Rivers West by Louis L’Amour Page B

win which could not be disputed.
    We got up, and I went to my side of the ring. Macaire came over to me. I was scarcely breathing hard and simply waiting. I rinsed my mouth with water, spit it out, and mopped my face.
    â€œYou’ve wrestled some lad,” he said.
    â€œA bit.”
    â€œYon lad is strong, but I saw you make the move with your feet. You were going to throw up your legs and catch him under the chin with your heels and flip him off, I think.”
    â€œI was.”
    â€œTime!”
    This was the decisive one, and most of my money and whether we had horses or not depended upon it. I wasted no time, wanting no accidents. I moved in quickly, then suddenly ducked and hooked an arm around his right ankle with my right arm and threw my body weight against him. He went down, and I continued to roll with him, turning over atop him until I was in a perfect hold-down position, with both his shoulders to the ground.
    It took them a moment to realize it was all over. The third fall had come so suddenly, they were unprepared for it.
    Tate came over and thrust a hand under Neely to be sure his shoulders were down, but they were. My weight was across him, and I think for the first time he realized my strength, for when he tried to move I held him still upon the ground.
    â€œThird fall to John Daniel!”
    I held the position until there could be no doubt and then got up, offering a hand to Neely. He took it and got up.
    â€œI’ll buy you a cider,” I said.
    â€œTaken,” he said, “and you’re a strong man, a strong man, indeed.”
    We walked to the inn together, and the innkeeper refused my money. He leaned over the bar and whispered, when Neely was turned aside talking to a friend, “I made a bit on this, I made a good bit.”
    There was a light touch on my shoulder. I turned and Miss Majoribanks was there. “Your money,” she said briefly. “I did not know you were a professional!”
    â€œThat I am not,” I replied quietly. “I am what I seem, a man who works with wood. I wish to be no more.”
    â€œI scarcely think you need worry,” she said ironically. “You have strength enough, I suppose, but to become something more needs intelligence!”
    With that she turned away, her chin in the air. I was not angry, and she had a fine, proud way about her. I liked her lifted chin and the square set of her shoulders—even the way she gathered her skirt as she turned.
    â€œAnd now for Sam Purdy!” The innkeeper said it. “But that will be a different thing, I’m afraid.”
    â€œThere’ll be no match with Purdy,” someone said. It was a new voice, and we all turned.
    A man stood in the inn door, a square-set man with gaiters and a gray coat. He was an oldish man, and a gentleman, by the look of him.
    â€œNo man will fight Purdy,” he said.
    â€œAnd why not, Reverend?” Tate asked.
    â€œBecause Sam Purdy was killed this day in Berwick, killed by the bare hands of a man to whom he spoke rudely and then tried to thrash.
    â€œOh, it was a fight! For almost three minutes, it was a fight, and then the stranger killed him, dropped him with a broken neck.”
    â€œThat bull neck of Sam’s?” somebody said. “Oh, come now!”
    â€œHe did it,” the Reverend said emphatically. “Did it with his hands and apparently only half of his mind to it. You should have seen him move! Like a cat he was! When Sam went down, he simply took out his pipe and lighted it.”
    â€œDid this man have a name?” I asked.
    â€œAye,” the Reverend turned to me. “He said his name was Macklem. Colonel Macklem.”
    Chapter 7
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    W E RODE AS a party when we left the village the next day, and headed toward Berwick, a goodly distance down the road, if such it might be called. Miss Majoribanks and her party were in the lead, and Simon Tate rode with them. He would leave our group in