He had a confused, pained expression on his face. He got up slowly and said, “But I do not understand...”
Loomis, encouraged by the roar of approval behind him, put a little more weight in the next blow. This time Wadic did not fall. He clung to the bar, his eyes faintly glazed.
A hard, sunbaked fist slanted over Wadic’s shoulder and hit Loomis in the mouth with the sound of a wet hand slapping saddle leather. Loomis’ well-filled jeans bounced smartly off the wooden floor.
In the sudden silence John Cowl said, “You want to fight a man, say so. Don’t play with him.”
They all wanted to fight Wadic. John Cowl glanced down the bar and singled out a hand from the Running Moon named Jester.
Cowl said, “Only one man fights him. That’s you, Jester.”
Wadic gave Cowl a look of bewilderment. He had stopped the flow of blood. His eyes were no longer glazed. “Why is fighting?” Wadic asked.
“It’s the custom for strangers here,” Cowl said dryly.
“With fists, yes? American way?” Wadic asked.
“That’s right.”
“Is necessary?”
Cowl nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Wadic.”
“Get out there and fight,” Redneck said, pushing Wadic roughly. Loomis sat over in a far corner, fingering his teeth.
Wadic held both clenched fists out in front of him and shut his eyes. Jester walked in and knocked him down. Wadic got up quickly and assumed the same pose. Jester brought one up from the floor and knocked him down again. Wadic got up, a bit more slowly and painfully. He tried to keep his eyes open. He hit weakly at Jester, missed him, caught a rock-hard fist in the eye and went flat.
After they had thrown water on him, Wadic stirred feebly, opened his eyes and said, “Is over?”
“Is over, boy,” John Cowl said. He helped him to his feet. Wadic’s face was a crumpled mask.
“And get out of town, you damn furriner!” Redneck yelled into his face.
“Shut up,” John Cowl said wearily. Wadic walked like a drunken man, his weight on Cowl. Cowl left with him, came back ten minutes later.
“What did you do with him, Sir Lancelot?” Tad asked nastily.
“Showed him how to find his bed. He’s no coward, that one.”
“You’re always the one for feeding homeless dogs,” Jake said.
John Cowl had no more stomach for liquor. He had stabled his horse and had taken a room at the Chambers House.
His room looked out over the wide night street, deserted except for the horses tied at the rail in front of the Ace High.
The loud crash and the whooping awakened him. He walked in his underwear to the window and saw immediately what had happened. Redneck and the boys, fired by liquor, had broken the window of Wadic’s place. Redneck had dropped a loop over the wooden woman. The drunken hands were hooting with laughter as Redneck raced his pony up and down the street.
Behind the galloping horse, the wooden woman was quickly becoming a useless lump of wood.
John Cowl gasped as he saw, diagonally across the street, the figure of Wadic standing with a nightgown flapping around his ankles, on top of the store front, silently watching Redneck ride.
Redneck turned for the second time to come galloping down the road. John Cowl saw Wadic crouch and balance on the balls of his feet.
The white figure flashed down and then the riderless horse was galloping down the street, the wooden woman bounding along at the end of the riata. The two figures struggled in the dust. John Cowl cursed, struggled into his pants, shoved his arms in his shirt and, snatching his gunbelt from the back of the wooden chair, ran barefoot down through the narrow lobby and out into the street.
They had gathered around the two. As John Cowl shouldered his way through the mob, he heard the thin scream of pain, the bitter crack of a breaking bone.
Both men bounded up. Redneck’s beefy arm hung limp and useless. He cursed deep in his throat and threw his fist at Wadic’s face. Wadic’s face didn’t stay put. It moved down under the blow, with one of the thick, white hands clamping Redneck’s big wrist, the other hand grasping Redneck’s elbow. Wadic reversed his hands violently and the bone snapped like a dry twig.
John Cowl saw Tad snatch at his gun. John rammed his own gunbarrel into the small of Tad’s back and said, “Bad idea, Tad.” Tad stiffened.
Redneck was roaring with futile rage and pain. Loomis launched himself at Wadic, striking a tremendous blow. Wadic moved back with the blow, grabbed Loomis’ fist with both hands, turned, wedged his shoulder in Loomis’ armpit and levered the big arm down. Loomis flew completely through the broken window and crashed heavily somewhere inside the shop.
There was a sudden, awed silence. Wadic, his bruised lips barely moving, said, “This time fight my way. You make Stanislau Wadic angry.”
One of his eyes was swollen shut He swung his head back and forth, peering at the rest of them with his good eye. Then he said, “Man in my store has big mouth. I got needle. Go in now and sew up that big mouth. Surprise to him when he wakes up.”
He turned and walked with odd dignity to his doorway. John Cowl caught him at the door. He said, “Hey, you can’t do that to Loomis! No, Stanislau.”
Wadic shrugged. “Ho! Maybe is not good idea.”
Tad had moved out to the side. The light from across the street glittered on gunbarrel steel. Tad said in a husky, dangerous whisper, “Okay, furriner. Let’s see you dance.”
The gun slammed a lance of flame at Wadic’s bare feet. The slug hit, whined back against the store front, raising a puff of dust.
Wadic sighed as though very tired. “Dance? You want to kill Stanislau Wadic, you kill him. No dance. Is not dignity.”
He stood with his hands at his sides. Tad slowly raised his sights. John Cowl stopped breathing.
It was at the point that Loomis came walking heavily out of the store. The whole side of his face was scraped.
He peered at Wadic. He said mildly, “Mister, put on your pants and come across the street. I’m buying you a drink.”
The tension broke. They shouldered around Wadic and slapped his shoulders, and somebody sent for the doc to set Redneck’s arms.
By the time Wadic arrived in the Ace High he was already becoming a minor legend. He stood next to John Cowl at the bar. He raised the shotglass of whiskey, his little finger crooked. He sipped it and shuddered.
He smiled shyly at John Cowl. He said, “Is funny city here. I think I like.”
John grinned at him. “I suspect the feeling is mutual,” he said.
