blundering forward with his forearms covering his face.
I spun to his left and looped around with a hook that caught him square on the ear. It knocked him stumbling across the uneven ground.
'That's enough, Doug,' I yelled. I was gasping for breath and my legs felt weak. 'Back off!'
He glared at me with his teeth clenched, then charged, this time with no show of style or defense-just his hands outstretched to rip me apart.
I speared my left straight at his unprotected face and caught him once more square on the nose. A spray of blood burst out, and he let out a sound that was half bellow and half scream, like a bull calf getting cut. This time I sidestepped to the right, and as he crashed past, I planted my feet and drove my right fist at his jaw with everything I had. I felt the shock run through my shoulder and clear down to my toes. That straight right had always been my best punch.
Doug hit the ground with a thud like a dropped sack of grain. He wasn't out cold, and he kept moving-not trying to get up, I was glad to see, just twitching. His mustache and chin were blood-streaked and his eyes were vague, like he didn't know what had happened. I'd been there. But he looked OK, and I couldn't see that my staying around would make things any better.
When I put my truck in gear, I felt a twinge in my right wrist. It was jammed and starting to swell, but it didn't feel really sprained. I had to drive off the road to get around his Dodge, and jolting over that really rough ground got my ribs reminding me of where he'd tagged me. But I thought I'd dodged another bullet there-I didn't feel that piercing stab like when they'd been busted.
Before I went around a bend a half mile farther on, I caught a glimpse of Doug in my rearview mirror. He'd gotten up and was opening the door of his truck.
I had planned to swing back by the job site on my way out, but I decided just to get on into town. I'd been lucky, and I didn't like to push my luck.
5
By the time I got to the ranch's main road, another mile farther along, I was holding tight to the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. I hadn't been in a ring in almost twenty years, and I'd had only a few barroom scuffles since-nothing like a flat-out fight in the sober light of day. The experience hadn't gotten any prettier.
It brought another memory of Celia that wasn't pretty, either.
After she'd teased me at the creek that time, it hadn't taken me long to figure out who she'd been practicing for. Pete Pettyjohn, Reuben's oldest son, was a nineteen-year-old golden boy-good-looking, popular, and the heir apparent to his family's empire. When I was a little kid, I'd had a serious case of hero worship for him.
But as I'd gotten older, I'd come to understand that there was something off about Pete. Usually he was friendly, but then out of nowhere he'd turn stone-cold or even menacing. He'd already started drinking pretty hard. Still, it was obvious that Celia had her sights set on him, and while Pete played it cool, he seemed to be around her a lot. It bothered me for selfish reasons-I was childishly jealous, afraid she'd cut me out.
One afternoon soon after the swimming incident, I wandered down to the stables to visit with her. She was alone in the corral, working with a young mare that she'd been grooming for barrel racing. I was happy just to watch her. I stopped a distance away so I wouldn't interrupt, thinking I'd say hi when she took a break.
But before she did, Pete came driving along in one of the ranch trucks.
As he was passing by, the mare started to buck, tossing up rear hooves and hopping sideways, trying to throw her. It was so unexpected and fast that I stood poleaxed for a couple of seconds. Then I started running for the corral, but Pete was way ahead of me. He vaulted the rail, caught the horse by the bridle, and wrestled it down to where Celia could slide off the saddle. She sagged against him like she was badly shaken. He walked her to the gate with his arm around her waist.
I started to get a glimmer of just how good a rider she was.
They hadn't noticed me yet, and if I'd had any sense, I would have backed quietly away. Instead, I kept trotting toward the corral. I guess I wanted her to know that I'd tried to help.
As they came out the gate, I called out to ask if she was all right. Her head swung toward me and her eyes flared, like she'd been caught doing something wrong. But she bounced back in a heartbeat-gave me her brilliant smile and said, 'Little boys ought to know better than to sneak around spying on people.'
It cut me to the bone. I stammered a denial and started to leave, but Pete came striding toward me. I figured he was going to show off for her by shoving me around. There wasn't much I could do about it-physically, he was a grown man who outweighed me by fifty pounds.
But when I saw his face close up, I knew he'd taken one of those spooky turns. He looked furious, almost manic. He balled up his fist and hit me in the belly so hard that I doubled over with the wind knocked out of me. He clobbered me again on the side of the head and tripped me as I staggered back. Then he started kicking me while I lay on the ground. Celia came running over, screaming at him and trying to pull him away. He spun around toward her with his fist clenched. I still couldn't breathe, and I watched helplessly, certain he was going to smash her face.
She stopped yelling, but she didn't let go of him or back away an inch-just stared at him. She'd gone from looking upset to excited, and it stuck in my memory that her tongue quickly wet her lips.
Pete lowered his fist, but they kept looking at each other for a few more seconds. Then she let go of him and knelt beside me, petting my forehead and apologizing for what she'd said. Pete helped me to my feet and apologized, too. He was sincere and he looked confused, like he wasn't sure what had happened. I promised them I wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't have, anyway.
The beating hurt for days. Celia's treachery hurt far worse. But worst of all was my own weakness-my failure in her eyes. In spite of how she treated me, I wanted desperately for her to think of me as a man she admired instead of a pissant kid.
I made up my mind that I was going to learn to fight. I started taking martial arts lessons, and over the next months, I fantasized a million ways I'd step in and rescue her from harm.
I never got the chance.
6
The ranch's original headquarters consisted mainly of a huge old barn that served as the maintenance shop for equipment and also housed the rudimentary office. A few other buildings were scattered around, along with corrals for cattle getting shipped off to feedlots and an acre-size field of rusting equipment that dated back into the 1800s.
There wouldn't be much of anybody around just now, and I figured that whoever was there wouldn't pay any more attention to me than usual as I drove past.
I was wrong. Two of the hands, Steve and Tom Anson, were standing in the road. Obviously, they were there to stop me. Everybody on the place carried walkie-talkies or cell phones these days, and Doug must have called them. It hadn't even occurred to me that things would go this far. I coasted to a stop.
The Anson brothers were both in their twenties, the kind of pleasant, straightforward young guys who tended to gravitate to ranch life. I'd always gotten along fine with them. But they looked tense and distrustful. They tended to operate as a unit, with Steve, the older, doing most of the talking. He walked over to me, while Tom stayed blocking the road.
'Mr. Balcomb wants you to wait for him,' Steve said, repeating the start of Doug's litany through a cheek packed with Red Man chew.
'Yeah, I know. You got any idea what this is about?'
'I'm just telling you what I heard.'
'What else did you hear? Not to believe anything I say?'
