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I moved out toward him, a little too confident maybe. He taken that out of me
but quick. Suddenly he charged, and he was close in before he did, and he went
low into a crouch, swinging both hands high. One of them crossed my left
shoulder and connected like a thrown brick.
Right away I knew that whatever else Dutch was, he was a scrapper. Somewhere
along the line of years behind him he'd learned how to fight. He came up
inside, butting his head, then back-heeling me so I fell to the ground. I
rolled over and he put the toe of a boot into my ribs before I could get up
and raked me with his spur as his foot swung back from the kick. He raked back
and he raked deep, ripping my shirt and leaving a trail of blood across my
chest. I was up then, but he came at me, and I knew this wasn't just a fight.
He was out to kill me.
You think it can't be done? I've seen a half dozen men killed in fights, and
there was no mercy in Dutch, nor in any of his boys. Nor in Em Talon, for that
matter.
He came at me, boring in, punching, driving, stomping on my insteps when he
got close, raking my shins with the sides of his boots or his spurs. And it
taken me a moment to get started.
He was a bull. He had great powerful shoulders under that shirt, and he
slammed in close, butting me under the chin with his head. I threw him off and
he charged right back. I managed to slam a right into his ribs as he came
close, but he knew where he had to win that fight, and that was in close where
I couldn't use my longer arms.
He slammed away at my belly, and I taken a few wicked punches. Then I slammed
him on the side of the face with an elbow smash that cut to the bone. When
that blood started to show, Dutch went berserk. It was like roping a cyclone.
He slammed at me and every punch hurt. He was fighting to kill, but I shoved
him off, stiffened a fist into his face, then caught him with a right as he
came on in.
It stopped his rush, shook him to his heels. I landed a left and then, as he
crouched, swung a right to that split cheekbone that ripped the cut wider.
He hit me twice in the ribs, charged on in, head under my chin, and I tripped
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and went down. He came down on top of me, grabbing for my throat I reached
across one of his arms, grabbed the other, and jerked. He rolled over and I
got to my feet first. I started for him as he started to roll and he lashed
out at me with both spurred heels. I jumped back just in time to get a wicked
slash across one wrist. Then he came up and I hit him in the mouth.
It smashed his lips back into his teeth. He came at me again and I split his
ear with a left hook, turning him half around. He grabbed my arm and tried to
throw me with a flying mare but I went with it and put both knees into his
back. He went down hard, me on top. Grinding his face into the dust, I had him
half smothered before I suddenly let go and jumped back. I wanted to whip him,
not kill him.
He came up from the ground, staggered, located me and rushed. I put a left
jab to his mouth, and as he came close caught him under the chin with the butt
of my palm and slammed his head back.
There was no quit in him, I'll give him that. He was bull-strong and
iron-hard and his punching away at my belly was doing me no good. I shoved him
off, hit him with a stunning right as he tried to come in again, and then I
let him come, but turned a little as he came in and threw him over his hip
with a rolling hip lock. He came down hard in the dust.
"Dutch," I said, "you know damn well I never stole any stock of yours. An'
you know I didn't know those two who did."
Paying me no mind, he got up on his hands and knees, then threw himself in a
long dive at my legs. My knee smashed him in the face as he came in, and he
fell, but he rolled over and came up again.
"You fight pretty good, Dutch," I said, "but it takes more than owning a lot
of cows to make a big man. Hanging anybody you can find or anybody you don't
like makes you nothing but a murderer, lower than any of the men you chase."
He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve and stared at me. His cheek
was cut to the bone, his lips were in shreds. One eye had a gray lump over it,
but he stood there, his big hands opening and closing, the hatred in his eyes
an ugly thing.
"You want some more, Dutch," I said, "you come an' get it."
"Next time," he said, "it'll be with a gun."
He wasn't stopped. I'd beaten him, but he wasn't through. He liked too much
what he thought he'd become. He liked the feeling of power, liked walking
hard-heeled down the boardwalks of the towns, liked being followed by a lot of
tough riders, with people stepping out of the way.
Most of them were just being polite in spite of his rudeness, but he thought
they were afraid. He liked bullying people, liked shoving them around. And he
wasn't going to give it up because he'd lost a fist fight.
One of his riders spoke up. "When he comes, Sackett, he won't be alone. We'll
all come with him. And we'll bring a rope."
"You do that," I said, "he'll need all the help he can get."
They turned their horses and rode away. At the gate one of them got down and
opened the gate, then fastened it again. That was cattle country ... nobody
left a gate down when it was there to close.
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"Thanks, Em," I said. "That could have been rough."
"It was rough. But it ain't the first time. It used to be Injuns when pa was
away."
"Logan?" Pennywell tugged at my sleeve. "Let me fix up your face."
My face was bruised and battered some, although I'd no bad cuts. Dutch had
been a lot more of a fighter than I figured him for and he'd battered my ribs
something awful. I never said nothing even when Pennywell hurt my face, fixing
it up.
Late that night, stretched on my bed, I swore softly. As if Em Talon hadn't
enough trouble! I'd brought more upon her in the shape of Brannenburg. He was
a vindictive man, and those who rode for him were a rougher crowd then you'd
usually find on a cow outfit. Cowhands could be almighty rough, but this bunch
were trouble hunters. Many of them had taken a turn at being outlaws, gun
hands and whatever the occasion demanded ... like me.
The trouble was, I'd brought them down on Em Talon.
I never was no hand for figurin'. I've seen folks set down an' ponder on
things until they saw their way clear, but me, I was never no hand at that.
I'm strong and mean, but I never found no way of doing things except to walk
right out and take the bull by the horns. Settin' an' waitin' rankled. I
wasn't geared for it. I needed a problem where I could walk out swinging both
fists. Nolan was more inclined to study on things. Me, it was always root hog
or die, and that was what I needed right now.
Troubles were bunching around us. Everywhere I looked I could see it shaping
up like thunderheads gathering over the high peaks. Jake Planner was cooking
up something, and now Dutch would be also.
It was right about then that I decided I'd better go right after them instead
of settin', waitin', and finally getting clobbered.
Some folks take to running. Some folks hope that by backing up far enough
they'll not have trouble, but it surely doesn't work. I'd ridden all over the
Rio Grande, Mogollon, Mimbres, La Plata, and Mesa Verde country and what I saw
was a lesson.
The Indians there were good Indians, planting Indians. For a long time they
lived in peace and bothered nobody, and then Navajo-Apache tribes came
migrating down the east side of the Rookies. They found a way west without
climbing over mountains. Those nice, peaceful tribes along the Rio Grande were
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