He dealt the bully a smashing blow under the ear.
“Fight! Fight!” somebody in the motel yelled. In an instant the building poured forth a mob of oilmen. They gathered in a circle around the combatants and shouted encouragement. A few of them egged Cavanaugh on, but the majority were rooting for his opponent.
Sandy sat up groggily, dabbed at his bleeding lips, and watched the battle with growing excitement. Ralph was many pounds lighter than the redhead, but he made up for that by being fast as a rattler. He avoided the big man’s efforts to go into a clinch that would give him time to clear his head of that first murderous punch. He danced about as his ancestors must have done at their buffalo ceremonials. He struck again and again—short, stabbing blows that soon cut Cavanaugh’s face to ribbons and closed his right eye.
The bully was no coward though, Sandy was surprised to discover. He fought doggedly, and managed to get in some damaging blows to the body that made his supporters cheer. But Ralph’s long reach held him too far away. He could not use his great strength to advantage. And it was plain that he was badly out of condition. Before three minutes had passed he was becoming winded.
“Kill the big bum, Fisheater,” a Navajo whooped from the edge of the crowd. “He asked for it. Kill ’im.”
“With pleasure,” Ralph answered. “Watch this, benighted Navajo. I learned it in Uncle Sam’s Navy.”
He started a right, almost from the pavement. Up and up it came, completely under Cavanaugh’s guard. It landed on the point of his chin with a crack like that of a whip!
The big man threw out his arms wildly, rocked back on his heels, and came crashing down, as a tree falls, into the gutter beside Sandy. He scrabbled about there for a moment, managed to get halfway to his knees, then slid forward on his face. Out!
The Navajo threw his big black cowboy hat on the street, jumped up and down on it in utter joy, and sent warwhoop after warwhoop echoing through the little town.
“Hand me my coat, John,” Ralph said to the producer, who had been coaching him from the sidelines. “If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for that meeting.”