one leg across the other like a pure invitation. Alvin didn't even think, he just jumped into the air and came down with both feet onto Fink's top leg, jamming downward with all his weight, so the bones of the top leg were bowed over the lower one. So sharp and hard was the blow that it wasn't just the top leg that shattered, but the bottom one, too. Fink screamed like a child in the fire.
Only now did Alvin realize what he'd done. Oh, yes, of course he'd ended the fight - nobody's tough enough to fight on with two broken legs. But Alvin could tell at once, without looking - or at least without looking with his eyes - that these were not clean breaks, not the kind that can heal easy. Besides, Fink wasn't a young man now, and sure he wasn't a boy. If the breaks healed at all, they'd leave him lame at best, outright crippled at the worst. His livelihood would be gone. Besides, he must have made a lot of enemies over the years. What would they do now, with him broken and halt? How long would he live?
So Alvin knelt on the ground beside,where Mike Fink writhed or rather, the upper half of him writhed, while he tried to keep his legs from moving at all - and touched the legs. With his hands in contact with Fink's body, even through the cloth of his pants, Alvin could find his way easier, work faster, and in just a few moments, he had knitted the bones together. That was all he tried to do, no more - the bruise, the torn muscle, the bleeding, he had to leave that or Fink might get up and attack him again.
He pulled his hands away, and stepped back from Fink. At once the river rats gathered around their fallen hero.
"Is his legs broke?" asked the loudmouth river rat.
"No," said Alvin.
"They're broke to pieces!" howled Fink.
By then, another man had slit right up the pantleg. Sure enough he found the bruise, but as he felt along the bone, Fink screeched and pulled away. "Don't touch it!"
"Didn't feel broke to me," said the man.
"Look how he's moving his legs. They ain't broke."
It was true enough - Fink was no longer writhing with just the top half of his body, his legs were wiggling now as much as any other part of him.
One man helped Fink to his feet. Fink staggered, almost fell, caught himself by leaning against the loudmouth, smearing blood from his am on the man's'shirt. The others pulled away from him. "Just a boy," muttered one.
"Howling like a puppydog."
"Big old, baby."
"Mike Fink." And then a chuckle.
Alvin stood by the wagon, putting on his shirt, then sat up on the wagon seat to pull on his shoes and socks. He glanced up to find the lady watching him. She stood not six feet off, since the smith's wagon was pulled right up against the loading dock. She had a look of sour distaste. Alvin realized she was probably disgusted at how dirty he was. Maybe he shouldn't have put his shirt right back on, but then, it was also impolite to go shirtless in front of a lady. In fact, the town men, especially the doctors and lawyers, they acted ashamed to be out in public without a proper coat and waistcoat and cravat. Poor folks usually didn't have such clothes, and a prentice would be putting on airs to dress like that. But a shirt - he had to have his shirt on, whether he was filthy with dust or not.
"Beg pardon, Ma'am," he said. "I'll wash when I get home."
"Wash?" she asked. "And when you do, will your brutality also wash away?"
"I reckon I don't know, since I never heard that word."
"I daresay you haven't," she said. "Brutality. From the word brute. Meaning beast."
Alvin felt himself redden with anger. "Maybe so. Maybe I should've let them go on talking to you however they liked."
"I paid no attention to them. They didn't bother me. You had no need to protect me, especially not that way. Stripping naked and rolling around in the dirt. You're covered with blood."
Alvin hardly knew what to answer, she was so snooty and boneheaded. "I wasn't naked," Alvin said. Then he grinned. "And it was his blood."
"And are you proud of that?"
Yes, he was. But he knew that if he said so, it would diminish