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they were fraternity brothers.”
    â€œDone,” Maxwell declared. He stepped back and took off his coat, handing it to his wife, Wilma. “Hold this, dear. I shan’t be long.”
    Frank stood a few feet in front of the rich industrialist, waiting for the man to make the first aggressive move.
    â€œDo try not to roll about in the mud, dear,” Wilma said. “It’s dreadful out here.”
    Across the street, Doc Raven had reappeared, standing under a boardwalk awning, watching and listening to the crowd. “Maxwell,” he muttered. “You’re just as arrogant as you were in school. And now you’re about to get your ass whipped.” He looked long at Wilma. “Still a lovely woman,” he muttered.
    â€œAre you ready to take your thrashing, Morgan?” Maxwell bellowed as he did a couple of stretching exercises. He held his arms up, hands clenched into fists. His left arm was stretched out in front of him and his left fist held close to his chin.
    â€œIf you insist on this nonsense, come on,” Frank told him.
    Maxwell waggled his left fist under Frank’s nose in the hopes of drawing a swing from Frank, thus enabling him to uncork a left.
    Frank didn’t take the bait. He stood with his fists half raised, a faint smile on his lips. Frank was the veteran of dozens of brawls—kick, bite, and gouge types—and he also knew a bit about the N art of boxing. Maxwell Crawford looked to be in good physical shape; probably worked out in some sort of gym. But he was about to tangle with a man who was strong as an ox and didn’t have an ounce of back-up in him.
    Maxwell tried a sharp quick right, and Frank moved his head ever so slightly and the right whistled by him.
    Maxwell grunted and his eyes narrowed. He was beginning to realize that he was facing a man who knew something about boxing. Then he knew for a fact he was when Frank’s gloved right fist suddenly smacked him in the mouth. Maxwell shook his head and backed up, spitting away blood from busted lips.
    â€œKnock his block off, Maxwell!” one of his supporters yelled.
    Maxwell did not reply. He did not take his eyes off Frank, knowing now that he was facing a man who could box and punch like a pile driver. Maxwell spat away more blood and tried a left. Frank blocked it easily.
    More wagons had pulled in, stopping in the middle of the muddy and rutted street so their passengers could watch the fight. Another half-dozen or so wagons were just entering the town, followed by a dozen or so mounted men. The riders rode on around the wagons and reined up across the street and down a few stores from the fight.
    Maxwell slipped a left through that jarred Frank. The man could punch, Frank would sure give him that. Maxwell’s friends roared their approval at his scoring a wicked blow. But their roars of approval turned to sudden silence when Frank blasted Maxwell with a left and a right. The blows knocked Maxwell back several steps, and he lost his balance and sat down on the edge of the boardwalk, blood seeping from his nose.
    Frank would have normally stepped in while his aggressor was addled and finished the fight. But this time he didn’t. He simply took a couple of paces back and waited for the Easterner to regain his senses and stand up.
    â€œI say,” Bernard Harrison said. “The man does have some sporting blood in him. Quite fair of you, Gunfighter.”
    â€œYes,” Aaron Steele said. “Really white of you, old boy.”
    Frank cut his eyes at the men and said nothing. But he was thinking, What a pack of nincompoops.
    â€œTime, time!” another man shouted from the crowd. “Time for a one-minute rest period.”
    â€œGood God!” Frank muttered.
    â€œWhat the hell’s all that about?” a local questioned.
    â€œNew rules,” Bernard announced. “A rest period every few minutes.”
    â€œWell, ain’t that just spiffy?”