Ralph Compton - Blood and Gold

I hit him then.

My right took Wingo square on the chin as he turned to look at me. The man let Lila go, staggered a few steps and crashed heavily on his back. Wingo made no move for his gun, but a triumphant grin spread across his face. “Boy,” he said, “now I’m going to tear you apart.”

Wingo stood and my heart sank when I realized just how huge he was. He easily made two of me, and by his eager grin and the joy of battle in his eyes, it seemed he was no stranger to rough-and-tumble fistfights.

But my scraps with Wiley back when I lived on his pa’s ranch had taught me something. Enough, I fervently hoped, to square the odds.

I put Wiley out of my mind, intent on Wingo, my thoughts concentrated on the big gunman. Wingo circled me, his fists up in the pugilist’s manner and it was obvious he’d taken lessons from a professional prizefighter. For such a huge man, he moved well, gracefully balancing on his toes. Yet when he threw his first blow, it was short. I feinted a left, sidestepped and smashed a hard right to his mouth. Wingo roared through mashed lips and spit blood.

The big man took a step back just as I swung a left and my fist met only air.

Wingo danced forward, his fists jabbing, and his greater height and weight forced me back and I took a solid right to my chin that staggered me.

Wingo followed up with a wicked left hook that hit so hard, stars danced in front of my eyes and to my surprise I saw the ground rush up fast to meet me.

I hit the dirt with a thump, tried to rise, and the gunman swung a kick to my head. But I turned away at the last moment and his boot went sailing past my cheek.

Still groggy from the two blows I’d taken, I came up slowly, slipped Wingo’s right and slammed a couple of hard punches to his body. Neither punch had any effect on the man and he grinned through bloody lips and bored inside, his fist swinging.

He jabbed a fast right to my ribs, but I countered with my own right and followed up with a wide left hook that caught Wingo at the corner of his right eye and staggered him.

Blood streamed down Wingo’s cheek from the thin tissue above his eye, and he dashed it away with his fist and came after me again.

The gunman had taken several of my best punches. He was bloody but unbowed and still full of fight and I began to fear that he might wear me down simply by his ability to absorb punishment and keep on battling.

I stepped inside Wingo’s next punch and slashed at him with quick, telling blows to the body. The man gave ground, then swung a ponderous right that missed me by a mile. I surprised him by not counter-punching. Instead I dove at his waist, dropped my arms to his knees and upended him.

Wingo crashed to the ground, but rose fast, lithe as a cat. I was already on my feet and set up, and I drove a right to his chin that made the gunman’s head snap back and followed up with a left to the side of his head that split his ear.

Wingo bellowed and rushed me, his arms outspread, hoping to get me in a bear hug. If that happened, I’d be overcome by his enormous strength and he could easily break my spine.

I stepped quickly away and snapped a right to Wingo’s mouth, followed by another. Blood spurted, but my punches were weakening as the bigger man wore down my strength, and Wingo just grinned and shrugged them off.

I swung a left hook, hoping to drive him away from me. Too late. My fist bounced harmlessly off the side of Wingo’s head and his arms were around me, his hands locking on the small of my back.

Wingo pulled me to him, and slowly forced me backward. A searing white-hot pain stabbed at me and I struggled desperately to break the gunman’s hold. But Wingo’s strength was enormous and he was grinning wildly as he sought to snap my backbone.

Right then I figured I’d maybe seconds to live and that thought drove me. I suddenly went limp and Wingo roared in triumph and hugged me closer. I judged the distance to the bridge of his nose, suddenly stiffened and hammered my forehead, hard and fast, into the target I’d chosen.

I heard the bone crack and Wingo cursed and let me go, staggering backward, with blood splashed all over his face.

Relentless now, my fear replaced by anger, I waded after him and swung both fists to his chin. Left. Right.

Wingo went down, tumbling forward, but I met his face with my knee and his head snapped up, his shattered nose spraying a scarlet fountain of blood.

The gunman crashed onto his back and lay there for a few moments and I waited, gasping for breath, my fists ready.

By the fire, I was aware of Ezra watching me, his hand on his gun.

Was he going to make a play if I won this fight?

Beyond caring, I watched Wingo rise slowly to his feet and I moved in quickly. I drove a right and a left into his face, then summed it all up with a terrific right uppercut that jerked Wingo’s head backward and the big man went down on his knees.

I circled, wary and waiting, my jaw hanging loose as I battled to breathe.

“Let it go, boy.” Ezra’s voice cut into my consciousness. “You’ve whipped him.”

I don’t know how long I stood there. A minute, maybe longer.

Then Wingo’s bloody, battered head slowly came up and his burning eyes met mine. “Now I’m going to kill you, boy,” he snarled.

His hand flashed for the gun at his waist, but Ezra stepped in quickly. He grabbed Wingo’s gun arm and said: “No, Lafe. We’ll cross the Brazos tomorrow and until then we may need his rifle.”

“Let me be,” Wingo roared, jerking his arm free.

“Lafe!” Ezra yelled urgently. “Damn it, man, think of the money!”

Me, I was ready to make my draw, determined to go down fighting. But I had no need. Somehow Ezra’s logic had penetrated the killing fog of Wingo’s brain and I could see the man think it through.

“Lafe, we’ll cross the Brazos tomorrow,” Ezra said, voice soft and reasoning. “By then we’ll be clear of the Apaches and you can kill this man.” And again: “Think of the money. We’ve come too far to risk it all now.”

It took Wingo a long time to make up his mind. Finally he holstered his Colt. “After we cross the river, I’m dropping you, boy,” he said.

Wingo rose to his feet and staggered to the creek under a cold moon. He lay on the bank and splashed water onto his battered face, snuffling and snorting like a butchered pig.

Ezra stepped close to me, his black eyes in shadow. “Do you believe in God, boy?” he asked.

“I guess I do,” I said.

The gunman nodded. “Then I advise you to make your peace with Him, because from this moment on, you’re a walking dead man.”

Chapter 15

I stepped back to the fire and Lila sat beside me. She had a canteen in her hand and she tenderly began to wipe blood away from my face.

“You’re all cut up and bruised,” she whispered.

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’ve been cut up and bruised plenty before.”

I looked into her eyes and saw the awakening of something. What was it? Love?

I shook my head, a movement that caused me more than a little pain.

I couldn’t have seen love in Lila’s eyes, it was impossible. And yet . . .

“You did well, Dusty,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “You stood up for Pa and you stood up for me.”

I managed a smile. “And damned near got myself killed for my trouble.”

She kissed me then, just a soft, tender meeting of her lips on mine.

“Thank you, Dusty,” she whispered. “Thank you for so much.”

Gently I pushed her away. “Go see to your pa, Lila,” I said. “His mouth and beard are covered in sand.”

The girl got up and did as I’d told her and I sat there comparing her in my mind to pretty Sally Coleman.

Did Sally love me?