Free The Iron Wagon by Al Lacy

one of the husky men punched Truman on the jaw, knocking him down. The man then began kicking him, and his friend encouraged him to kick even harder.
    Anger flared inside John, and he dashed to the spot. People on the street gathered around as John skidded to a halt. “Hey! Stop that right now!”
    The kicker’s partner had not noticed the badge on John’schest. Speaking in a British accent, he growled at John, “Mind your own business, mate!” He swung a punch at John, who dodged the fist and countered with a cracking left-handed punch, followed swiftly with a powerful right-handed blow, knocking him down and out.
    With fury written on his face, the man who had been kicking Truman stomped up to John and noticed the badge on his chest. Snarling wickedly, he bellowed in his British accent, “Since you’re a lawman, you had no business pounding on my friend with your fists!”
    The chief U.S. marshal snapped, “I was given no choice!”
    The kicker looked at John with blazing eyes. “My name is George Clive, mister lawman! Do you know who I am?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    The Briton moved a half step closer to John. “At the moment I am one of the contenders in England for the heavyweight boxing championship!”
    Some of the people in the crowd gasped and began whispering to each other.
    “If you weren’t so old,” George said, “I’d take you on barefisted right now!”
    John squared his jaw. “I’m forty-three. That may be old for a boxer, but I’m telling you right now, Clive, to shut your mouth. Pick up your unconscious pal. You’re both under arrest for beating up Truman Richardson. You can carry your pal to the county jail, which is only a few blocks away. You’re both going to be locked up.”
    The eyes of the people in the crowd bulged as George Clivemade a swift move toward the chief U.S. marshal. “I’m gonna put you down, bloke!” He swung a big fist at the marshal.
    John adeptly dodged the fist and countered with a jarring punch, catching the big professional boxer with his mouth open. His teeth clicked like a steel trap. He cried out in pain, blood spurting from his mouth. Staggering toward the chief, he swung both fists.
    John ducked them and swiftly caught him with a sledgehammer blow that whipped his head back and dropped him to the ground, out cold.
    Both Brits lay unconscious on the ground.
    John looked around at a couple of burly men standing together close by in the crowd. “Hector … Eldon … would you fellas mind helping me carry these two guys to the jail?”
    “Be glad to,” said Eldon.
    “Sure will.” Hector nodded.
    Eldon noted that the first man John had put down was beginning to regain consciousness and pointed to him. “Guess he can walk to the jail, Chief.”
    John nodded.
    Suddenly, people in the crowd began calling out, commending the chief U.S. marshal for taking out the two bullies—especially the one who was a professional boxer.
    One man said, “Chief Brockman, the way you handled these guys, especially the professional boxer, I figure your son, Paul, must have taught you how to fight!”
    John chuckled. “Paul indeed has taught me well.”
    The crowd laughed.
    By this time, Truman Richardson was on his feet, rubbing his ribs that had been kicked by George Clive. He stepped up to John. “Chief Brockman, thank you for coming to my aid.”
    As John was telling him he was glad to do it, two other husky men stepped up, and one of them said, “Chief, the two of us will help Eldon and Hector get these two British bullies to the jail.”
    John nodded. “I appreciate that.” He then looked back at Truman and frowned. “Are you hurt bad?”
    Truman shook his head. “No sir. A bit bruised, but I’m okay.”
    John saw the reporter from the
Rocky Mountain News
as he was stepping up to him from the crowd and said, “Hello, Bart.”
    “Howdy, Chief,” Bart Gilmore said. “I happened to be coming along the street when this trouble started. I saw the whole thing.