Free The Rushers by J. T. Edson Page A

one just landed. His jaw ached for a day after it and so he didn’t reckon the big German would feel like eating any hard food for a few meals to come.
    The punch made an impression on quite a number of people. At his table big Paddy Magoon let out a sigh and said reverently, ‘Now there’s a real Irishman’s punch, darlin’s.’
    Stepping towards Dusty, Madlarn snarled out. ‘You can’t stop these soldiers having their rights!’
    Then he proceeded to make a fool mistake. Mark and the Kid could have warned him not to try his next move. He shot out his hand to catch Dusty’s arm and turn him at the same time drawing back his other fist.
    ‘Try your games on with—’
    Accepting the invitation even before it ended Dusty moved. His left fist sank almost wrist deep in Madlarn’s fat belly, bringing forth a grunt of agony and making the big man stagger a couple of paces backwards. Dusty leapt in after him, the right fist ripping up to catch the offered jaw, snap Madlam’s head back and throw him backwards but not down. This was not due to lack of power but because the big man crashed into the bar and hung there with glassy eyes and mouth hanging open.
    The two bardogs showed loyalty if not good sense. The one known as Kete came around the bar at the far end while his partner, Tuck, hurled clean over it and at Dusty with arms ready to grab and mangle. He hurled himself at the small Texan like a cougar at a cottontail rabbit.
    Only Dusty was more dangerous than any cottontail. His danger in such a situation increased due to the teachings of a small, slit-eyed, yellow-skinned gentleman of oriental birth, who served as valet to Ole Devil Hardin. From Tommy Okasi, Japanese, not Chinese as many thought, Dusty learned the secrets of ju-jitsu and karate. These gave him an added power and advantage over bigger and stronger men as he proceeded to demonstrate.
    Tuck saw Dusty going backwards even before being touched and might have put this down to the power of his personality scaring the small Texan into a swoon had he been given time to think. Before Tuck’s never fast-moving thoughts started to work on this phenomenon he felt his shirt front gripped, two feet placed in his stomach. He lost his balance, felt as if the world had suddenly spun around and he was flying. Only he did not land with the grace of a bird but rather smashed down hard on to his back.
    Taking his chance the other bardog charged forward, lifting his foot to stomp Dusty into the woodwork as Tuck sailed over and clear, Dusty caught the down-driving foot, bracing himself and holding it between his hands. Then he rolled his hips so that he hooked one leg behind Kete’s other leg, placed his other leg against the front and heaved. With a yell Kete sprawled across the room, hit the wall and went to his hands and knees by the table where Mark and the Kid sat. Muttering curses under his breath he rolled to a sitting position and dropped his hand to the gun at his side.
    ‘Loose it, hombre !’ purred a voice mean as a diamondback rattling a warning. ‘You wouldn’t look good with a mouth under your chin.’
    Obligingly Kete let it loose. A bowie knife-point pricking the neck being always a fine inducement to complaisance. He looked up into a pair of red hazel eyes and a babyishly innocent face, although to his mind the face was far from being either. Not for a moment did he doubt that failure to obey would see the knife go home into flesh. He raised no objection when the Kid lifted the revolver from his holster but what came next was something of a surprise.
    ‘Now you can try your luck,’ said the Kid.
    From before Kete’s eyes came a scene which should call for his interference or aid. Yet the quiet spoken words worried him.
    ‘You—you mean I can go back and help my boss now?’
    ‘Why sure. Don’t make no never mind to me happen you figure on tangling with Dusty again. It’s your fool hide, not mine.’
    The words jarred Kete down to his toes.