I WAS SLAMMED DOWN on the hard dirt street, and before I could catch my breath Red jumped on top of me.
“Reckon I’ll have to teach you how to mind your own business.”
I was trying to figure a way out of this. I had once watched Bob Fitzsimmons demolish an opponent with a third-round knockout. That was one way to do it. But there was another way to win a fight.
I reached up and pressed my thumbs into the soft, unprotected flesh of the fat man’s throat. I got my leverage, then slung him off me, right over my head. Red landed face-first in the dirt and scuffed up his lip. Blood was coming out of his nose too.
I jumped to my feet and his buddies charged at me. The first ran hard into a right uppercut. He dropped like a rock and was out cold in the street.
Now there were two dazed bullies down, but the third got behind me and jumped on my back. He started pounding his fists into my ribs.
I knew there was a thick wooden post supporting the gallery in front of Jenkins’ Mercantile, so I leaned all my weight into the man, propelling us backward, smashing him right into it. His arms unraveled from my neck and he lay on the ground twitching. He’d hit that post pretty hard, maybe cracked a couple of ribs.
“Nigger-lover,” he spat, but then he struggled up and started to run. So did the other two.
It was quiet again, the street empty.
Well, almost empty.