Jake curled one big hand around his glass and downed his whiskey. “You’re a big man with them guns on, Jensen. What are you with them off? Can you bare-knuckle fight, gunfighter? Or do you have to let them .44’s do your talkin’ for you?”
“There’s sure one way to find out, Jake. Providing you have the stomach for it.” Smoke walked toward the man, stopping well within swinging distance.
“We take off our guns together?” Jake asked.
“Just as soon as you get rid of that hide-out pistol you’re packing.”
Jake grunted and nodded his head. “It’s in my sleeve.”
“I know it.”
Jake shook his arm and the derringer fell out onto the bar. Together, they took off their gunbelts. They faced each other.
“I’m gonna stomp your face in, pretty-boy,” Jake bragged.
“I doubt it,” Smoke told him, pulling on a pair of leather gloves to protect his hands and to hit harder. He knocked the man down with a quick, hard right.
Smoke stepped back, took a sip of his beer, and said, “You going to lay on the floor all evening, Jake? Come on, hurry up. I have supper waiting for me.”
With a roar of rage, Jake jumped to his boots and charged.
4
Jake swung a big fist and Smoke ducked it, at the same time driving his right fist into Jake’s gut and stopping him with the blow. Jake backed up and caught his wind.
With a curse, Jake came at Smoke, swinging both fists. Jake was a brawler, Smoke knew then, relying mostly on brute strength with little finesse about him. But he could be dangerous, Smoke reminded himself, if he landed one of those powerful fists.
Smoke danced back, forcing the big man to come after him, using up his wind swinging wildly and cussing.
Smoke saw a chance and took it, popping Jake smack in the mouth with a combination left and right. The blows brought blood and one tooth was knocked out, to roll and bounce on the sawdust floor.
With a howl of rage, Jake charged, both fists flailing, the blows catching Smoke on his arms and shoulders and doing no damage. Smoke back-heeled Jake and sent the man tumbling to the floor. He could have ended the fight right then, by kicking Jake in the mouth. But Smoke stepped back. He felt no anger toward Jake; but, then, he didn’t especiallly feel sorry for him, either. He proved that by knocking Jake down just as soon as the man got to his boots.
It was another combination, both blows connecting to the jaw of Jake Lewis this time and knocking him back against the bar. Jake grabbed a bottle of whiskey and hurled it at Smoke. Smoke grabbed the bottle, popped the cork and, with a grin at Jake, took him a sip.
“You son of a ...” Jake choked back the obscenity. He leaned against the bar, catching his breath.
“You want to quit, Jake?” Smoke asked. “You say so, and well have a drink together and call the fight over, with no hard feelings.”
“Take him up on it, Jake!” the marshal said. “The man’s bein’ more than fair.”
“You stay out of this,” Jake yelled at the marshal. He looked at Smoke. “To hell with you, Jensen!”
Smoke shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say, Jake.” Then he threw the bottle of whiskey at Jake, the bottle striking the man in the face and busting, spewing whiskey all over Jake and momentarily blinding him.
Smoke stepped up to him and began hitting Jake in the face, his big work-hardened fists like huge hammers as they pounded the man again and again. Jake’s nose was broken, one eye closing, his lips smashed to pulp, and his jaw swelling. Smoke pounded the man with more than a dozen blows, then stepped back.
Jake wiped the blood and whiskey out of his eyes and reached down, pulling up his pants leg and jerking a knife out of his boot. “Now, Jensen, you get your guts spread all over the room.”
The marshal jerked iron and jacked back the hammer. “Drop the knife, Jake,” he warned. “This is a fair fight and it’s one that you wanted. You either drop the knife, or I’ll kill you.”
With a disgusted snarl, Jake tossed the knife to one side.
“Now you made me mad, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Now you get what you’ve probably had coming to you for a long time.” Smoke walked toward the man, his big hands clenched.
Jake lifted his fists and decided to use what boxing skills he had. He swung a roundhouse blow at Smoke, which would have knocked Jensen to the floor had it connected. Smoke grabbed the wrist with both hands, turned to one side, and Jake found himself flying through the air. He crashed through a front window and bounced off the boardwalk.
Smoke stepped out the batwings and was all over Jake.
Smoke hit the man twice in the belly, doubling him over. He grabbed Jake behind the head and brought his face down and his knee up. The knee connected squarely, and what was left of Jake’s nose was now spread all over his face.
Smoke backhanded Jake, knocking him off the boardwalk and into the horse-crap by the hitchrail. One startled horse kicked Jake in the butt and sent him rolling and squalling into the middle of the street.
Smoke didn’t let up. He had given the man a chance to not fight at all. Jake turned it down. Then Jake had shown his true colors by pulling a knife. To hell with him!
Jake staggered to his feet and feebly raised his fists. Smoke looked at the beaten man with blood dripping from his face and lowered his fists. He turned his back to Jake Lewis and walked back into the saloon. Jake sank to his knees in the street and tried to get up. He could not.
“Couple of you boys go out there and toss him into a horse trough,” the marshal ordered. “Then I’ll tell him to
