My fist caught him on the side of the chin as he started to step in. He stopped, swayed, then fell, crashing through the swinging doors and rolling over to the edge of the porch, where he lay, sprawled out cold.
Turning from the door, I took the glass of whiskey somebody handed to me, and gulped it down. My heart was pounding and my body was glistening with sweat and blood. My breath came in great gasps and I sagged against the bar, trying to recover.
Somebody yelled something, and I turned. Morgan Park was standing there, his feet spread. As I turned, he hit me. It was flush on the chin and it felt like a blow from an axe. I fell back against the bar, my head spinning, and as I fought for consciousness, I stared down at his feet, amazed that such a huge man could have such small feet.
He hit me again and I went down, and then he kicked at my head with those deadly, narrow-toed boots. Only the roll of my head saved me as the kick glanced off my skull.
It was my turn to be down and out. Then somebody drenched me with a bucket of water and I sat up. It was Moira who had thrown the water.
I was too dazed to wonder how she came to be there, then somebody said, “There he is!” I saw Park standing there with his hands on his hips, leering at me through his broken lips.
We went for each other again and how we did it I’ll never know. Both of us had already taken a terrific beating. But I had to whip Morgan Park or kill him with my bare hands.
Toe to toe we slugged it out, then I took a quick step back and when he came after me, I nailed him with a right uppercut. He staggered, and I hit him again.
“Stop it, you crazy fools! Stop it or I’ll throw you both in jail!”
Sheriff Will Tharp stood in the door with a gun on us. His cold blue eyes meant what he said.
Around him were at least twenty men. Key Chapin was there … and Bodie Miller.
Park backed toward the door, then turned away. He looked punch drunk.
After that I spent an hour bathing my face in hot water. Then I went to the livery stable and crawled into the loft, taking with me a blanket and my rifle. I had worn my guns all along.
Outside somebody moved and murmured in the street. Below me the horses stamped and chomped their feed. Slowly, my exhausted muscles relaxed, my fists came unknotted, and I slept.
NINETEEN
When I awakened, bright sunlight was filtering through a couple of cracks in the roof, and I lay there, feeling soreness in every muscle. I watched the motes dancing in the stream of light and then rolled over. The loft was like an oven. Sitting up, I gingerly touched my face with my fingers. It was swollen and sore. Working my fingers to loosen them up, I heard a movement on the ladder. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Morgan Park staring at me. And I knew that I looked into the eyes of a man who was no longer sane.
He stood there, his head and shoulders visible above the loft floor, and I could see the hatred in his eyes. He made no move, just looked at me, and I knew then he had come to kill me.
I could have knocked him off the ladder. I could have cooled him, but I could not take that advantage. This was one man, sane or insane, whom I had to whip fairly or I would never be quite comfortable again. There was no reason in it. He had taken advantage of me … it was simply the way I felt.
Poised for instant movement, I knew I was in trouble. I knew now what enormous vitality that huge body held, and that he could move with amazing speed for his size.
When he came off the ladder, I got to my feet. When he moved I could see he was stiff, also. Yet I was in better shape. My workouts with Mulvaney had prepared me for this.
He did not rush me when he had his feet on the loft floor. He just stood there with his hands on his hips, looking at me. And the advantage was with him.
One side of the loft, where the ladder was, opened to the barn. A fall from there would cripple a man. The rest of the loft, except for a few square feet, was stacked with hay. With his size and weight, in these close quarters, the advantage was on his side.
My mouth was dry and I dearly wanted a drink. He faced me, and I knew at the instant when he was going to move. He came toward me, not fast, taking his time. Morgan Park had come for the kill.
He moved closer, and I struck out. He took the blow on his shoulder and kept coming in, forcing me back into the hay. Suddenly he lunged and swung. I rolled inside the punch but his weight knocked me back into the hay, for I could put no power into my punches.
With cold brutality he began to swing, his eyes lit up with sadistic delight. Lights exploded in my head, and then another punch hit me, and another.
Deliberately I slid down the side of the hay, and threw my weight against his legs. He staggered and, unable to reach me, backed off a step and swung his leg to lack. I threw my shoulder into him, and he fell back to the floor. Jumping past him, I grabbed a rope and slid down to the barn floor.
He turned and started down the ladder. Near the door I heard someone yell, “They’re at it again!” And then Morgan Park came for me.
Now it had to be ended, once and for all. Moving away from his first punch, I stabbed a left to his cut mouth, starting the blood again. He was slower than he had been yesterday, and the blood seemed to bother him. I feinted, then hit him solidly in the ribs. Rolling at the hips, I threw three solid punches to the midsection before he grabbed me, then I twisted away and hit him in the face.
He seemed puzzled. He wanted to kill, but I was being careful to avoid his hands. He swung, and I slipped inside the punch with a right to the chin.
He stopped, and I stepped in wide-legged and hit him with both fists on the chin, and he went down. I stepped back and allowed him to rise.
Behind me a crowd had gathered, but it was a silent crowd this time, a crowd awed by what they were seeing.
Morgan Park got up, and when he came off the floor he rushed, head down and swinging. Sidestepping swiftly, I thrust out a foot and he tripped, falling heavily. He got up again, stolidy, with determination. When he turned toward me, I hit him.
The blow struck his chin solidly, like the butt of an axe striking a log. He fell, not backwards, but on his face. He lay there quiet and unmoving, and I knew my fight was over.
Sodden with weariness and for once fed up with fighting, I picked up my hat and walked by the silent men. I got my rifle again and shoved it in my saddle boot. Nobody said anything, but they stared at my battered face and torn clothing.
At the door I met Sheriff Will Tharp coming in. He stopped, measuring me. “Didn’t I tell you to stop fighting in this town, Brennan?”
“What am I to do? Let him beat my head off? He followed me here.”
“Better have some rest,” Tharp said then. “When you’re rested, ride out of town for a while.”
When I was in the doorway, he stopped me again. “I’m arresting Park for murder. I have official confirmation on your message.”
All I wanted just then was a drink of cold water. Gallons of it.
Yet all the way to Mother O’Hara’s I kept remembering that bucket of water dashed over me in the saloon. Had that really been Moira, or had it been an illusion?
When I had washed my face and patched my shirt together I went into the restaurant. Key Chapin was there.
He said little, watching me eat, passing things to me. My jaw was sore and I ate carefully.
“Booker’s still in town,” Chapin said. “What’s he want?”
Right then I didn’t care. But as I drank my coffee, I began to wonder. This was my country now, my home. It did matter to me, and Moira mattered.
“Was I crazy, or was Moira in there last night?”