Brute stepped away from his shack. “What’d you call me, sissy-boy?”
Smoke could see Rex Davidson and another man, dressed all in black from his boots to his hat, walking up the dirt street to join the crowd.
Dagget.
And he wore his guns as Smoke preferred to wear his: the left hand Colt high and butt-forward, using a cross draw.
It was going to be a very interesting match when it came, Smoke thought. For no man wore his guns like that and lived very long, unless he was very, very quick.
Smoke turned his attention back to Brute. The man had moved closer to him. And, Jesus God, was he big and ugly! He was so ugly he could make a buzzard puke.
“Is aid you were a fat tub of lard, blubber-butt!” Smoke shouted, his voice high-pitched.
“I’ll tear your damn head off!” Brute shouted, and began lumbering toward Smoke.
“Only if you can catch me!” Smoke shouted. “Can’t catch me, can’t catch me!”
He began running around in circles, taunting the huge man.
The outlaws thought it funny, for few among them liked Brute and all could just barely tolerate his aberrant appetites. He lived in Dead River because there he could do as he pleased with slaves, and because he could afford the high rent, paying yearly in gold. He left the place only once a year, for one month to the day. Those who tried to follow him, to find and steal his cache of stolen gold, were never seen again.
Smoke knew that he could never hope to best Brute in any type of rough and tumble fight—not if he stayed within the limits of his foppish charade—for Brute was over three hundred pounds and about six and a half feet tall. But he was out of shape, with a huge pus-gut, and if Smoke could keep the ugly bastard running around after him for several minutes, then he might stand a chance of besting him and staying known as a sissy.
It was either that or getting killed by the huge man, and the odds of Smoke getting killed were strong enough without adding to it.
Smoke stopped and danced around, his fists held in the classic fighter’s stance. He knew he looked like a fool in his fancy-colored britches and silk shirt and stupid cap with a feather stuck in it.
“I warn you!” Smoke yelled, his voice shrill. “I am an expert pugilist!”
“I’m gonna pugile you!” Brute panted, trying to grab Smoke.
“First you have to catch me!” Smoke taunted. “Can’t catch me!”
The outlaws were all laughing and making bets as to how long Smoke would last when Brute got his hands on him, and some were making suggestions as to how much they would pay to see Brute do his other trick, with Smoke on the receiving end of it.
“No way, hombre!” Smoke muttered, darting around Brute. But this time he got a little too close, and Brute got a piece of Smoke’s silk shirt and spun him around.
Jerking him closer, Brute grinned, exposing yellowed and rotted teeth. “Got ya!”
Smoke could smell the stink of Brute’s unwashed body and the fetid animal smell of his breath.
Before Brute could better his hold on Smoke, Smoke balled his right hand into a hard fist and, with a wild yell, gave Brute five, right on his big bulbous nose.
Brute hollered and the blood dripped. Smoke tore free and once more began running around and around the man, teasing and taunting him. The crowd roared their approval, but the laughter ceased as Smoke lost his footing, slipping to the ground, and Brute was on him, his massive hands closing around Smoke’s throat, clamping off his supply of air.
“I’ll not kill you this way,” Brute panted, slobber from his lips dripping onto Smoke’s face. “I have other plans for you, pretty-boy.”
Smoke twisted his head and bit Brute on the arm, bringing blood. With a roaring curse, Brute’s hand left his throat and Smoke twisted from beneath him, rolling and coming to his feet. He looked wildly around him, spotting a broken two-by-four and grabbing it. The wood was old and somewhat rotten, but it would still make a dandy club.
Brute was shouting curses and advancing toward him.
Smoke tried the club, right on the side of Brute’s head. The club shattered and the blood flew, but still the big man would not go down.
He shook his head and grinned at Smoke.
“All right, you nasty ne’er-do-well,” Smoke trilled at him. “I hate violence, but you asked for this.”
Then he hit Brute with everything he had, starting the punch chest-high and connecting with Brute’s jaw. This time when Brute hit the ground, he stayed there.
Smoke began shaking his right hand and moaning as if in pain, which he was not.
He heard Davidson say, “Doc, look at DeBeers’s hand. See if it’s broken. Sheriff Danvers? If DeBeers’s hand is broken and he can’t draw, shoot Brute.”
“Yes, sir,” the so-called sheriff said.
An old whiskey-breathed and unshaven man checked Smoke’s hand and pronounced it unbroken.
Smoke turned to Rex Davidson. “I am sorry about this incident, sir. I came in peace. I will leave others alone if they do the same for me.”
Davidson looked first at the unconscious Brute, then at Smoke. “You start drawing me first thing in the morning. Sheriff Danvers?”
