CHAPTER 4
They shouldn’t have done that, thought Steve. And then he didn’t think anymore. Instinct took over.
He lashed out with his right arm, holding that hand stiff so that the fingers dug deep under the tall man’s ribs and forced the air out of his lungs. As the man gasped, turned pale, and bent forward a little, his hand slipped off Steve’s shoulder.
The red-faced man yanked hard on him. Steve made use of that and allowed the sharp tug to turn him. He lowered his head as he came around and then bulled forward, ramming his right shoulder against the man’s barrel chest. Steve balled his fists and slammed a left and a right into the man’s thick belly.
Unfortunately, the layer of fat soaked up most of the power from those punches. The man roared again and threw a punch of his own. Steve jerked aside so the blow missed his face, but he took it on his left shoulder and it landed with enough force to make that arm go numb for several seconds. The impact also knocked Steve backward, and his feet slipped on the sawdust-littered floor. He sat down hard as the crowd along the bar quickly scurried back to give the combatants room.
“Fight! Fight!” The inevitable shouts echoed from the high ceiling.
The red-faced man charged at Steve, evidently intending to stomp him into the floor. Steve recovered quickly and rolled aside, thrusting a leg between the red-faced man’s calves and tripping him. With a startled yell, the man went down face-first and landed hard enough to stun him.
Steve didn’t get any break, though. The tall man had recovered from having the breath knocked out of him and grabbed Steve’s empty mug off the bar. He swung it at Steve’s head.
Steve ducked under the sweeping blow and dived at the tall man’s legs, tackling him around the knees. That should have knocked the man down, but the crowd still pressed in closely on that side, and several men caught him and shoved him back up.
Steve got one hand on the brass rail and reached up with the other to grab the front edge of the bar. He pulled himself to his feet just in time for the tall man to crash both clubbed hands down on his back. The brutal blow drove Steve’s chest against the bar. The tall man raised his arms, intending to strike again from behind.
Steve pushed off the bar, lurched back, and rammed his right elbow into the man’s midsection before the blow could fall. That knocked the tall man back a step. Steve whirled and hooked a right to the man’s jaw. Steve was fairly tall himself and his punch landed cleanly, followed with a left to the body. He had his opponent backing up, giving ground, and was confident that he could continue boring in until he put the man on the floor.
He might have succeeded if the red-faced man hadn’t recovered enough to reach out, grab Steve’s ankle, and jerk his leg out from under him.
Steve windmilled his arms but couldn’t keep his balance. As he toppled to the floor, the red-faced man clambered up onto his feet and the tall man stopped backpedaling. He shook out the cobwebs from the battering Steve had given him and clenched his fists again so the big knuckles stuck out prominently.
Steve was sprawled in the sawdust. He pushed himself into a sitting position and saw the two men stalking toward him from different directions. A snarl twisted his face and his hand started toward the holstered gun on his hip. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot his way out of there, but he was sick and tired of those hombres whaling away on him for something that wasn’t even his fault.
His hand had not yet touched the Colt’s grips when the batwings slammed open and a loud, commanding voice said, “Everybody step back! Step back, damn it, and clear a path!”
The Brown Dirt Cowboy’s customers, who had been yelling encouragement to the battlers, fell silent and pushed back to give the newcomer room. Steve looked in that direction and saw a solidly built man in a white shirt with a string tie and black trousers and vest standing just inside the entrance cradling a double-barreled shotgun in obviously capable hands. His gray hair was still thick under the black Stetson he wore. His lined, weathered face showed his age, but clearly, the man was still a ways away from being ready for a rocking chair.
The star pinned to his vest proclaimed him to be a lawman. Steve would have known that even without the badge. He had seen plenty of star packers in his time.
The lawman walked toward Steve and the two men with whom he’d been trading punches. Steve moved his hand farther away from his gun butt and made sure to keep it there. He didn’t want to give the new-comer any excuse to get antsy with that scattergun. The sheriff, marshal, whatever he was, still had plenty of bark on him, that was plain to see.
Addressing the stocky, red-faced man, he demanded, “Hiram, what the devil are you doing?”
Looking a little embarrassed, the man called Hiram cleared his throat and said, “Uh, sorry, Sheriff. This fella here”—a thick finger poked toward Steve—“spilled beer on me and then wouldn’t even say he was sorry.”
Steve said, “I didn’t say I was sorry because it wasn’t my fault. This long-stretched galoot bumped into me and caused the whole thing.”
The sheriff looked at the tall man. “That true, Parry?”
“Well, uh . . . it’s mighty crowded in here, Sheriff Carson. You know, on account of so many folks being in town for Smoke’s boy’s wedding. I might’ve jostled this fella a little, but I don’t think it was enough to have caused all this ruckus.”
Steve stood up and slapped sawdust off the seat of his pants. “You can see how it is, Sheriff. I got caught in the middle here, and then these two decided they’d both try to whip me.”
“Looked like they were on their way to doing it,” the lawman commented dryly.
“No, sir,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “It might’ve looked that way, but that ain’t how the hand would’ve played out.”
“Well, the hand’s over now,” said Sheriff Carson. “Emmett Brown!”
A slick-haired gent in a tweed suit stepped out of the crowd. “Yes, Sheriff?”
“You’ve got men working for you who are supposed to keep the peace. They need to do a better job of it. I know the town’s crowded and everybody’s in high spirits because of the fandango at the Sugarloaf tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean the lid’s coming off tonight.”
Emmett Brown, the proprietor of the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. There won’t be any more trouble.”
“Better not be,” growled the lawman. He had lowered the shotgun’s twin barrels to point at the floor. As he tucked the weapon under his left arm, he jerked his right thumb at Steve. “You be on your way.”
“I told you, I didn’t do anything,” Steve insisted.
“And I believe you. But you staying here is like an ember in a fire. It’s liable to flare up again after a while.”
“You’re not making them other two leave,” Steve said sullenly.
“Yes, I am, as soon as you’ve had a few minutes to drift. Parry, you go back home to your wife. Hiram, you head for that boardinghouse where you live. No more ruckuses tonight, and for damn sure, none out at the Sugarloaf tomorrow.” Sheriff Carson narrowed his eyes at Steve. “That is, if you’re planning to go out there, which I wouldn’t recommend.”
Steve drew in a breath and calmed his raging emotions again. Quietly, he said, “Unless that’s an order, Sheriff, I was sort of thinking about it. I heard there’s gonna be a horse race.”
“That’s right.”
“Can anybody enter?”
“As far as I know.”
“Well, then, I think my horse might just have a chance.”
“It’s a free country,” the sheriff said. “As long as you’re not causing trouble . . . which I really wouldn’t recommend if you’re on the Sugarloaf.”
“Why’s that?”
Sheriff Carson smiled. “Because then you’d have Smoke Jensen to deal with, instead of me.”
Steve shrugged and didn’t say anything else as he allowed the lawman to usher him out of the saloon. But as Steve untied his horse from the hitch rack and led the buckskin away into the night, the thought came to him that meeting Smoke Jensen might be exactly what he needed to do.