Canaval’s hoarse breathing was the only sound in the quiet room. Outside in the mesquite I could hear a cicada singing. It was hot and still.
Discouraged, I turned toward the door. Canaval stopped me.
“Where to now?”
Back to the Two-Bar? There was nothing there to be done now, and there were things to be done elsewhere. Then, suddenly, I knew where I was going. There was a thing that had to be done, and had to be done before I would feel that I could face myself. It was a thing that must not be left undone.
“To see Morgan Park.”
Moira turned, her lips forming an unspoken protest.
“Don’t … I’ve seen him kill a man with his fists,” Chapin protested.
“He won’t kill me.”
“What is this?” Moira’s voice was scathing. “A cheap, childish desire for revenge? Or just talk? You’ve no right to go to town and start trouble! You’ve no reason to start a fight with Morgan Park just because he beat you once!”
“Protecting him?” My voice was not pleasant. I did not feel pleasant.
Did she, I wonder, actually love the man? Had I been that mistaken? The more I thought of that, the angrier I became.
“No! I’m not protecting him! From what I saw after the first fight, it is you who will need protection!”
She could have said nothing more likely to bring all my determination to the surface.
Her eyes were wide, her face white. For an instant we stared at each other, and then I turned on my heel and went out of the house, and the door slammed behind me.
Buck sensed my mood, and he was moving even as I gathered the reins. When my leg swung over the saddle he was already running.
So I would need protection, would I? Anger tore at me, and I swore bitterly as the buckskin leaned into the wind. Mad all the way through, I was eager for any kind of a fight, wanting to slash, to destroy.
And perhaps it was fortunate for me that I was in such a mood when I rounded a bend and rode right into the middle of Slade and his men.
They had not heard me. The shoulder of rock and the blowing wind kept the sound from them. Suddenly they were set upon by a charging rider who rode right into them, and even as their startled heads swung on their shoulders my horse smashed between two of the riders, sending both staggering for footing. As the buckskin struck Slade’s horse with his shoulder, I drew my gun and slashed out and down with the barrel. It caught the nearest rider over the ear and he went off his horse as if struck by lightning. Swinging around, I blasted the gun from the fist of another rider with a quick shot. Slade was fighting his maddened, frantic horse, and I leaned over and hit it a slap with my hat.
The horse gave a tremendous leap and started to run like a scared rabbit, with Slade fighting to stay in the saddle. He had lost a stirrup when my horse struck his and hadn’t recovered it. The last I saw of him was his running horse and a cloud of dust.
It all had happened in a split second. My advantage was that I had come upon them fighting mad and ready to strike out at anything, everything.
The fourth man had been maneuvering for a shot at me but was afraid to risk it for fear of hitting a companion in the whirling turmoil of men and horses. As I wheeled, we both fired and both missed. He tried to steady his horse. Buck did not like any of it and was fighting to get away. I let him have his head, snapping a quick backward shot at the man in the saddle. It must have clipped his ear, for he ducked like a bee-stung farmer, and then Buck was laying them down on the trail for town.
Feeding shells into my gun, I let him go, feeling better for the action, ready for anything. The town loomed up and I raced my horse down the street and swung off, leaving him with the hostler to cool off and be rubbed down.
One look at me and Katie O’Hara knew I was spoiling for trouble.
“Morgan Park is in town,” she warned me. “Over at the saloon.”
It was all I wanted to know. Turning, I walked across the street. I was mad clear through stirred up by the action, and ready for more of it. I wanted the man who had struck me down without warning, and I wanted him badly. It was a job I had to do if I was going to be able to live with myself.
Morgan Park was there, all right. He was seated at a table with Jake Booker. Evidently, with Maclaren dead and Canaval shot down, they figured it was safe to come out in the open.
I wasted no time. “Booker,” I said, “you’re a no-account, sheep-stealin’ shyster, but I’ve heard you’re smart. You should be too smart to do business with a thief and a murderer.”
It caught them flat-footed, and before either could move I grabbed the table and swung it out of the way, and then I slapped Morgan Park across the face with my hat.
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.