“They’re back!” Tim told the others a few minutes later, galloping into the main compound to report. “I seen ’em. They’re back, and they’ve got the herd with them!”
“What about Eddie?” Dorchester asked anxiously.
Tim smiled. “He’s all right. He just got shot in the ass…uh, the rear end,” he said, amending his comment in mid-sentence because Pamela was present.
“Eddie was shot? Then there was shooting,” Dorchester said.
“I reckon there was, bein’ as Eddie got hisself shot,” Tim replied. “But I don’t know much else about what happened. I figured I’d better get on back here and tell you folks ’fore you rode off.”
“Yes, Tim, that was the right thing to do, and I appreciate it,” Dorchester said.
“Where is Eddie now?” Pamela asked, concerned for the young cowboy.
Tim laughed. “He’s lyin’ belly down on a travois, with his ass stickin’ up in the air.”
Several of the cowboys laughed, and Tim, realizing what he had said, blushed and apologized to Pamela.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean no disrespect.”
“That’s all right, Tim,” she said. “Your characterization was most…descriptive.”
“Phil,” Dorchester called to one of his men. “Ride into town and get Dr. Urban, would you? Tell him we have a wounded man out here.”
“Yes, sir,” Phil said, starting toward the corral to saddle his horse.
“How about some of you other fellas comin’ with me?” Tim said to the others. “Let’s go out there and take the herd, so those boys can come on in. They’ve had a long night of it, I expect.”
“Thanks, Tim,” Dorchester said. “That’s a good idea.”
Half a dozen cowboys responded to Tim’s suggestion, and a few minutes later they were saddled and on their way.
About fifteen minutes after the cowboys left to bring the herd in, Hawke, Willie, Win, and Eddie showed up. Eddie was on his stomach on a travois, and as Tim had pointed out, his bottom was sticking up in the air. The few cowboys who were still there laughed at the sight.
“What the hell are you laughing at?” Eddie shouted angrily. “How about I shoot some of you in the ass and see how you like it?”
“Take him in the house,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Wilson will find a bedroom for him. I think he would be better off there than in the bunkhouse.”
“Yes, sir,” Win said. “That’s real decent of you, Mr. Dorchester.”
Win helped Eddie up, and then, with Win on one side and one of the cowboys on the other, they started walking him toward the house.
“Hawke, you want to tell me what happened?” Dorchester asked.
“Well, they had clearly decided to keep the herd for themselves,” Hawke said, “because they had people out there guarding it. When we came after it, they opened fire on us.”
“How did you manage to get the herd away?”
“When the shooting started, the herd stampeded,” Hawke explained. “And fortunately, they were running in the right direction.”
“There was four of ’em, Mr. Dorchester,” Willie said. “Four of ’em come at us, and Hawke, here, turned ’em back all by his ownself.”
Dr. Urban came out of the bedroom where Eddie had been taken. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands were bloody, so he washed them in a basin that Wilson had placed on the hall table.
“How is he, Doctor?” Dorchester asked.
“If the wound doesn’t putrefy, he should be all right,” the doctor said. “I managed to extract the bullet without doing too much more damage to the wound, and I poured alcohol on it. There are a couple of doctors in Europe who are very much of the belief that if a wound is sterilized, the patient will have a better chance of recovery. Of course, not everyone agrees, but it seems to make sense to me that if you can keep a wound clean, there is less chance for putrefication, or, as they call it, infection.”
“Doctor, I thank you very much for coming out,” Dorchester said.
“I’m going to leave a little laudanum. If the pain gets too bad, you can give him a few drops in a glass of water. But don’t overdo it.”
Dorchester followed the doctor to the door to tell him good-bye. Hawke, who had waited in the parlor until the doctor was finished, was ready to leave as well.
“Doc, if you don’t mind a little company, I’ll ride in with you,” Hawke said.
“Hawke, no need for you to go into town,” Dorchester said, surprised at hearing his announcement. “As the foreman, you have a place out here. In the Big House, actually.”
“Thanks,” Hawke said. “And I will take you up on it tomorrow night. But I’ve got to go back for my clothes and things, and the hotel room is paid for through the night.”
“All right,” Dorchester said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Thinking to have a drink before turning in for the night, Hawke turned his horse out in the livery, then walked across the street to the saloon. As soon as he stepped through the door, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a chair being brought down on him.
Hawke’s reaction was quick enough to enable him to avoid the full brunt of the chair, but the legs caught him on the left shoulder, sending a stab of pain shooting down his side and his arm. It also knocked him down.
“Where at’s your pocket knife now, you son of a bitch?” Metzger yelled at him. Metzger lifted the chair back over his head to finish Hawke off. As he stepped forward, though, Hawke rolled and, with a sweep of his foot, caught Metzger behind the leg, bringing him down.
Hawke scrambled quickly to his feet. Metzger started for the chair again, but Hawke kicked it away.
Metzger smiled, then lifted his fists. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way. I’m goin’ to enjoy this.”
“Fight, fight!” someone shouted, and the bar patrons quickly gathered around for the impromptu entertainment.
Neither Hawke nor Metzger had been longtime residents of Green River, so neither had a large following of supporters. Metzger had been there long enough, however, to make himself genuinely disliked, so what support there was in the saloon was for Hawke. But among his supporters there was little confidence in his ability to prevail.
“Metzger’s damn near twice as big as Hawke,” one of the patrons said. “Like as not, he’ll break Hawke’s back.”
“I don’t know,” one of the others said. “I’ve seen big ’uns go down before.”
After the initial comments, a hush fell over the others as they watched the two combatants go after each other. Hawke and Metzger circled about, their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other. On the surface it clearly looked as if Metzger would have the advantage. He was bigger and stronger. But to the surprise of nearly everyone in the saloon, Hawke wasn’t backing off, and they wanted to see how he would handle it. They knew he would have to depend on quickness and agility against Metzger’s brute strength.
Metzger attacked first, a clublike swing that Hawke leaned away from and counterpunched with a quick jab. It was a good punch, catching Metzger flush on the jaw, but the big man just laughed it off. As the fight went on, it was clear that Hawke could hit Metzger almost at will, but since he was bobbing and weaving, he couldn’t get set for a telling blow. And what blows he landed didn’t seem to faze Metzger at all.
Then Metzger connected. It was only a glancing blow, but enough to send Hawke careening into one of the tables, which fell over with a crash, sending glasses and bottles banging and scattering about. Trying to capitalize on it, Metzger rushed toward Hawke to kick him, but Hawke managed to get out of the way, though not without knocking over another table.
Recovering from the glancing blow, and having avoided Metzger’s rush, Hawke was able to return to his fight plan. He hit Metzger in the stomach several times, hoping to find a soft spot, but there didn’t seem to be one there. When that didn’t work, he started throwing long punches at Metzger’s face, hoping to score there, but they seemed just as ineffectual as the others had been, until he saw a quick opening that allowed him to send a long left to Metzger’s nose.