Outlaw Hell by Len Levinson

to lure the bodyguard into overextending himself. Bradley saw the opening and shot his right fist forward, but Duane dodged out of the way, then launched a stiff right lead to Bradley's nose. Cartilage crackled beneath Duane's fist, blood spurted in all directions,and Bradley was knocked backwards by the force of the blow.
    Duane went after him, to finish him off, when the proprietress stepped between them and held out her arms. “You want to fight, go outside!” she hollered angrily.
    Duane headed for the back door, prepared for a backshoot from Bradley, but the bodyguard preferred to tear him apart with his bare hands. They stormed outside into the bright sunny southwest Texas afternoon. Duane removed his hat and hung it from a nail stuck into the side of a tree, then unbuttoned his shirt. Bradley blinked like an owl in the bright sunlight as he took off his frock coat. “Sonny jim,” he said. “I'm a-gonna whup yer ass.”
    Duane decided not to remove his gun, although it was heavy and would slow him down. Men working in the vicinity drifted closer to see the action, as others called to friends far away. News spread rapidly throughout town that war was about to commence behind the Last Chance Saloon.
    Duane knew that he had to trick Bradley into throwing punches, and then counter. But Bradley knew what to expect now, and was wary of another headlong rush. Both men circled each other cautiously, giving each other angles and looking for openings, as onlookers crowded around.
    Thanks to Brother Paolo, Duane was a well-schooled fighter. He knew how to keep his elbows close to his body, hide his chin behind his shoulder, and snap his punches. In addition, Brother Paolo hadtaught him the science of lateral movement, how to guard against a thumb in the eye and head butts, and how to avoid the inevitable punch below the belt. Duane felt confident that he could outthink the bear-like bodyguard facing him with bad intentions in his eyes.
    â€œWhen's the fight gonna start?” asked an old timer in the crowd. Another replied: “Looks like one's skeered and the other wants to run away.”
    Bradley bent his knees and pawed with his right hand while loading up his left. Duane took a step to the side and buried his fist up to the wrist in his opponent's stomach. Bradley expelled air from all his orifices, took a step backwards, and threw his right fist forward. But Duane dodged out of the way, then smashed Bradley in the stomach with his left fist. Bradley lowered his arms, to protect a particular portion of his anatomy, and Duane threw a crunching right hook to the side of Bradley's head.
    Bradley wasn't fazed by the blow, and responded with a digging left into Duane's kidney. It felt like a dagger, but Duane stood toe-to-toe with Bradley, smashed him in the mouth, whacked him on the ear, cracked him in the gut, and then danced away from Bradley's wild, flailing punches.
    Bradley was furious, his lips pulped, left ear turning purple. He reached forward tentatively with his big right fist, but Duane went under it, slammed him in the gut, jabbed him in the mouth, and danced away. He believed that he had Bradley figured out, and it was only a matter of time untilBradley fell. Cocky, vain, filled with false pride, Duane darted forward for another quick combination of devastating punches.
    Instead, a hamlike fist appeared in front of his eyes. A moment later something crashed into his skull, and it felt like the Last Chance Saloon had fallen upon him. Bradley had timed him coming in and hit him with everything he had.
    Duane landed on his wallet. A boot came streaking toward his face, and he couldn't get out of the way. The pointed toe connected with his cheek and tore it open, and sharp pain blotted out the afternoon. Duane jumped to his feet, dodged a left hook, ducked an overhand right, and walked into a left uppercut.
    It straightened him like a ponderosa pine, then sent him sprawling backwards. No ropes