He heard a few gasps from around the table. He could hear the sound of chairs scraping back. For a second nothing happened, and then the big man slowly rose. He started to his right. The men sitting on that side of the table jumped out of their chairs and hurried back out of the way. The heavyset man didn’t come with a rush. He came ponderously, heavily, with his arms out from his barrel chest. Longarm could see from the size of his arms that if the man could ever succeed in getting him in his grasp, he, Longarm, would most likely be done for. He stood up slowly, giving the man time to round the table. He had a fairly good idea what the man was going to do. He stepped to his left and just hooked his chair with the toe of his boot so that he could fling it.
As the man came around the curve of the table, he suddenly started forward. In that same instant, Longarm jerked the chair into the man’s path. it caused the big man to stumble. As he started to fall forward, Longarm pulled out his gun and clubbed him over the back of the head and neck. He hit him as hard as he could. The sound of the barrel striking the hard flesh made a thunk in the quiet of the saloon. The big man just kept falling, crushing the chair beneath him. He hit the floor on his chest and bounced and then lay still for a second.
Longarm stepped back and was about to holster his revolver, thinking it was all over. But then the big man shook his head several times and started slowly to rise.
Around him, Longarm could hear the buzz of voices. It seemed he kept hearing Billy Bob this and Big Billy that. He said to the rising man, “Stay down, mister. I am warning you … stay down.”
The big man seemed not to have heard him. He kept shaking his head as if to clear it and slowly rose, pushing himself up with his massive arms until he was on his hands and knees. As he was about to straighten up, Longarm stepped forward and kicked him under his chin as hard as he could. The blow knocked the man over backwards. He went down and then rolled over on his right side.
Longarm stood there, watching, wondering what would come next. Once again the man lay still for a few seconds, and then once again he started to laboriously heave himself to his feet.
Longarm watched him, fascinated, as the man pushed himself up with one arm, then up on one knee, and then began to slowly straighten up. As he did, Longarm drove the heel of his right boot into the man’s side. He could almost feel the crunch of a rib. The man sighed and sagged back down. Longarm booted him again. This time, the blow drove him to the floor.
The process started again, only this time, Longarm knelt beside the man and put his revolver between his eyes, cocked the hammer, and said, “Listen, you chubby little sonofabitch, stay down there on that floor or I’ll put one right between your eyes. I ain’t letting you squeeze the life out of me.”
A voice from behind him said, “Let him alone, mister.” He turned around slowly. He was looking into the twin barrels of a shotgun. Behind them was a young man who bore a resemblance to the heavyset man on the floor, only this one was taller and more normally built. But he was still heavy and he still had a bullying look about his face and little mean, cruel eyes. There was no mistaking his intent with the shotgun. Longarm looked at him. He still had the gun pointed at the man on the floor. Longarm said, “Who might you be?”
The man said, “Never mind who I be. You let him alone.”
Longarm said, “You drop that scattergun. I don’t care much for having those things pointed at me.”
“You take that pistol out of my brother’s face.”
“Your brother started this fight. Your brother don’t want pistols pointed at his face? He ought to not offer violence to other men. Now you put that scattergun down and I’ll take this pistol out of your brother’s face and I’ll back out of here and we’ll all just be friends for the rest of our lives. Now, what do you think of that?”
While the questions hung in the air, there was a commotion and a man came shouldering his way through. “What the hell is going on here?” he said.
Longarm was glad to see that he was wearing a badge. He hoped that it was the sheriff and not one of his deputies. He figured from the age of the man that it had to be the sheriff, and judging by his authoritative ways, he was fairly certain it was.
Someone said, “This man’s been beating the hell out of Billy Bob.”
Longarm looked up at the sheriff. “I wasn’t beating the hell out of Billy Bob, if that’s his name. I was only protecting myself. This sonofabitch that’s about the size of a barn was going for me. I wasn’t going to stand there and get squashed to the floor.”
The sheriff looked around at the other players in the game. He singled one out and said, “What about it, Mr. Swinney?”
Mr. Swinney, who was one of the men who looked like a tradesman, sort of shrugged and said, “The new fellow won four hands in a row. Billy Bob didn’t like it. He kind of mentioned to the new fellow that he didn’t like it and that he was going to give him a working over.”
The sheriff said, “All right, I don’t give a damn about any of that. Glenn, you put that shotgun down.” Then he pointed his finger at Longarm and said, “And you, mister, put that gun back in its holster, get your money off the table, and get the hell out of this saloon.”
Longarm stood up slowly, uncocking his revolver before slipping it into his holster. He said, “I didn’t start this fight.”
The sheriff said, “I don’t care who started this fight. I’m here to finish it. Now pick your money up off that poker table and get the hell out of here.”
“Whether I’m ready to go or not?”
“Whether you’re ready to go or not. Makes me no damn difference. I’m the sheriff here—you’ll do what I tell you. NOW get out of here.”
At Longarm’s feet, the big man groaned and moved around. Longarm glanced down. A trickle of blood was running down the thick neck from where the gun barrel had cut him at the base of his skull. Longarm looked over at the younger man who had the same features and the same blond hair—hair so blond that it was almost white. The younger man had dropped the barrel of the shotgun but his eyes were still aimed at Longarm. Longarm glanced around the room. Everyone was staring at him.
He said to the sheriff, “Just who the hell are these two gents that they would rate the law taking a position over another private citizen? I ain’t done a damn thing except play a better poker game than that idiot on the floor.”
The sheriff’s face flushed. “Never you mind who they are or who anybody else is for that matter. Just get your damn money and get the hell out of here. My job is to keep trouble from starting and to stop it once it gets started and I don’t want any more. Do I got to tell you again?”
With casual movements, Longarm stepped to the table and scooped his money up, stuffing it into his pocket. Then he glanced down at the big man named Billy Bob or Big Billy and gave him one last look. He started toward the man with the shotgun. As he shouldered his way between him and the sheriff, he said to the younger man, “Listen, sonny. I ain’t real sure that you are old enough to be carting one of those things around. Ain’t there some law, Sheriff, about twelve-year-old boys carrying a shotgun?”
The sheriff said, “Hold it right there, Glenn. I’ll tend to this. Glenn, just put that shotgun down and step back. This man is leaving.”
He took Longarm by the shoulders and gave him a nudge toward the front of the saloon. “On your way, mister.”
Longarm shrugged the sheriff’s hands off. He walked a few steps and then turned around and looked the room over slowly. Finally he smiled slightly, turned, and walked toward the door, making a sardonic wave over his shoulder. As he stepped through the bat-winged doors, he could hear the noise begin to pick up again in the place. Outside on the street, he laughed. It had been a good beginning. If nothing else, he told himself, he had won nearly two hundred dollars. More money to flash around and act like a sport.