s skull at the temple—if the workman hadn’t been prepared for the action, and had already moved away from the arc of the blow.
As one man sidestepped, so the other moved in. Emerson ducked underneath and aimed a giant fist at Dean’s solar plexus, which had been left exposed by his stance. On anyone else, the movement would have been quick enough to catch the victim in the guts. But Dean Cawdor was quicker than that, and twisted his body in midflight, avoiding the blow and somehow managing to keep his balance.
Doc saw this from the far side of the building’s interior, where he and Jak were erecting the metal sheeting walls that would delineate the sleeping quarters. He was facing the scene, while Jak had his back turned—although both had heard the beginnings of the altercation.
“Jak,” the old man said in a low, warning voice.
Emerson flailed and fell forward as the momentum of his blow took him past Dean. The boy was having similar problems, however, as the momentum of his initial swing, combined with the effort to avoid Emerson’s attack, had left him off balance and open to an attack from Rysh.
The blond workman had a bloodthirsty twinkle in his eye and was smiling savagely as he raised the trowel he had been using for smoothing the mortar Dean laid bricks upon. Dean was falling toward him and was unable to defend himself in time as Rysh drew back his arm to land a blow.
But the smile was wiped from his face and replaced by a surprised and puzzled frown as an iron grip stayed his arm, steel-tight fingers gripping his forearm and making his fingers tingle and go numb as the blood supply was cut off. He turned to find that Jak had hold of him. Despite the fact that the albino stood several inches shorter than the blonde and was looking up at him, he seemed to swell in Rysh’s vision and fill the room.
Jak’s scarred face was impassive, his eyes glittering hard but saying nothing. For a fraction of a second the two men were still, but before the blonde had a chance to act, he felt rather than saw the heel of Jak’s other hand as it drove into his face, angled upward and catching him beneath his nostrils, pushing the flesh and bone of his nose up into his head, the pressure forcing his head backward.
His head snapped back in agony, and he lost his balance, falling backward and dropping the trowel from bloodless fingers as Jak released his grip.
Dean was still regaining his balance as Emerson swung back toward him. He felt sure he could balance before the big man came for him, but it was unnecessary as Doc stepped forward, clutching a baton that held together the metal sheeting. That was the real use of the long wooden pole, but Doc drove it into the stomach of the workman, the point hitting home and doubling him over, the air driven from his lungs.