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“You know damn good and well there was a dust-up over at some slop joint. I don’t even know the name of it. Anyway, I’m sure you know all about that an’ did before you asked. Fairplay ain’t so big a town that you won’t have heard.”
    Bitterman’s answer was a grin but not a single spoken word. Yes, he knew.
    Longarm rose and reached for his hat.
    â€œDid you make out a report about that fight over at Sanchez’s place?” Bitterman asked.
    â€œI don’t do paperwork,” Longarm said on his way out the door.
    â€œHey!” Bitterman barked. When Longarm was halfway down the first flight of stairs, he heard the young deputy belatedly call, “Thanks.” Longarm ignored him.
    Longarm had a light lunch, then spent the afternoon idling at the bar in one saloon or another, not really drinking but keeping his ears open for any mention of the stagecoach robberies. The miners, enjoying a day off from their underground labors, were much more interested in the prizefight that was scheduled for that evening. There was considerable talk about that.
    He had supper at a café on the east side of town, close to the railroad depot. When he walked out of the café, the sun was disappearing behind the peaks to the west. Darkness was gathering and there was a chill in the high mountain air.
    He noticed a circle of torches and oil lamps with flaming wicks and bright reflectors on the far side of the railroad tracks. Crowds of men were gathering there, and a series of posts, connected with rope, had been set within the lighted circle.
    That, he realized, was where the fight would be held.
    What were the terms? He remembered hearing something about it when he first got to town. Five dollars to step into the ring, if he remembered correctly, and a hundred if you could last—five minutes, was that it?—if you could last five minutes without leaving your feet.
    The promoter must be pretty confident of his boy if he was willing to lay a hundred on the line because surely there wouldn’t be more than a handful of men who would want to climb into that ring. Five or six maybe, which meant the promoter and the fighter stood to earn only twenty or thirty dollars.
    Of course, that was in entry fees. Side bets would be something else entirely. Longarm supposed that was where the promoter expected to make his money.
    Regardless of all that, it should be a good show, especially for a town full of well-paid men who had little to do with their leisure hours except drink and go with the whores.
    Longarm lit a cheroot and sauntered along with the growing crowd that was headed toward the lit-up ring.

Chapter 19
    â€œWell, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Longarm muttered under his breath.
    The fighter was sitting on a three-legged stool in one corner of the ring. And why did they call it a ring anyway when it was always built in a square?
    The man was stripped to the waist, already covered with a sheen of sweat that gleamed in the lamplight. Sweat? Or oil intended to cause the other man’s leather gloves to slip aside?
    Just that edge, tiny though it was, might sometimes be enough to make the difference, Longarm knew.
    That sort of thing was common enough and, in fighting, was fair enough. But the thing that made Longarm’s hackles rise was that this fighter in the ring was the same big son of a bitch who had sucker punched him in the saloon some days ago. Sucker punched him and knocked him out cold. His jaw still was sore when he chewed on the left side of his mouth.
    And wasn’t that almighty interesting.
    Longarm felt a tightness across the width of his shoulders, and his breath came shallow and quick.
    Almost involuntarily he flexed his hands, forming them into fists and then relaxing them again.
    Five dollars, the entry fee was?
    He had that much in his pocket.

Chapter 20
    Longarm pushed his way through the gathering crowd until he found a place directly opposite