Three pounced at once. He stopped one with a straight arm to the mouth, another with a jolt to the gut, the third by kicking him in the knee, and when the cowboy doubled over, kneed him in the face.
“He fights dirty!” one shouted.
“Pound the son of a bitch!” another urged.
Everything became a blur of fists and arms and faces furious with bloodlust.
Fargo was a tornado. Blocking, weaving, dodging, punching, he more than held his own.
A chair crashed to the floor. A table was tipped over. Two more punchers were sprawled on the floor and Fargo tilted another onto his toes and cocked an arm to stretch him out, too.
Suddenly the back of his head exploded with pain. A wave of darkness swallowed him and he was vaguely aware of the floor rushing up to meet his face. . . .