Bruno finished off the second mug of beer. "Well, good luck to you," he said to Angus. He began to dig in the pocket of his pants, searching for coins with which to pay for his drinks.
Angus's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he leaned forward. "Say," he said. "D'ye do any arm wrestling yeself, Bruno?"
Bruno touched his broad chest and shrugged his shoulders. "Me?" he asked. "Oh, I guess I've engaged in contests like that every now and then. My work at the circus doesn't leave me much time for such things, though."
A hush had fallen over the saloon as the customers waited to see what would happen. Angus clenched his fist and thumped it on the bar. "How about a match a'tween the two of us?" he suggested enthusiastically.
"Dinna be daft, man!" Old Bailey shrilled from his perch behind the bar.
Angus swung around sharply and shushed the bird. He told Bruno, "He dinna know what he's saying. He's just repeating what he's heard."
The strong man frowned. "I don't know," he said dubiously. "I'm not sure I'd be a match for you."
"Ah, 'twill all be in fun," Angus insisted. "We could even lay a small wager, if ye'd like."
"I'm not much of a betting man, but..." Bruno's voice trailed off as the customers began to crowd around him and urge him to accept Angus's challenge. Finally, the big man grinned and said, "Oh, what the hell? Why not?"
Angus reached across the bar and slapped him on the arm. "Tha' is the spirit!" He tried not to frown as he felt the iron hardness of the muscles under Bruno's shirt.
"What'll the stakes be?"
"How about drinks?" Angus suggested. "Ye win, 'n' 'twill all be on me for the rest o' the afternoon. I win, 'n' ye buy a couple o' rounds for the house."
Bruno nodded. "Fair enough."
As Angus came out from behind the bar and moved to the table where the previous match had taken place, an excited babble rose. The tavern's patrons quickly began to make bets among themselves. Angus overheard enough to know that most of the men were backing him, and his chest swelled with pride.
Angus grasped the back of a chair and moved it slightly before sitting down at the table. Opposite him, Bruno was arranging his chair to his liking. The customers formed a ring around the table, pressing closely together but staying back a little to give the two big men plenty of room.
From behind the bar, Old Bailey piped up once more, "Dinna be daft—"
"Shut up, ye feathered monstrosity!" Angus roared at the parrot, silencing him.
The wagering continued furiously among the spectators as Angus and Bruno each rested an elbow on the tabletop, moving their arms around to find the position they liked best. Angus flexed his blunt, thick fingers and rolled back the sleeve of his shirt to free his upper arm. Bruno pushed his own sleeve back so that it wouldn’t get in the way.
Finally, Angus asked, "Are ye ready?"
"Ready." Bruno nodded.
The two men leaned forward. Their hands met, thumbs locking as the fingers clasped. They steadied themselves, and Angus took a deep breath. "Somebody start us," he said.
One of the bystanders stepped up to the table. In a loud, clear voice, he said, "Ready...set...go!" He slapped the tabletop with his palm.
At first it was hard to tell that the match had begun. Save for a stiffening of the men's wrists and a sudden tautness that came over their features, there was no visible sign that Angus and Bruno were pitting their strength against each other.
Angus's eyes narrowed as he felt the power in Bruno's arm. After a moment, his hand swayed perhaps a half-inch before he was able to counteract the pressure and apply some of his own. Slowly, their arms came back to the starting position and then moved a fraction in the other direction.
A bead of sweat popped out on Bruno's forehead as he bore down and moved Angus's hand back to the center of the table. The tip of Angus's tongue came out and lightly touched his suddenly dry lips.
If either man was expecting an easy victory, it quickly became obvious that he would be disappointed. For long moments, their arms remained motionless amid the excited hubbub of the spectators. Everyone in the tavern was gathered around the table, the ones in the back jockeying for better positions. At first there were murmurs of anticipation every time a combatant's hand moved slightly, but gradually the patrons came to realize that Angus and Bruno were only feeling each other out at this stage of the contest, trying to gauge each other's strength.
