Cutter led the rush. Braun's back was braced to the bar. He seemed oddly relaxed, almost happy. Somebody heaved another beermug. It missed, but most of the beer splashed into Braun's face and trickled slowly down him.
"I like beer," he said, "but not that well."
Like a spring letting go, Braun snapped out to meet them. His long arms caught Cutter and hoisted him high, then hurled him bodily over the stick and into the stacked glassware.
By then, if not before, you eased toward the light switch and cut it. Darkness slammed down like a solid barrier. But other solids moved through it, colliding, grunting, swearing, shouting, sometimes groaning. Gradually, the tumult died out of itself.
When the lights came on again, Braun still stood at the bar, though several places further down. The darkness had been kind to him. With everyone against him, he could work freely. And at saloon brawling, he was a master craftsman. Casualties held to a minimum, but there were plenty of cotton and catgut, splint and plaster cases. Cutter was still out, cold, and went to the hospital with the others. Not everyone joins in a rough-house, and enough clear-headed witnesses remained to spare Braun any risk of charges. His fists were red and raw, but he seemed unhurt, bodily.
Somebody offered him a drink. But Braun just stood and looked at it, then raised his head to glance up where the backbar mirror had been.
"Someday, they'll use stainless steel for that," he said. "Then half the fun will be gone."