Jimmy whispered, “Watch it, Rod!” Rod licked dry lips, knowing that it was too late for reason, too late for talk. He would have to try to take him . . . he was not sure he could.
“I’ll fight you,” he said hoarsely. “Right now!” Cliff said urgently, “Don’t, Rod. We’ll manage him.” “No. Come on, McGowan.” Rod added one unforgivable word.
McGowan did not move. “Get rid of that joe sticker”
Rod said, “Hold my spear, Cliff.”
Cliff snapped, “Now wait! I’m not going to stand by and watch this. He might get lucky and kill you, Rod.”
“Get out of the way, Cliff.”
“No.” Cliff hesitated, then added, “Bruce, throw your knife away. Go ahead or so help me I’ll poke a joe sticker in your belly myself. Give me your knife, Rod.”
Rod looked at Bruce, then drew Colonel Bowie and handed it to Cliff. Bruce straightened up and flipped his knife at Cliff’s feet. Cliff rasped, “I still say not to, Rod. Say the word and we’ll take him apart.”
“Back off. Give us room.
“Well no bone breakers. You hear me, Bruce? Make a mistake and you’ll never make another.”
“‘No bone breakers,'” Rod repeated, and knew dismally that the rule would work against him; Bruce had him on height and reach and weight.
“Okay,” McGowan agreed. “Just cat clawing. I am going to show this rube that one McGowan is worth two of him.”
Cliff sighed. “Back off, everybody. Okay get going!” Crouched, they sashayed around, not touching. Only the preliminaries could use up much time; the textbook used in most high schools and colleges listed twenty-seven ways to destroy or disable a man hand to hand; none of the methods took as long as three seconds once contact was made. They chopped at each other, feinting with their hands, too wary to close.
Rod was confused by the injunction not to let the fight go to conclusion. Bruce grinned at him. “What’s the matter? Scared? I’ve been waiting for this, you loudmouthed pimple now you’re going to get it!” He rushed him.
Rod gave back, ready to turn Bruce’s rush into his undoing. But Bruce did not carry it through; it had been a feint and Rod had reacted too strongly. Bruce laughed. “Scared silly, huh? You had better be.”
Rod realized that he was scared, more scared than he had ever been. The conviction flooded over him that Bruce intended to kill him . . . the agreement about bonebreakers meant nothing; this ape meant to finish him.
He backed away, more confused than ever. . . knowing that he must forget rules if he was to live through it . . . but knowing, too, that he had to abide by the silly restriction even if it meant the end of him. Panic shook him; he wanted to run.
He did not quite do so. From despair itself he got a cold feeling of nothing to lose and decided to finish it. He exposed his groin to a savate attack.
He saw Bruce’s foot come up in the expected kick; with fierce joy he reached in the proper shinobi counter. He showed the merest of hesitation, knowing that a full twist would break Bruce’s ankle.
Then he was flying through air; his hands had never touched Bruce. He had time for sick realization that Bruce had seen the gambit, countered with another when he struck ground and Bruce was on him.
*****
“Can you move your arm, Rod?”
He tried to focus his eyes, and saw Bob Baxter’s face floating over him. “I licked him?”
Baxter did not answer. An angry voice answered, “Cripes, no! He almost chewed you to pieces.”
Rod stirred and said thickly, “Where is he? I’ve got to whip him.”
Baxter said sharply, “Lie still!” Cliff added, “Don’t worry, Rod. We fixed him.” Baxter insisted, “Shut up. See if you can move your left arm.”
Rod moved the arm, felt pain shoot through it, jerked and felt pain everywhere. “It’s not broken,” Baxter decided. “Maybe a greenstick break. We’ll put it in sling. Can you sit up? I’ll help.”
“I want to stand.” He made it with help, stood swaying. Most of the villagers seemed to be there; they moved jerkily. It made him dizzy and he blinked.