“The Cheyenne and the Navajo have never been allies,” Sam pointed out. “They’re from totally different parts of the country. Anyway, the Navajo fought more wars against other tribes, like the Pueblo, than they ever did against the whites.”
“A redskin’s a redskin, and I got no use for any of ’em,” Lowry snapped. “And I sure as hell got no use for a smart-mouthed one like you, mister!”
He launched a fist at Sam’s head.
Chapter 16
Sam was expecting that. He’d had a hunch that Lowry was working himself up to a fight.
As the man lurched forward and swung, Sam ducked his head and bent at the waist. The punch sailed wide past his ear.
Thrown off balance by the missed blow, Lowry stumbled against Sam, who hooked a hard right into his belly. The breath went out of Lowry’s body with a
Lowry’s companions from the Devil’s Pitchfork yelled and surged toward Sam. As Lowry doubled over from the pain of the blow, Sam grabbed his shoulders and shoved him into the path of the charging cowboys. A couple of them ran into him and knocked him off his feet. Tripping over Lowry, the men went sprawling. More of the cowboys got tangled up and fell.
That gave Sam time to slip his Colt from its holster and say, “Just hold on, blast it! There’s no need for—”
“Watch it, Sam!” Stovepipe warned.
Men were crowded around Sam. Someone in the bunch lashed out and drove the side of his hand against Sam’s wrist.
Paralyzing pain shot up his arm. His fingers opened involuntarily, and the revolver slipped out of his hand and thudded to the sawdust-littered floor.
Another man caught hold of Sam’s shoulder and jerked him around. He heard a shout of “Let’s teach the redskin a lesson!” and then a fist seemed to explode in his face before he could get out of its way. The impact sent Sam stumbling backward.
He knew if he went down, there was a good chance these men would stomp and kick him to death. Because of that he fought desperately to keep his balance, but he felt it deserting him and knew he was about to fall.
At that moment, strong hands caught him from behind and kept him on his feet. Sam glanced around and saw it was Stovepipe Stewart who had caught him.
“Much obliged!” Sam gasped.
“Don’t be thankin’ me yet,” Stovepipe warned. “Here they come!”
It was true. Not only were the Devil’s Pitchfork hands closing in around Sam, several of the men who’d been in the saloon to start with had joined the fight, too, and all of them wanted his blood.
Sam put his back against the bar, hoping that the bartenders would remain neutral as they usually did when a brawl broke out. Stovepipe was on his right, Wilbur on his left, and both of the cowboys had their fists clenched and ready.
Sam wiped the back of his left hand across his mouth. That left a streak of blood on it from a bleeding lip.
“Are you two sure you want to take cards in this game?” he asked.
“You bet,” Wilbur said. “We don’t cotton to such bad odds.”
“So we’ll make ’em a little better,” Stovepipe added.
“All right,” Sam said.
That was all he had time to get out of his mouth before angry shouts filled the saloon and fists started flying.
Sam stood there with his back against the hardwood, slamming punches back and forth and trying to block the blows aimed at him. Quite a few of them got through despite his best efforts and rocked him. He stayed upright, though, and continued battling.
On either side of him, Stovepipe and Wilbur were doing the same. Stovepipe’s big, knobby fists on the ends of gangling arms snapped out with surprising speed and force and sent more than one man flying off his feet.
Wilbur’s style was different. With his stocky frame, he was more of a grappler. He got hold of two men, knocked their heads together, and then used their limp forms to trip up several more men.
With a bellow like a wounded buffalo bull, Pete Lowry plowed through the melee, knocking men aside in his attempt to reach Sam. Sam saw him coming and was able to get his feet set. He met Lowry’s charge with a straight, hard left and followed it instantly with a right cross.
Unfortunately, neither blow seemed to have much effect on Lowry. That prominent jaw of his might as well have been made of iron.
Sam had a hunch the big man’s weak spot was his gut and tried to land a punch there, but Lowry was already too close. He rammed into Sam and bent him backward over the bar.
Sam gasped as pain shot through him. Lowry began to hammer punches into his ribs.
Sam brought his cupped hands up and slapped them over Lowry’s ears. That made Lowry jerk back and gave Sam room to lift a knee into the man’s groin. Lowry didn’t shrug that off. With a keening cry of pain, he doubled over again.
At least nobody else had pulled a gun yet, Sam thought. That was the only good thing about this ruckus. As long as the men were just whaling away at each other, someone might get killed, but it was less likely than if guns were involved.
Even with Lowry incapacitated for the moment, there were plenty of other angry men to take his place. They crowded around Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur, and their numbers actually worked against them because they kept getting in each other’s way as they tried to throw punches.
