Hel Morgan

Ten

Something hit him like a maverick steer, and Hel landed on his shoulder, rolling back to his feet, dazed but getting angry. It wasn't an Indian, for they weren't night fighters, plus, he recognized the sour odor of sweat and booze. Balling his fists, Hel planted his feet, getting ready.

"Payton Hedge," he snarled, "if you have any thoughts about seeing sunrise, you'll tuck tail and get."

"I'm gonna kill you, buster," Hedge lunged forward but Morgan had been waiting for it. Dancing aside, he threw a hard left that clobbered the big man behind the ear. Staggered, Payton shook it off, turning like a cat. "My little girl run off with that no-good grifter, and it's all yer fault!"

Knowing better than to get drawn into a conversation, Hel feinted right then stabbed a sharp left that caught Payton's shoulder, half turning him. A lightning follow-up smashed his lips against his teeth. With an enraged roar, Hedge lunged at him and they grappled madly to stay upright. Jabbing a wicked cut into Hel's gut, Payton slashed viciously with his elbow, splitting the skin over Morgan's eye. Blood soaked into his vision but he didn't have time to wipe it away.

Digging his head into Hedge's chest, Morgan cut into him with short, violent stabs, his fists like sledgehammers. Payton tried to back up, to get set but Hel wasn't having it. Turning, he plowed his shoulder into Payton's ribs, hooking a powerful right fist into his belly. Hedge dropped but Morgan wasn't quick enough and got grabbed, going down with him. It became a mad skirmish of writhing limbs and jabbing fingers.

Hel caught a heavy fist across the face, sending sparks shooting through his head. Before he could shake it off, he was hit again, then again, and everything began to spin.

Payton was thoroughly enjoying the beating. He had this worthless saddle bum pinned beneath his knees, and landed blow after blow, enjoying the warm spray of blood on his hands. He'd show this nosy tinhorn! He'd show him what it meant to cross Payton Hedge! He'd beat him to death with his bare hands, then have a little fun with that stuck-up tart he'd brought with him. Grinning, Payton told himself he'd have a good time tonight.

It slammed into him with the force of a freight train and Hedge careened sideways, hitting the ground and rolling. Dazed, it took a second for the pain to hit, and when it did he grabbed his side, baring his teeth. Warm stickiness coated his fingers. He could barely make out the silhouette of someone standing there with a rifle pointed his way.

"Why ya..." slurring, he shoved to his feet. "Why ya no good hussy... I'll show ya..."

The second blast sent him flying backwards and he hit the ground in a limp heap.

Pushing weakly to his elbow, Hel looked through the blood at the figure of his wife, the barrel of the rifle catching the faint moonlight.

"Connie," his rasp turned her head and she came to him, dropping the gun to cradle his head in her lap. "You alright, girl?"

"Am Ah alright?" She almost laughed, gingerly brushing sticky hair from his brow. "Are ya alright, Hel?"

"You know," he mused tiredly, sinking into her arms. "I'm plum wore out. That man is a menace, and way too big for me to chew."

"Ya won't hafta worry 'bout him no more, Hel," casting a look over her shoulder, Connie's lips tightened briefly. "No one will."

"Give me a hand, will you?"

"No, ya just stay put," easing him back she quickly got the fire burning, putting on a pot of water and made some coffee. Once the water was warm, she tore off a piece of her petticoat and dipped it in, gently dabbing at his face. "That ain't so bad."