The Shirt On His Back - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,36

stripping off his shirt, 'not snake venom mixed with river water. Which way did you bet?'

'Benjamin!' The fiddler clasped a hand to his breast. 'You wound me. You cut me to the heart. Detrahit amicitiae maies- tatem suam, qui illam parat ad bonos casus. This is a boxing match, not an eye-gouging contest.' He fished into the dripping gourd that Prideaux was holding for him and wound strips of wet rawhide around January's hands, tucking the ends in tight.

'And if you think anyone is going to lodge a protest with the Rules Committee and proclaim me the winner if Manitou fouls me, I suggest you check the contents of that fizz pop you've been drinking.'

Men came streaming across from Seaholly's, where final bets were being laid. Charro Morales brought in his horse to the edge of the crowd for a better view and whooped, 'Free liquor tonight, if Wildman wins!' which set up a roaring cheer; the two German noblemen who, like Stewart, had come to the rendezvous for adventure and hunting, attempted to better their viewpoint by purchasing Jim Bridger's front-row spot and were unceremoniously shoved to the farthest rear.

On the other side of the boxing-stage men were shouting Wildman's name. The spectators parted, to let January through, and January's eyes widened with shock. Yesterday's bout had been so quick that he had not only missed seeing Wildman's style of combat, but also by the time he'd reached the front of the crowd, Manitou had already been putting on his shirt.

Now, for the first time, January got a look at that scarred torso. He'd helped the Army surgeons with the wounded after the Battle of Chalmette, and since he'd been in the rendezvous camp he'd seen a surgeon's textbook of scars: tomahawk, skinning knife, bear claw, broken branches ... the wicked Xs that told of snake-bite poison far from other help. As a child, he'd seen what a five-tongued whip with iron tied into its ends would leave of an 'uppity' slave's back.

He'd never seen scars like Wildman's. Ever. Anywhere.

He couldn't even imagine what had made them or how the man had survived whatever it was.

And that ripped and mended hide covered muscle like hammered iron.

Manitou had hacked off most of his long black hair for the fight - something he hadn't bothered to do when facing off against Blankenship - as well as much of his beard, both operations obviously performed with a bowie knife and no mirror. He was clearly not a man who craved the glance of the Taos ladies. Beneath the unbroken line of brow, those clear brown eyes had a curious focus to them, distant, like a man striving to remember something long forgotten. January hoped it was the rules of the ring.

'Gentlemen,' declaimed Stewart, in a voice that could have been heard in St Louis, 'to your scratch. The fight will proceed by London rules: holding and throwing are allowable, but no gouging, no biting, no strangling, no foul blows. A man upon his knees is considered down; the round is concluded with a man down; thirty seconds to rest before returning to the scratch. Is this clear?'

January said, 'Yes, sir,' and Wildman grunted.

'No crowding the contestants. No man to enter the stage except the fighters and their seconds. Understood?'

Incoherent yelling from all sides to get on with it. Men pressed up to the edges of the stage, with more standing on the tree trunks to get a head over those in front of them. A third ring of men on horses crowded behind them. Dust fogged the air. Rose will never forgive me if I get my nose broken in the cause of getting friendly with a witness . . .

Mountaineers and camp-setters passed the word to their Sioux and Flathead friends that this was fighting as it was done in the country of the English King across the sea - there wasn't an Indian alive who didn't relish a good fight. On the mountains at the north end of the valley, thunder grumbled distantly, and wind blew chilly across January's naked back, bearing the smell of coming storm.

Shaking hands with his opponent was like grasping the paw of an animal.

'Gentlemen,' called Stewart, 'begin!'

Wildman had a stance that wouldn't have been out of place in Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon in London and a punch that a grizzly would have envied. And he was - somewhat to January's surprise - a clean fighter: trained, calculating, scientific, with a precise sense of distance. January