“That’s it, right?” Longarm asked. “First man knocked on his ass loses?”
“Oh, no,” Booth said with a faint smile. “This battle is just beginning, my American friend.”
“I ain’t your-“
That was as far as Longarm got before Booth seemed to explode up off the ground and tackled him around the middle. Booth’s shoulder rammed into Longarm’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Both men went down hard, and Lord Beechmuir was already hooking punches to Longarm’s midsection when they landed.
Longarm grabbed hold of Booth’s shoulders and rolled to the side, throwing the Englishman off him. He scrambled onto his knees, then regained his feet just as Booth did the same thing. So far, Longarm had avoided being hit in the head, and he wanted to continue that. He pressed the attack, taking the fight to his opponent so that Booth wouldn’t have time to plan any strategy. It was best to keep Booth on the defensive.
Unfortunately, Booth seemed to excel at that. He fended off more than half of Longarm’s punches, and landed a jolting left-right combination of his own on the lawman’s solar plexus. Longarm’s injury had robbed him of some of his stamina, and he felt himself growing tired and winded. His arms were starting to feel like lead. Booth lunged at him, swinging a roundhouse punch at his head. Longarm avoided it just in time. The Englishman’s fist whipped past Longarm’s chin harmlessly, and for an instant Booth was off balance.
Longarm took advantage of that opportunity, grabbing Booth’s arm, sticking a leg in front of him, and tossing Booth over his hip in a move taught to Longarm by his celestial friend Ki, who lived on Jessie Starbuck’s vast Circle Star ranch in West Texas. Booth fell heavily on his back. Longarm landed in the middle of him with both knees before Booth had a chance to get up. He sledged a couple of looping overhand blows to Booth’s face, rocking the aristocrat’s head from side to side. Booth’s nose was bleeding now, as well as his mouth. His eyes were glazed. Longarm sensed that the fight was just about over.
Somewhere, though, Lord Beechmuir found the strength to lift his right leg, bring it around in front of Longarm’s neck, and toss the lawman to the side with a well-executed scissors move. Longarm’s hands slapped the ground as he fell, catching himself before he could sprawl full-length. He scrambled around to face Booth again, pushing himself upright as he did so.
Booth was on his feet too, trying to lift his hands back into that formal boxer’s pose. Obviously, though, he lacked the strength to do so. He swayed from side to side and said thickly through his swollen, bloody lips, “Come … come on … old boy … unless you’re willing to … admit defeat …”
Longarm tasted the sourness of disgust in his mouth, disgust at Booth for provoking this fight and disgust at himself for going through with it. He spat, but that didn’t help much with the taste. “I’m done,” he said harshly. “I’m not giving up, but I’m not fighting anymore either. You take that any way you want.”
“And you … you’ll stay away … from my wife?” Booth insisted.
“You can damn sure count on that,” Longarm said.
“And … apologize to her?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Smashing …”
With that, Booth fell onto his knees. He might have pitched forward on his face if Singh hadn’t been beside him instantly, grasping his arm to support him.
“Did you see, Singh?” asked Booth. “I … I thrashed the bounder … just as I said … I would…”
“I saw, your lordship,” Singh said gently. “You were magnificent, as always.”
Catamount Jack came over to Longarm, who was flexing his hands again. The fingers would be stiff and sore for a while. The mountain man handed Longarm his gunbelt and said, “Putty good little fracas whilst it lasted. Not very long, though.”
“Long enough for me,” Longarm said bitterly. “I never should have agreed to any damn duel-“
He stopped in mid-sentence as he glanced past Catamount Jack toward the camp. Something was wrong there, but it took him a minute to figure out what it was. Then the realization hit him.
The tent where Helene Booth had been resting in her drugged sleep had collapsed.
“What’s happened over there?” Longarm asked, raising his hand and pointing at the camp.
Everyone turned to look. A puzzled frown appeared on Thorp’s face. “Where’s Lady Beechmuir?” he asked.
Longarm was wondering the same thing. The way the tent was flattened, he couldn’t tell if there was anyone underneath the canvas or not. He saw some lumps there, but those could have been made by the cots.
“My God!” Booth exclaimed, realizing that something was wrong. “Singh, get over there right away!”
“Your lordship will be all right?” the Sikh asked.
“Yes, yes, just go!”
Singh broke into a run, pulling out his curved sword as he went. Randamar Ghote was right behind him, and the others followed closely. The only one who lagged behind was Lord Beechmuir, who was still unsteady on his feet. Longarm looked over his shoulder, saw the trouble the Englishman was having, and hung back. “Let me give you a hand,” he offered to Booth.
For a moment, Booth glared at him; then the nobleman nodded abruptly and accepted Longarm’s steadying hand under his arm. “I’m obliged, Long,” he said stiffly.
They hurried along as best they could, and by the time they reached the campsite, Singh had pulled the tent aside to reveal that Helene was not there. “Dear Lord, what happened to her?” Booth asked anxiously as he and Longarm came up to the flattened canvas. Both cots had collapsed.
“Somebody tore down the tent while the rest of us were watching you and Long, your lordship,” Thorp said. His voice rose excitedly. “Look!”
He pointed at some tracks on the ground. The marks made by Singh’s boots had obscured some of the huge,
