“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!!”
Chase didn’t attempt to shake free of the hold. Instead, he rammed his elbow backward into the man’s stomach, then pivoted to plant his feet and swing at the next of Vargas’ buddies coming to his rescue. His leading punch was blocked; then someone grabbed his arms. A fist exploded against his mouth before Chase could shrug aside the man holding him. He tasted blood and shook his head to stop the ringing in his ears, turning in time to see Vargas coming at him.
He ducked the first swing, but the second bruised his shoulder. Then the two were grappling, heaving and twisting, grunting like animals while they butted and gouged at each other before springing apart. Vargas caught him above the eye with a clumsy swing, but Chase got in three hard, fast blows to the body and clipped the point of his chin with an uppercut. Vargas came at him swinging wildly, one blow glancing off his cheekbone, but Chase stepped in instead of away from the attack and buried a wicked right in the man’s belly. A quick left, followed by a feint with his left that had Vargas raising an arm to block it, and Chase went under it with a stiff left to the chest. Vargas landed a wild swing, but Chase hit him with another left and knocked
him to the floor with a hard right.
The killing instinct was strong. Chase grabbed Vargas by the shirt collar to lift him from the floor, but a pair of arms circled him to pull him off. Chase pivoted into his new assailant, breaking the hold with an upward sweep of his arms and swinging to knock the man backward before he bothered to see who it was. The two fighters were encircled by a ring of cowboys, one of them supporting an off-balance Buck.
“Dammit, Chase!” Buck cursed him. “What the hell did you hit me for?” He rubbed his jaw, working it as if to make certain it was operational. “You damned near broke my jaw!” Chase glanced back at the man on the floor. “Vargas is out cold. I was trying to keep you from beating him to a pulp.”
“Sorry.” His breath was coming in hard rushes, labored and aching. He weaved slightly, his fight-numbed body beginning to feel the blows that had landed. He turned to the two drifters who were buddies of Vargas. “Tell him … when he comes to … to watch the kind of remarks he makes about people.”
He moved toward the bar with a lurching stride. Something trickled into his eye. He wiped at it, thinking it was sweat, but there was blood on his hand from the cut above his eye. His lip was split, too. It burned when he took a drink of the whiskey Jake shoved into his hand. He winced and pressed the back of his hand to the cut.
“You’d better wash those cuts.” Dolly was at his side, pressing a towel to the cut above his eye. “Why don’t you let me do it?”
Chase submitted to her ministrations without protest, yet totally indifferently. It was strange how good the physical hurt made him feel. The tension that had been knotted in him for days was gone.
Looking in the mirror behind the bar, he saw his own bruised reflection and Buck helping the other two Triple C cowboys lift Vargas to his feet and drag him over to a table in the corner. Then Dolly was turning his head to dab the towel on his mouth and someone came to return his hat.
“What started the fight?” Buck draped a limp arm over his shoulder while Albert did the same with Clay’s other arm. Together they carried him to the chair at the empty table.
“One minute we were talking about Dolly. Then Clay said something about Chase having a girl friend named Lolita. The next thing I knew, fists were flying.” Albert helped to prop up the unconscious man in the chair.
Something fell on the floor and Buck crouched to pick it up. “Clay’s hat is out there on the floor. Do you want to get it before someone steps on it, Albert?” he suggested.
The third cowboy had already gone to wet a towel to wash the bloodied face. There wasn’t anyone around to see the leather wallet or the folding cash that had slipped from it. Buck hesitated, then picked the two up, slipping the money into his own pocket and the billfold into Clay’s hip pocket.
“It ain’t right to tempt a man by carrying around a month’s pay in your wallet, Clay,” Buck scolded the unconscious man in a very low murmur.
Albert came back with the hat and looked anxiously at his friend. “Do you reckon he’s hurt bad enough to need a doctor?”
“Now, I don’t know.” Buck sharply slapped the man’s cheek a couple of times and Vargas stirred, his hands coming up heavily. Buck stepped back. “He’ll be all right. Probably’ll even look human when you get that blood washed off him.”
Shifting out of the way so the returning cowboy could do just that, Buck lingered for a minute, then sauntered toward the bar, where Chase was leaning. The cash was a hard lump in his pocket, but he rationalized that Vargas was only a drifter, not one of Calder’s own. Besides, it was a proven fact that a fool and his money were soon parted. Vargas was obviously a fool, or he would have known better than to take on a Calder. The Old Man had taught both Buck and Chase every dirty brawling trick in the book. Buck walked up behind Chase and dug his fingers into the shoulder muscle.
“What the hell is the idea of starting a fight while I’m otherwise occupied?” he accused. “A guy can miss out on a lot of excitement that way.”
Chase took the towel from the blonde’s hand, signaling he had no more need for her assistance. “I’ll try to remember that the next time.” His injured mouth worked stiffly as he spoke.
“What happened?” Buck eyed his friend, already knowing the answer.
There was a lift of his shoulders in a dismissing shrug. “You know how it goes. Somebody says something that happens to rub you the wrong way—and that’s it.”
“Sometimes it’s just one word,” Buck agreed and paused deliberately. “Like Lolita.” Chase slashed him a hard look. Buck grinned. “Pretty soon folks are going to realize how touchy you are about her. Somebody might use that against you if you aren’t careful.”
Chase took a long, slow breath and realized that Buck was right. He had to start learning to control this. He couldn’t fight every man who mentioned her name. Glancing in the mirror, Chase saw Vargas leaning on the table and holding his forehead.
“Jake.” He pushed away from the support of the counter bar. “Give me a bottle of good whiskey and a couple of glasses.”
The instant he started toward the table where Clay Vargas sat, the place became hushed. Albert poked Vargas in the ribs to warn him of Chase’s approach. The cowboy looked up, battered and wary. Chase stopped in front of the table and set the empty glasses on top.
“I’d like to buy you a drink, Clay,” he said and uncapped the whiskey bottle to wait for an answer.
“You beat me. Hell! You whipped me,” the cowboy retorted, but resentment gave way to honest defeat. “I guess maybe I deserved it for that crack I made about your girl.”
“No hard feelings,” Chase assured him and filled the shot glasses with whiskey, pushing the first toward the cowboy. They shared another drink and talked before Chase went back to the bar.