were bloody, so he washed them in a basin that Wilson had placed on the hall table.
“How is he, Doctor?” Dorchester asked.
“If the wound doesn’t putrefy, he should be all right,” the doctor said. “I managed to extract the bullet without doing too much more damage to the wound, and I poured alcohol on it. There are a couple of doctors in Europe who are very much of the belief that if a wound is sterilized, the patient will have a better chance of recovery. Of course, not everyone agrees, but it seems to make sense to me that if you can keep a wound clean, there is less chance for putrefication, or, as they call it, infection.”
“Doctor, I thank you very much for coming out,” Dorchester said.
“I’m going to leave a little laudanum. If the pain gets too bad, you can give him a few drops in a glass of water. But don’t overdo it.”
Dorchester followed the doctor to the door to tell him good-bye. Hawke, who had waited in the parlor until the doctor was finished, was ready to leave as well.
“Doc, if you don’t mind a little company, I’ll ride in with you,” Hawke said.
“Hawke, no need for you to go into town,” Dorchester said, surprised at hearing his announcement. “As the foreman, you have a place out here. In the Big House, actually.”
“Thanks,” Hawke said. “And I will take you up on it tomorrow night. But I’ve got to go back for my clothes and things, and the hotel room is paid for through the night.”
“All right,” Dorchester said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Thinking to have a drink before turning in for the night, Hawke turned his horse out in the livery, then walked across the street to the saloon. As soon as he stepped through the door, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a chair being brought down on him.
Hawke’s reaction was quick enough to enable him to avoid the full brunt of the chair, but the legs caught him on the left shoulder, sending a stab of pain shooting down his side and his arm. It also knocked him down.
“Where at’s your pocket knife now, you son of a bitch?” Metzger yelled at him. Metzger lifted the chair back over his head to finish Hawke off. As he stepped forward, though, Hawke rolled and, with a sweep of his foot, caught Metzger behind the leg, bringing him down.
Hawke scrambled quickly to his feet. Metzger started for the chair again, but Hawke kicked it away.
Metzger smiled, then lifted his fists. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way. I’m goin’ to enjoy this.”
“Fight, fight!” someone shouted, and the bar patrons quickly gathered around for the impromptu entertainment.
Neither Hawke nor Metzger had been longtime residents of Green River, so neither had a large following of supporters. Metzger had been there long enough, however, to make himself genuinely disliked, so what support there was in the saloon was for Hawke. But among his supporters there was little confidence in his ability to prevail.
“Metzger’s damn near twice as big as Hawke,” one of the patrons said. “Like as not, he’ll break Hawke’s back.”
“I don’t know,” one of the others said. “I’ve seen big ’uns go down before.”
After the initial comments, a hush fell over the others as they watched the two combatants go after each other. Hawke and Metzger circled about, their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other. On the surface it clearly looked as if Metzger would have the advantage. He was bigger and stronger. But to the surprise of nearly everyone in the saloon, Hawke wasn’t backing off, and they wanted to see how he would handle it. They knew he would have to depend on quickness and agility against Metzger’s brute strength.
Metzger attacked first, a clublike swing that Hawke leaned away from and counterpunched with a quick jab. It was a good punch, catching Metzger flush on the jaw, but the big man just laughed it off. As the fight went on, it was clear that Hawke could hit Metzger almost at will, but since he was bobbing and weaving, he couldn’t get set for a telling blow. And what blows he landed didn’t seem to faze Metzger at all.
Then Metzger connected. It was only a glancing blow, but enough to send Hawke careening into one of the tables, which fell over with a crash, sending glasses and bottles banging and scattering about. Trying to capitalize on it, Metzger rushed toward Hawke to kick him, but Hawke managed to get out of the way, though not without knocking over another table.
Recovering from the glancing blow, and having avoided Metzger’s rush, Hawke was able to return to his fight plan. He hit Metzger in the stomach several times, hoping to find a soft spot, but there didn’t seem to be one there. When that didn’t work, he started throwing long punches at Metzger’s face, hoping to score there, but they seemed just as ineffectual as the others had been, until he saw a quick opening that allowed him to send a long left to Metzger’s nose.
Hawke saw the nose go, and it began bleeding profusely. He tried to hit it again, but now Metzger protected it. For his part, Metzger threw great swinging blows at Hawke, barely missing him, and Hawke knew that if just one connected, he would be finished.
After four or five blows that failed to connect, Hawke noticed that Metzger was leaving an opening for a good right punch, if he could just slip one in across his shoulder. On Metzger’s next swing, Hawke was ready, counterpunching with a solid right, straight at the place where he knew Metzger’s nose would be. He hit it perfectly, and Metzger let out a bellow of pain.
Blood poured from his nose, across his lips and teeth, and into his beard. The broken, bloody nose was not only painful, it was making it difficult for Metzger to breathe. And that contributed to his getting tired, so tired that he no longer danced around, he stumbled. And his punches had lost nearly all of their power.
Hawke extended the three middle fingers of his right hand, stepped inside one of Metzger’s ineffectual swings and thrust his fingertips into the man’s solar plexus.
With a loud
Hawke stood over him for a few seconds, until he saw that Metzger wasn’t going to get up, then he started toward the bar. Without being asked, Jake poured a drink and slid it in front of him.
“I have to tell you, for a while there I wouldn’t have given a bucket of warm piss for your chances with that big son of a bitch. I’d say he has about fifty pounds on you. You sure aren’t particular about who you pick fights with.”
Hawke chuckled. “Well, if you had paid attention to the start of it, you would see that I didn’t exactly start it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right at that. He didn’t leave you a hell of a lot of choice.”
After finally regaining his breath, Metzger slunk out of the saloon, leaving so quietly, few even noticed that he was gone. The excitement over, the saloon got back to normal; poker games were picked up where they left off, conversations resumed, and the piano player started pounding out an almost recognizable version of “Buffalo Gals.”
Hawke winced at a couple of the sour notes, and when the piano player finished the song, walked over to him.
“May I show you something?” he asked.
He was glad to see that the expression on Aaron Peabody’s face was more curious than challenging.
Leaning over the keyboard, Hawke played “Buffalo Gals,” very quietly, so quietly that only the piano player and those closest to the piano could hear it. As he played each chord, he held his hands in place for a moment so Peabody could see what he was doing.
“I’ll be damn,” Peabody said. “Do you mind if I play it that way?”
“Be my guest,” Hawke invited.
Peabody began, playing it as quietly as Hawke had. A couple of times he made mistakes, but Hawke corrected him.
“Damn!” Peabody said proudly. “Damn, this is good!”
He played “Buffalo Gals” a second time, this time using the chords Hawke taught him. The song was a hundred percent better, so much so that when he finished, there was a smattering of applause.
“Very good,” Hawke said.
Aaron Peabody smiled broadly, then looking at the piano, frowned. “You know what? I think I’ll ask my brother to get this thing tuned.”
