Sullivan threw a roundhouse right. Bell ducked. The fist whizzed over his head, and Sullivan, thrown off balance, stumbled past. As he did, Bell hit him twice, once in his rock-hard stomach, which had absolutely no effect, then on the side of his face, which made him shout in anger.

Corbett laughed, harshly. "A scientific fighter," he mocked. "Where'd you learn to box, sonny? Harvard?"

"Yale," said Bell.

"Well, here's one for Boola Boola." Corbett feinted with his right and delivered a sharp left to Bell's ribs. Even though Bell had managed to move away, it was like getting hit by a locomotive. He tumbled to the ground with a searing pain in his side. Sullivan ran over to kick him in the head. Bell twisted frantically, and the hobnailed boot aimed at his face ripped the shoulder of his dinner jacket.

Two on one was no time for Marquess of Queensberry rules. He scooped a heavy piece of ballast from the rail bed as he rolled to his feet.

"Did I mention I also studied in Chicago?" he asked, "On the West Side."

He threw the stone with all his strength into Corbett's face.

Corbett cried out in pain and clutched his eye. Bell had expected to stagger him, if not take him right out of the fight. But Corbett was very fast. He had ducked quickly enough to dodge the stone's full force. He lowered his hand from his eye, wiped the blood on the front of his shirt, and closed his hand into a fist again.

"That'll cost you, college. There's quick ways to die and slow ways to die, and you just earned a slow way."

Corbett circled, one fist high, the other low, one eye dark, the other glaring malevolently. He threw several jabs--four, five, six--contrived to calculate, by Bell's reactions, just how good he was and where his weaknesses lay. Suddenly, he came at Bell with a quick one-two, a left and a right, designed to soften him for a heavier blow.

Bell slipped both punches. But Sullivan charged from the side and landed a hard fist across Bell's mouth that knocked him down again.

Bell tasted salt in his mouth. He sat up, shaking his head. Blood ran down his face, over his lips. The switch engine light gleamed on his teeth.

"He's smiling," Sullivan said to Corbett. "Is he loco?"

"Punch-drunk. I hit him harder than I thought."

"Hey, college, what's the joke?"

"Get in there, finish him off."

"Then what?"

"Leave him on the track. It'll look like a train killed him."

Bell's smile grew wider.

A bloody nose at last, he thought. Wally and Mack, old friends, I must be closer to catching the Wrecker than I know.

The Wrecker had gotten on at Ogden after all. He had laid low, waiting for his chance, while Bell ate dinner, played cards, and hosted a victory party in the observation car. Then the Wrecker had jumped off at Rawlins to hire these two to kill him.