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The crowd watched in morbid fascination at the cowboy giant and the limp young man in his grasp. Duane knew what was coming, but was paralyzed by the earlier blows.

    â€œYou little fuck,” Jethro snarled. “I'll teach you to mess with me.”
    The fist zoomed forward, and grew larger in Duane's eyes. It landed on Duane's cheek, and Duane's lights went out once more. He soared through the air, crashed against the bat-wing doors, and landed with his face in a pile of muck at the curb, where he lay still for a long time.

CHAPTER 2

    â€œY OU ALL RIGHT, KID? ” Duane opened his eyes. He lay in the street, and it felt as if a balloon had take up residence underneath his left cheek. “Where am I?”
    â€œYou just got the shit kicked out of you.”
    Duane tried to focus on a skull-like face with a cheroot stuck between the teeth. It looked familiar, but it definitely wasn't the face of Brother Paolo. Duane glanced around, expecting to see familiar monastery buildings, but instead saw the main street of Titusville. His ribs felt broken, and his head throbbed with pain.
    â€œYou're not going to die on me, are you?” the face asked. “Don't you remember me? I'm Clyde Butterfield, and I told you to buy a gun. You'd better get out of the street before a wagon runs you over.”

    The dapper gentleman helped Duane to his feet, and maneuvered him toward the sidewalk. Duane's legs were uncoordinated, he felt sick to his stomach, and an elf pounded a chisel into his brain. He dropped heavily onto the bench in front of the Black Cat Saloon. Butterfield withdrew a flask from inside his frock coat and held it out to Duane.
    â€œI don't drink,” Duane said, as he located new agony in his neck.
    â€œWake you right up.”
    Duane's head was full of fog, and the sidewalk undulated before his eyes. He took the flask, tipped it back, and swallowed a small amount. For the first three seconds, it was mellow and smooth, and then became liquid flames down his throat. He coughed, hacked, and spit up blood.
    â€œTo tell you the truth,” Butterfield said, “I'm surprised he didn't kill you. He hit you so hard, I thought your skull would bust apart.”
    Duane touched his nose to make sure it still was there. His jaw felt loose on its hinges, and he was certain that his rib cage had been caved in. “Naw, he didn't kill me,” Duane replied, trying to be brave, but he winced, and his voice came out in squeaks. It hurt when he breathed.
    â€œYou had him, but you let him off the hook. If you'd stayed after him, you would've beat him, instead of the other way around.”
    Duane recalled the initial stage of the fight, when he'd bloodied Jethro's nose, then stopped to assess the damage.
    â€œIf you ever hurt your man,” Butterfield confided, “finish him off, and think it over afterward. Want a smoke?”

    â€œDon't smoke.”
    Butterfield puffed his long, thin cheroot, gazing askance at Duane. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Get yourself a good meal, then find a bath and a hotel room. I'll meet you tomorrow night at the Crystal Palace, and we'll discuss your future.”
    Duane looked at the coins, and thought he heard pity, or was it disdain, in Butterfield's voice. A flush of bad temper came over Duane, and he slapped Butterfield's hand. The coins went flying in the air, and Butterfield made a motion toward his gun.
    Duane limped away, bending slightly to favor his aching ribs. He came to an alley, and absentmindedly turned into it. A group of cowboys threw dice at the side of the building, and everybody held a bottle. Duane sidestepped around them, and made his way toward the backyard. The shame of defeat hurt worse than the pain in his head and chest, and he ground his teeth angrily.
    Butterfield was right, he admitted. I should've stayed after him, but I had to admire my handiwork, like an idiot. He came to the backyard, and