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somehow he retained his hat, which was a soiled and much battered derby.
    Tall as Longarm was, he had to look up when he confronted this one.
    â€œScrew you, pipsqueak,” the mountain roared as he lunged for Longarm’s throat.
    Longarm grabbed for his .45, reversed it so the flat of its butt was a club, and whacked the big man on the temple. The blow rattled him. Longarm could see that. But it did not put him down.
    Longarm ducked under a wild sweep of the big fellow’s right fist and whacked him again with the butt of the heavy revolver. This time his eyes crossed, but he still did not go down. Instead he swung at Longarm again.
    This time Longarm did not quite get out of the way. The fellow’s fist landed like the kick of a mule. A rather large and angry mule.
    Longarm felt things go fuzzy for a moment there. It was obvious he was not going to stand toe to toe with the big fellow, so he stepped in close and whacked him yet again. As hard and as solidly as he could manage.
    The derby must have cushioned the blow to some extent, but Longarm gave it everything he had. And this time the fellow went down. It was like seeing a tree fall. His eyes rolled up in his head so there was nothing but white showing, and he toppled face forward, out before he ever hit the floor.
    Longarm walked over to the bartender, who was sitting up with his back against the front of the bar—the wrong side for a bartender to be on, which he would undoubtedly agree with.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    The bartender looked up at him. It seemed to take the man a few moments for the fact of Longarm’s presence to register and for him to see the badge that hung on the front of Longarm’s coat. He shook his head and blinked. “I will be,” he said.
    â€œWant a hand up?”
    â€œI . . . give me a minute.”
    â€œSure,” Longarm said, turning away to look over the room.
    Two men in rough clothing were behind the bar drinking free whiskey as fast as they could gulp it down.
    Longarm motioned them aside. They took a look at the badge and set the whiskey bottles down then scurried out from behind the bar.
    Half a dozen other men were picking up chairs and slumping into them. A fair amount of blood was flowing. It probably was a good idea that the sawdust on the floor was thick and could absorb it all. Men were doing what they could to stanch the bleeding, but it was obvious that the local doctors would have some stitching to do.
    The big fellow sat up, shaking his head. He looked up at Longarm. “Did you do this?”
    â€œUh-huh,” Longarm told him. “D’you want to let be? Or would you like t’ cool off in the jail instead?”
    â€œYou ain’t taking me to jail now?”
    â€œNot unless you need it,” Longarm said.
    The big man grinned. “Shee-it, mister, but you got a punch.” Apparently he did not remember or had not seen that it was the butt of a clubbed revolver and not a fist that put him on the floor.
    â€œI’m really not going to jail?”
    â€œNo, you’re really not.”
    â€œThanks, mister. I owe you one.”
    Longarm was not entirely sure how he meant that. Owed Longarm exactly what? Regardless, the fight had gone out of him now and he seemed willing to let it go, at least for the moment.
    The bartender had climbed groggily to his feet and was back on the correct side of the bar for him. He sighed heavily and began assessing the damage.
    Longarm waited around long enough to be reasonably sure that the party was over then hurried back to the sheriff’s office, where he was supposed to be.

Chapter 18
    True to Longarm’s expectations—if not to his stated intention—Tommy Bitterman took his sweet time about returning to duty. It was the middle of the afternoon before the deputy returned and relieved Longarm from desk duty.
    â€œAnything happen while I was away?” Bitterman asked.
    Longarm snorted.