spreading the sawdust on the bar between the weights, and leaving a film of it on his hands, Mark levered off his boots. High-heeled cowhand boots were ideal for their purpose, but that purpose was not lifting heavy weights and a broken heel could cause Mark a serious injury.
Silence fell on the room as everybody watched Mark approach the dumb-bell. Placing his feet carefully into position, Mark bent, gripped the bar and made sure his hands would not slip. He drew in a couple of deep breaths and then began to lift, spreading his right leg back and bending the left knee. The weight rose slowly from the floor and the crowd watched hardly daring to breathe as the Texan threw all his enormous strength into the task of raising it chest high.
The bartender watched the weight rising as did every other eye in the room, or so he thought. Reaching under the bar, his fingers passed over the ten-gauge shotgun and into a box behind it. The box contained a couple of’ seemingly innocent objects, yet together they had a sinister and very dangerous purpose. Taking up the boy’s bean-shooter from the box, the bartender slipped the shiny pebble which lay beside it into the mouthpiece. He reckoned everybody would be so interested in watching the Texan that none would see him lift the bean-shooter and blow out the pebble.
A click came to the bartender’s ears; one sound he recognised any time he heard it for just what it was. Turning his head towards the sound, he looked first into the muzzle of a Navy Colt, then at the cold eyes of Calamity Jane.
‘Leave it lie,’ she ordered in a low voice.
Knowing Calamity, the bartender left it. He did not doubt that she would use the gun if he tried to raise the bean-shooter and blow the pebble at Mark’s straining back. Seeing he had no chance now of improving his boss’s chances, the bartender rested the flat of his hands on the bartop and watched the big Texan lift the weight.
Mark brought the bar up to chest height, changed his grips, straightened his legs and exerted all his power. A gasp ran through the crowd as the great dumb-bell rose to arms’ length’ above Mark’s head and he held it there. For a good five seconds Mark held that great weight over his head. Sweat soaked his body and poured down his naked torso, his muscles bulged and writhed like he had a python under his skin, and his lungs felt they would burst.
At last, in a silence that could almost be felt, Mark started to lower the dumb-bell, letting it swing down, and crash on to the stout timbers before him. For almost twenty seconds nobody moved or breathed loud in the room. Mark staggered slightly and Chaseman sprang to his side, helping him from the oak boards and to a chair at the nearest table.
‘Yeeah!’ Calamity screamed, firing a shot through the roof of the building.
The shot and yell broke the silence and instantly almost everybody in the room began to shout, cheer, jump up and applaud the blond giant from Texas’ mighty effort.
‘What happened?’ Barraclough snarled, swinging to face his bartender under cover of the excitement following Mark’s lifting the dumb-bell.
‘Calamity Jane was in the night that bohunk near on lifted it and guessed why he let it drop. So she had a gun on me and that gal’d shoot a man.’
Barraclough spat out a curse. On a previous occasion when he thought he might lose his money, a pebble blown by the bartender struck the weight-lifter—a bohunk, mid-European worker—causing him to lose his hold. That this crippled the man for life did not concern Barraclough, for it saved his money.
Although the saloonkeeper would willingly have refused to keep his part of the bargain, he knew better than try. The crowd would tear his place, and him, apart should he welch on his deal. So Barraclough forced a sickly smile to his face and walked to where Mark leaned on a table with Calamity Jane and Chaseman at his side.
‘Here you are, friend,’ he said with false joviality, taking
Silence fell on the room as everybody watched Mark approach the dumb-bell. Placing his feet carefully into position, Mark bent, gripped the bar and made sure his hands would not slip. He drew in a couple of deep breaths and then began to lift, spreading his right leg back and bending the left knee. The weight rose slowly from the floor and the crowd watched hardly daring to breathe as the Texan threw all his enormous strength into the task of raising it chest high.
The bartender watched the weight rising as did every other eye in the room, or so he thought. Reaching under the bar, his fingers passed over the ten-gauge shotgun and into a box behind it. The box contained a couple of’ seemingly innocent objects, yet together they had a sinister and very dangerous purpose. Taking up the boy’s bean-shooter from the box, the bartender slipped the shiny pebble which lay beside it into the mouthpiece. He reckoned everybody would be so interested in watching the Texan that none would see him lift the bean-shooter and blow out the pebble.
A click came to the bartender’s ears; one sound he recognised any time he heard it for just what it was. Turning his head towards the sound, he looked first into the muzzle of a Navy Colt, then at the cold eyes of Calamity Jane.
‘Leave it lie,’ she ordered in a low voice.
Knowing Calamity, the bartender left it. He did not doubt that she would use the gun if he tried to raise the bean-shooter and blow the pebble at Mark’s straining back. Seeing he had no chance now of improving his boss’s chances, the bartender rested the flat of his hands on the bartop and watched the big Texan lift the weight.
Mark brought the bar up to chest height, changed his grips, straightened his legs and exerted all his power. A gasp ran through the crowd as the great dumb-bell rose to arms’ length’ above Mark’s head and he held it there. For a good five seconds Mark held that great weight over his head. Sweat soaked his body and poured down his naked torso, his muscles bulged and writhed like he had a python under his skin, and his lungs felt they would burst.
At last, in a silence that could almost be felt, Mark started to lower the dumb-bell, letting it swing down, and crash on to the stout timbers before him. For almost twenty seconds nobody moved or breathed loud in the room. Mark staggered slightly and Chaseman sprang to his side, helping him from the oak boards and to a chair at the nearest table.
‘Yeeah!’ Calamity screamed, firing a shot through the roof of the building.
The shot and yell broke the silence and instantly almost everybody in the room began to shout, cheer, jump up and applaud the blond giant from Texas’ mighty effort.
‘What happened?’ Barraclough snarled, swinging to face his bartender under cover of the excitement following Mark’s lifting the dumb-bell.
‘Calamity Jane was in the night that bohunk near on lifted it and guessed why he let it drop. So she had a gun on me and that gal’d shoot a man.’
Barraclough spat out a curse. On a previous occasion when he thought he might lose his money, a pebble blown by the bartender struck the weight-lifter—a bohunk, mid-European worker—causing him to lose his hold. That this crippled the man for life did not concern Barraclough, for it saved his money.
Although the saloonkeeper would willingly have refused to keep his part of the bargain, he knew better than try. The crowd would tear his place, and him, apart should he welch on his deal. So Barraclough forced a sickly smile to his face and walked to where Mark leaned on a table with Calamity Jane and Chaseman at his side.
‘Here you are, friend,’ he said with false joviality, taking
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