Brunk pulled his bowie loose. He held it waist-high, his left hand out and spread-fingered, his thick forearm blocking.

“Fair fight now, boys!” Goat-beard shrilled. “We are here to see it is fair, Frank!”

“Come on, then, Mister high-roller,” Brunk said hoarsely, moving sideways to get his back away from Murch and toward his partners. He swung the bowie blade in a circle before him.

Morgan did not move now, watching Brunk’s guard and holding his own knife low in his right hand, with his left close to it. He met Brunk’s eyes, and saw, in their black pupils, his own image. He heard the quickened breathing of the men watching as he thrust his right hand up, the knife cutting out. Brunk leaped back, and then immediately pressed forward, feinting with the bowie. Morgan exposed his neck, hoping that Brunk would make a high stroke.

The bowie swept toward his throat, and he dodged to the left and shifted his knife to his left hand. He thrust it up and felt it catch home, and tear away; Brunk’s arm was too long.

He heard the gasp, not from Brunk but from the others. He had drawn blood that darkened the breast of Brunk’s dirty blue shirt, but he had wasted his best stroke. For the first time it occurred to him that he might die.

The knife in his right hand again, he raised the blade to touch his forehead, dropped it low once more, feinted left, feinted right. The blood spread on Brunk’s chest. Brunk lunged toward him.

Brunk’s wrist crashed against his, the bowie blade passing over it. His own knife snubbed into the bone of Brunk’s forearm, and immediately Brunk’s big hand caught his wrist. With a wrench he freed it and dodged aside, but he had felt the power in those hands and arms, and their quickness. Brunk’s arm was bleeding now too, but he saw a light of confidence in the miner’s eyes.

Morgan swung in to the right to get under Brunk’s guard, and the elbow crashed down against his hand. He feinted right again and drove straight in, but had to leap back again as the long arm swept around. He felt the slight tug at his shoulder, and heard the gasp again. He didn’t look.

His breath began to tear at his lungs. There had been too many cigars, too many women, too much whisky; he laughed out loud and saw Brunk disconcerted by it. He drove in once more and this time slashed Brunk’s upper arm; he jumped back as the bowie flashed past, and immediately thrust up and in and this time his knife ripped into flesh and caught, and Brunk gasped a harsh cough. But his knife did not pull free as he retreated, and Brunk’s left hand clutched down on his. In turn he caught Brunk’s wrist as the bowie swung down. Brunk’s weight forced him back, and Brunk’s height bore him over. He tried to wrench back away, and tripped; he fell and Brunk fell with him. Brunk’s grip loosened on his knife hand and he rammed the knife farther into Brunk’s belly as he crashed to the floor with Brunk sprawled on top of him. Brunk cried out once.

Brunk’s hand caught his wrist again between their bodies, but still he could move his hand a little, to twist and turn the knife blade in Brunk’s flesh. He felt the warm wet flow of blood on his own belly, as, grunting and straining, his elbow set and bruised against the floor, he fought to keep Brunk’s bowie from his throat.

Brunk’s hand bore down impossibly hard. What was the use? he thought suddenly; he did not love life enough to bother to fight this to its end. What was the use? He grinned into Brunk’s crazed face and replied to himself: because he would not let a clumsy, stupid mucker beat him; or any man. He twisted the knife in Brunk’s body, to kill Brunk before the bowie pierced him, and knew he could not as the huge weight of Brunk’s arm came down against his own. Brunk’s sweat fell into his face and the muscles in Brunk’s neck were spread out like batwings; there was no sound in the world but Brunk’s grunting and his own.

He strained his own blade from side to side and Brunk gasped. But he felt his wrist begin to tilt. He had to bend his arm to retain his grip, and so the post he had made of his forearm was gone and there remained only the inadequate strap of his muscles, and his will — not to be beaten. He could feel his arm bending as the blood flowed from Brunk’s belly.

He laughed and panted up into Brunk’s contorted face, and smelled the stink of him, and watched the bowie that was not a foot from his throat. He worked his own blade up toward Brunk’s vitals, up toward Brunk’s heart; for Brunk must die too. Why? he thought. What did it matter? There seemed no reason, but his hand needed none. He grinned up at the bowie’s point, not six inches from his throat now. Now three, as his arm gave like a rusty ratchet, pure pain now, and caught somehow again; now two inches, as it gave again.

Then out of the corners of his eyes he saw Murch move suddenly, and saw the little double-barreled derringer in Murch’s hand. “No, Al!” he grunted, and his words were lost in the crash. Brunk’s head fell on him, and Brunk did not move again. “No!” he panted.

Weakly he struggled to slide the heavy body off himself, and to his feet. His vest was soaked with blood. He stood there swaying. Murch had the derringer trained on the three miners. Someone was hammering on the door and shouting, “Frank! Hey, Frenchy!”

“Shut up!” Murch whispered to Bald-head. He turned white-rimmed eyes to Morgan. “Christ, what the hell was I supposed to do, Tom?”

“Fair shake!” old Goat-beard cried. “Son-of-a-bitching gambling man, never gave anybody a fair shake in your life!”

Bald-head was leaning back against the wall with a hand in front of him as though to keep the derringer off. The door creaked as the miners in the Glass Slipper tried to force it.

Morgan took up his shoulder holster and Colt, and could not think for a moment. He glanced at his bleeding shoulder.

“Christ, what’ll we do, Tom?” Murch said desperately. “Christ, Tom!”

“Sons of bitches!” Waxed-mustache said. “Play fair so long as you win. He had you by the—”

“Shut up!” Murch cried. “Christ, Tom!”

Morgan looked down at Brunk on the floor, with one arm under him and the other flung out, the blood beneath his head and much more blood spreading on the floor beneath his body. He sighed and said, “You had better make tracks, Al.”

Murch started for the alley door. The inner door creaked and strained again, and there was another volley of shouting and cursing. Murch turned and the straight-on eye regarded him worriedly. “What about you, Tom?”

Morgan didn’t answer, and Murch went out. Morgan stood facing the three miners, trying to get his breath back. As they would not think of blaming the derringer that had put the bullet through Brunk’s head, so they would not think either of blaming merely Murch. The bar on the door began to squeal as a more concerted weight crashed against it. He drew the Colt from its holster as Waxed-mustache took a step toward him.

“Bust that door in, boys!” Goat-beard yelled. “For there is rats in here need cleaning out!”

One of the iron keepers sprang loose from the door and flew like an arrow to smack against Waxed-mustache’s shoulder. Morgan grinned suddenly to watch Waxed-mustache rubbing his arm, and unhurriedly went to the door and stepped out into the alley. Murch was nowhere in sight. He started to the left. When he heard the crash as the door burst open, he broke into a run. He had reached the end of the alley before he saw, over his shoulder, a flock of them come out of the Glass Slipper and start after him. He laughed as he ran down Southend Street toward Main. It would be quite a run, he thought, if neither Schroeder nor Gannon were at the jail.

32. GANNON TAKES A TRICK

GANNON was in the jail with Carl when Tom Morgan ran in, panting, covered with blood, hatless, a holstered Colt in his hand. “Lock me up, boys!” he panted. “Or there’s a lynching coming off!” He ran into the cell and slammed the door on himself.