Free Preacher and the Mountain Caesar by William W. Johnstone

and sometime partners, but Beecham had stepped over the bounds. The least that would satisfy now was a good knuckle drubbing.
    And Preacher was just the man to deliver it. He stepped in without a word and popped Beecham flush in the mouth. Surprise registered in the dark, nearly black eyes of Tyrone Beecham as he rocked back on his boot heels. He swung a wild, looping left at Preacher’s head, which, much to Beecham’s regret, missed.
    Because Preacher did not. He followed his lip-mashing punch with a right-left-right combination to Beecham’s exposed rib cage. Each blow brought an accompanying grunt, expelled by the rapidly depleting air in Beecham’s lungs. Droplets of red foam flew from Beecham’s mangled mouth. His head wobbled with each blow. Right about then, his friend, Hoss Furgison, decided to join in.
    He came at Preacher from the mountain man’s blind side. Raw knuckles rapped against Preacher’s skull, behind his left ear. Sound and sparkles erupted inside, and Preacher stumbled before he delivered a final right directly over Beecham’s heart. Then he spun, his left arm already in motion, and drove his back fist into Hoss Furgison’s nose.
    Blood spurted, although nothing had been broken. Preacher continued his punishment with a right uppercut that cropped Furgison’s surprised jaw closed. Furgison stomped on Preacher’s right instep. Preacher gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. He still didn’t want to hurt these two badly, only drive home the lesson that there was still a lot of spit and vinegar in this old coon. Everyone witnessing their battle had seen two-on-one plenty of times, sometimes even four or five. Most had seen Preacher handle those odds with ease. It didn’t take long for the betting to begin.
    â€œI got a cartwheel says Preacher pounds them both onto their boots,” Tall Johnson declared.
    An old-timer next to him elbowed Tall in the ribs. “I got me a nugget that assays as one and a quarter ounce pure says those younger fellers will plain bust his bum for him.”
    Thirty-five dollars, Tall thought. A reg’lar fortune. Temptation, and his confidence in Preacher, overcame his usual prudence and his near-empty purse. “You’re on, old man.”
    Preacher made to dodge between his opponents, then stopped abruptly and reached out to snag the fronts of their shirts. He thrust himself backward on powerful legs and slammed his arms together at the same time. A coonskin cap went flying from the top of Ty Beecham’s head as the two noggins clocked together. It was time for them to see stars and hear birds sing.
    Preacher did not let up. He shook both combatants like small children and then threw them away Ty Beecham bounced off the ground and started to get back on his boots. Preacher reached him in two swift strides and towered over the fallen man.
    â€œDon’t.”
    All at once, Beecham saw the wisdom in this and remained down. Not so Hoss Furgison. He came at Preacher with a yodeling growl. Preacher mimicked it and danced around like an Injun, flapping a hand over his mouth in time with the sound that came out. Somehow that further enraged Furgison, who, blinded by the taunts, abandoned all semblance of a plan.
    He walked into a short, hard right to the chest, which he had left unprotected in order to grapple for a bear hug. Unkindness followed unkindness for Hoss. Preacher stepped in and pistoned his arms into a soft belly, until Hoss hung over the arms that punished him. Preacher disengaged his arms and stepped away. Hoss fell to his knees.
    â€œYou’d do yourself a favor if you stayed there, Hoss. I wasn’t fixin’ to do any real harm. Push it, an’ by dang, I surely will.”
    â€œYou win, Preacher. You win,” Hoss panted.
    Tall Johnson looked to the old man. Grudgingly, the graybeard dug under his grimy buckskin shirt and pulled out a small pouch. From it he took a large gold nugget,