The Sheriff grins and clomps forward. “You don’t really think I’d leave bullets in them shooters, do ya?”

Confusion darkens Clay’s face. He looks at his guns. “You’re bluffing.”

The Sheriff laughs, his belly jiggling. “I’ll jist give you a minute to check.”

“Marlin, stop it,” Dr. Vandewater says shrilly.

“Shut up, woman,” the Sheriff snaps, pointing a finger at her. “I did what you said and look where it got us. Now we do this my way. He’s grown too big fer his britches and I’m ‘bout to shrink him down.” The Sheriff takes another big step forward.

Clay holsters his guns and steps in front of me. He juts his chin, his fists tightening at his sides. “I don’t need guns to take you on, old man.”

The Sheriff cackles again. He brings his fists up to his chin. “Try me, boy.”

At first, they circle around, fists up, eyes cold. I grab Ethan and Betsy and take a step back.

Dr. Vandewater claws the Sheriff’s arm as he steps past her. “Boys, that is enough!”

The Sheriff shrugs her off, never taking his eyes from Clay.

“Throw the first punch, Pa.” Clay waves him forward with four fingers of his raised hand. “Or you afraid to get knocked ass-over-tea-kettle by your boy.”

The Sheriff snorts and takes a practice jab at Clay. “’Fraid of a little pisser like you? You think you’re an awful big bug, huh. Well, let’s see.”

The Sheriff steps forward and throws a solid right cross. His meaty arm snaps out as the blow grazes off the side of Clay’s head. Clay bobs back, shuffles around and jabs twice into the Sheriff’s ribs. There’s a dull crunch. The Sheriff hunches, moaning. He stumbles back, rubs his ribs. Then he straightens and chuckles darkly.

“Big bug, alright. Who taught you to box, boy?”

Clay narrows his eyes, his fists hovering in front of his chin. “You did.”

“That’s right.” The Sheriff charges, arms spread wide, and tackles Clay around the waist. Clay folds as his wind is knocked away. Their boots scrape on the floor as they struggle and stagger around, a raging monster with four legs. The Sheriff locks his hands around Clay’s chest and squeezes. Clay gasps for air, clawing at the Sheriff’s arms, trying to wrench free. There’s a pow pow as the Sheriff lands two punches into Clay’s kidneys. Clay’s head drops forward like a broken doll’s.

“Stop!” I step forward. Ethan tugs me back and shakes his head. I stand stiffly, my hands clenched at my sides.

Clay’s up and scrambling. Slowly he wiggles out of the Sheriff’s straining fingers and then he pushes his father off. Both men stagger back. They puff and spit. Is it over?