Free Color Him Dead by Charles Runyon Page B

versed in the art of claw-and-gouge, it wasn’t worth a damn.
    “I will count to ten,” said Doxie, “One …”
    Drew thought of his little Browning, then decided against it. By the time he removed it from its waterproof cocoon, Doxie could retrieve his own .45, and Drew would be outgunned.
    “Two …”
    Doxie was taking his time, smiling as he counted. The man really wanted to fight, and Drew had a sudden, intuitive flash: He’s doing it for Edith, playing it big, riding no-hands, showing his biceps. God, wherever she goes there’s discord, fighting, blood….
    He felt the weight of fatigue on his shoulders, thinking of the problems the fight would bring. Even if he won, he’d have a new and powerful enemy. If he lost … Hell, why think about it? The fight would come; very well, he would enjoy the inevitable. Let the blows strike and the blood flow and release this pent-up frustration, give yourself up to a destructive frenzy.
    He set his muscles and found a firm footing for his good leg. He wouldn’t try to box, for he was like a hippopotamus on his feet. He’d wait for Doxie to get close, then he’d lunge and carry him to the ground. There they’d be equals.
    “Four …”
    “Don’t stall, Dox. Get it started.”
    The man came forward, dancing lightly on the high-heeled, sharp-toed riding boots. Drew watched his hands, waiting for him to get near enough for his lunge. He couldn’t figure it, the man didn’t have his fists doubled. Maybe he knew karate, or judo, or—
    Doxie stopped and made a half-turn. Drew didn’t see the leg until it had traveled halfway to him. Then, expecting a blow to the groin, he raised one knee and twisted sideways. But the foot kept rising, up and up; pain exploded in his jaw and he staggered. His bad leg buckled and he sank to one knee. He saw the foot coming again as the man pirouetted; Drew ducked his head, felt the skin rip off his cheekbone and the blood course down his cheek. His stunned brain grasped the fact that those shiny, sissy-looking boots were backed with solid steel toes, and his opponent was a master of that century-old French art of
Savate.
    Drew lunged, but it was a desperate lunge which brought him surging up from the ground with his fist clenched and all his weight behind it. The single blow had to do the job because he’d fall flat on his face afterward.
    He connected; not solidly, for the man was quick as a cobra, but enough to knock Doxie rolling down onto the shelving beach. Drew lunged after him, hoping to pin him down, but the man wriggled free and jumped up. And now it was Drew who was down rolling, twisting, turning, trying to escape the sharp toe which hammered his body, trying to reach the water, where he could fight on equal terms—
    He jolted against a boulder and stopped. Doxie, his face blood-red and eyes shining, approached slowly.
    “You’d better leave while you can walk.”
    “Go piss up a tree.”
    Drew was watching the right foot, the one which had been doing all the damage. He meant to get that shiny boot in his hand and twist the leg until the bone cracked. He saw the foot move slightly, then—
    Crack! The landscape shook and a new stream of blood erupted from his head.
    “You watched the wrong foot, Seright. Here!”
    Zzzzzzp! This time against Drew’s temple. His vision blurred and a high thin whistle shrieked inside his head. God, he thought, the man has the skill of an expert torturer; he knows just how hard to kick without knocking me out. But his admiration was lost in his attempt to grab the eternally shifting pointed boot, now grown so large that it filled his vision. But the leather was oiled and slick, and Doxie pulled free and stepped back a pace.
    “If I really wanted to damage you, Seright, I could clip off an ear or rip your nose loose from your skull as easily as you tear open a pack of cigarettes. Not even your little black whore would want you then. If I wanted to kill you I could drive my toe under your rib