Eyes of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

Sam, knocking the man backward and bloodying his lips. Sam regained his balance and clubbed the maddened Olmstead hard on the back of the neck, knocking him down. Olmstead was up on his feet fast and rushed Sam. For a moment, the two men stood toe to toe and slugged it out, both of them landing hard punches.
    But soon Sam’s blows began to have an effect on Olmstead, backing the man up, blood streaming from the man’s mouth and nose. Olmstead’s lips were pulped and his nose was nearly flat.
    Hart back-heeled Sam and sent him crashing to the ground. Hart tried to put the boots to the smaller man and Sam rolled away, jumping to his feet. Hart rushed him and Sam stopped the man cold in his tracks with a solid left and right to both sides of the man’s jaw. Hart’s knees wobbled and Sam bored in relentlessly, hammering hard with blows to the head and the body.
    Hart covered up his face and backed away, trying to clear his head and recover his waning strength. But Sam pressed him, hitting hard with body blows. Hart lowered his fists to protect his bruised and aching belly and Sam wound up a right and blasted the big man flush in the mouth, following that with a left that when it landed sounded like someone hit a watermelon with the flat side of an axe. Hart’s eyes rolled back and he went down to his knees in the churned-up mud. He stayed on his knees for a few seconds, then slowly toppled over, face first in the rutted road.
    The crowd stood silent, but every man there had a smile on his lips. And that did not go unnoticed by Sheriff Marwick and John Jackson. It was at that point when Jackson realized just how much he and Marwick and Olmstead were disliked by the members of the community.
    â€œIs anybody gonna help me get Hart to his feet?” Marwick said, walking over to the unconscious Olmstead.
    No one in the crowd made a move.
    Jamie felt eyes on him and turned his head. John Jackson was staring straight at him, the hate shining bright and hard. Jamie knew then, but did not know why, that he had made a terrible enemy of the man.
    Sheriff Marwick dragged Hart Olmstead off the road while Jackson fetched a bucket of water from the well. Sam was drying his face and upper body with a rag one of the neighbors had handed him. Jackson poured the bucket of well water on Olmstead’s head and the man groaned and rolled over. Jamie had never before witnessed such a beating as this one — and he was not alone, neither had most of the others present.
    Hart Olmstead’s face was cut, battered, bruised, and bloody. One eye was completely closed and one ear swollen nearly three times its normal size. His lips were swollen and his nose was mashed all over the center of his face. On his bare torso, there were huge splotches of red and blue/green where Sam’s fists had landed.
    Olmstead moaned and sat up, with a little help from Marwick. Through his one good eye, he glared balefully first at Sam Montgomery then at Jamie. He didn’t have to say a word. The eye spoke silent hatred.
    â€œThis is not over, Montgomery,” Hart pushed the words past swollen lips.
    â€œIt is as far as I am concerned,” Sam told him, slipping into his shirt he’d hung on the split-rail fence.
    â€œI’ll kill you someday,” Hart said.
    â€œShut up, Hart,” Sheriff Marwick told him. “Don’t talk like that.”
    â€œSon of a bitch!” Hart said to Sam.
    Sam stiffened, for that was an insult that warranted killing.
    â€œHe didn’t necessarily say that to you, Sam!” John Jackson said hurriedly. “Just take it easy, Sam. Your name wasn’t connected with that oath.”
    â€œThat’s true, Sam,” a neighbor said. He looked at Hart, now standing on his feet, leaning against the sheriff. “You best clear this up, Olmstead. Did you hurl that insult at Sam?”
    Hart stood for a few seconds, then slowly shook his head. He was in no shape for a pistol