I gave him my best southern smile and got my right foot planted, slightly splayed to the right. The most dangerous man in a fight is the one who likes it the most. Watching him, I decided he’d be a grappler; he’d come storming in and try to throw me, rather than punch.

“I do hang around with nice-looking women,” I said. “Mrs. Trent said you mostly hang around with some guy named Arnie.”

The words hung in the air for a moment; then I leaned a little to the left, peering around him at St. Thomas, and shook my head. “Can’t say I like your taste, Duane. He ain’t got that much of an ass on him.”

One of the cowboys let out a happy “Whoa,” while Hill bellowed something unintelligible, dropped his beer, and charged, his head down, his hands out, and his legs churning. I was ready, my right foot grounded, and I whip-kicked him with my left foot, catching him on the side of the face. He went bellydown on the parking lot, landing on the blacktop like a racing driver. The fury climbed on top of me, the image of the killings, and I punted him once in the ribs, and again, as he rolled away, then pivoted toward St. Thomas. St. Thomas was an older guy, out of his fighting days. He wasn’t moving, but Hill was trying to get up.

“What’s going on here?” We all turned, and Bell was striding across the parking lot.

“Your town thug decided to beat me up,” I said as Hill got slowly back to his feet. His nose and upper lip were bleeding heavily, the blood glistening on his teeth and dripping down his chin. He wanted to come for me again, but his ribs were holding him back. Every time he moved, the pain flared in his eyes; I’d give odds that I’d cracked a couple of his ribs.

“What about that, Duane?” Bell demanded.

One of the cowboys, with the insouciant lack of fear that seems to mark the breed, cleared his throat. “Duane sure started it,” he said cheerfully. “Called the young lady there a real bad name.”

Bell looked us over again and then nodded. “Y’all go home and sober up,” he said. “Fightin’ in a parking lot doesn’t do credit to anyone. And Duane, I’ll see you at City Hall tomorrow, ten o’clock sharp. Now git.”

Hill, snarling, turned away, still favoring his ribs. Bell watched him go, then nodded at LuEllen, gave me a measured look, and headed toward his car, where the blonde waited with folded arms.

“Goddamn, this country is goin’ to hell in a handbasket,” one of the cowboys said, taking a hit from his beer bottle. He looked me up and down, taking in my artist’s getup and beard. “Somebody’s gone and taught the fuckin’ hippies how to fight.”

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13