“Is that so?” Will said and let his smile die. “Why’s that?”
“Because I would’ve put you in your place. I would’ve beaten you to a pulp.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and pretend you were there that day? Go ahead and show me what you would’ve done. But watch out, Gibbs. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“I’m gonna bust your jaw,” Gibbs said, and slipped his right hand into his pocket.
Will stepped to his own right, away from that hand and whatever Gibbs was fixing to pull out of his pocket. But he didn’t move too far, because if it was a gun, he didn’t want to give Gibbs the room to move it.
Will brushed Maggie to safety behind him just as Gibbs brought his hand out again, the big fist gleaming with brass knuckles.
“Last chance, Bentley,” Gibbs sneered. “Clear out of town for good or take your lumps.”
That phrase—take your lumps—dredged up another bitter memory. Gibbs had always used that same phrase out in thefields, telling the children to take their lumps just before he beat them mercilessly.
Will crouched and raised his fists, ready.
Gibbs rushed forward and swung the brass knuckles at Will’s face. There was no feint, no finesse; and Will’s racing mind was not surprised.
Gibbs was a man accustomed to beating slaves and children, a man who had lumbered through life, hurting people, triumphing through size and brute strength and other edges, like a riding crop or whip or brass knuckles.
But those brass knuckles didn’t do Gibbs a lick of good, because Will dipped the punch with ease and slammed his own fist into Gibbs’s big jaw.
Gibbs staggered backward out of the alley to where a group of people had stopped to watch the unfolding drama.
Eyes blazing with fury, Gibbs charged and threw another right.
Will was ready for it. He stepped to one side, batted the punch away, and stepped back in with another cross that hammered home, flattening Gibbs’s nose and sending him reeling again.
This time, Will followed, smashing Gibbs with slashing lefts and rights, making his big head jerk from side to side and snap backward from the force of the blows, which Will kept raining down, pounding and pounding, driving his former bully backward, out of the alley, into the street, striking the man’s face with blow after thunderous blow, shifting his weight and putting every ounce of his tremendous strength into every shot.
Gibbs never recovered, never regained his balance, and never had a chance to throw another punch.
As Will had intended. Because war had taught him to strike fast and hard, and if you felt the enemy weaken, you hit them with everything you had until it was over.
Gibbs spilled into the street, totally unconscious, his face a bloody mess, his features rearranged in a mask of utter defeat.
“He started this,” Will panted to those in attendance, and saw them staring at him with wonder and fear.
Then Maggie was beside him. “Are you all right, Will?”
“I’m fine.” He crouched down and pulled the brass knuckles from the unconscious man’s hand. “He does not need these.”
Onlookers broke out of their paralysis then. A few scurried down the street, but most lingered, laughing and clapping Will on the shoulder.
“That’ll make the saloon a lot nicer place for a while,” one man said. “Gibbs comes in there every day at three with that Sully Weatherspoon, and everybody’s gotta clear out or risk taking a beating.”
“Yeah, thanks, Will,” a vaguely familiar younger man said, clapping him on the back. “We owe you one.”
“It was my pleasure,” Will said, “but if you boys are feeling grateful, I’d appreciate your help loading this wagon. My hands are starting to hurt.”
CHAPTER 17
Will’s hands were battered and bruised but not broken. And praise God for that because he had a lot of work to do.
Riding out of town, he watched to make sure they weren’t followed. They weren’t.
That was good, but it was only a temporary reprieve. He had made quite a stir since coming back to Texas, not even counting the pair of bandits he’d shot dead along the way.