Soon a hushed silence fell over the big, low-ceilinged room. The breathing of Angus and Bruno became plainly audible, as were the occasional low-pitched grunts that escaped from each man. As they strained with effort, the match began to draw out over several minutes, minutes that undoubtedly seemed like hours to the two men seated at the table.
Angus remembered hearing that circus strong men could bend iron bars with their bare hands, lift horses, and perform other such feats of strength. He could well believe that Bruno Waldman was capable of that and more. There had been times over the years when Angus had wondered if he was going to succeed at defending his title as arm wrestling champion, but never before had he faced a test such as this.
He wondered fleetingly if Bruno's reluctance to engage in this contest had only been a ploy to draw him in. Maybe winning such matches was the way the man paid for his drinks in most towns. Angus tried to clear his mind and put those thoughts away. At this point it didn’t matter.
The muscles of each man's arm stood out in sharp relief from exertion as the contest passed the five-minute mark. Staring across the table, Angus saw that Bruno's face was bathed in sweat. The moisture trickling down his own face and dripping from his beard told Angus that he was in much the same shape.
Angus felt his strength ebbing. His match with the cowboy had taken place less than a half-hour earlier, while Bruno was probably fresh and rested. Angus's hand began to dip toward the table, and try as he might, he could not seem to halt the inexorable pressure.
When the back of his hand was only inches from the tabletop, Angus finally brought the descent to a halt. The effort took every iota of strength he had remaining, or at least he thought it did. There was total silence as Angus held his position, and then from somewhere, some reserve deep inside him, he drew the strength to move Bruno's arm.
The strong man's eyes, already wide, seemed about to pop out of his head as he felt the fresh surge from Angus. Sensing that this would be his only opportunity, Angus poured on everything he had. Bruno's teeth gnashed together as he tried to hold back the Scotsman, to no avail.
Within a matter of moments Bruno's knuckles were the ones hovering just above the tabletop. Angus was at the peak of his effort, every sinew in his arm and shoulder and back throbbing with agony. All he needed was just another inch or two...
His teeth dug into his lip, drawing blood as he realized he could not do it. Ever so slowly, Bruno was straightening his arm. The battle was almost over, and Angus knew it.
He held Bruno off for as long as he could, but once the tide had turned for the second time, it was less than a minute before Angus felt his elbow bending back, his hand descending. The strength of the man from the circus was too much. Angus's hand abruptly thumped down on the table, prompting a cheer from the few men who had bet on Bruno.
Gasping for breath, the two men released each other. A grin spread over Bruno's face, and Angus could not help but return the smile. In a gesture that must have been painful, considering the strain his arm had just been under, Bruno extended his hand across the table.
Angus, not hesitating for an instant, firmly returned the handshake. Then wiping the sheet of sweat off his forehead, he said, "Congratulations, me boy. 'Twas one hell of a battle."
"Yes, it was," Bruno agreed. He winced as he moved his arm slightly, as if to make sure it was still working. "I think you deserve some congratulations, too, Angus. I've never run into anybody who gave me as much of a tussle as you. I really thought you had me for a minute."
"Aye, ye 'n' me both," Angus agreed. He glanced at his customers, man
y of whom were gloomily paying off on the bets they had just lost. Raising his booming voice, Angus said, "This ain't a blasted undertakin' parlor. Ye gents drink up!"
"This round's on me!" Bruno called.
"Tha' was'na our deal," Angus protested. "I said I'd buy ye drinks for the rest o' the afternoon, laddie."
"If you can buy drinks for me, I can buy drinks for everybody else," the strong man said. "That's up to me, isn't it?"
Angus shrugged. "Aye, I reckon 'tis, a' tha'. But the least ye can do is come wi' me 'n' have a man's drink."
"What would that be?" Bruno asked with a laugh.
"Why, some genuine Scotch whiskey, wha' else?"
Arm in arm, the two men went to the bar. Now that the arm wrestling match was over, the crowd seemed less interested in Bruno Waldman, although none of them turned down the drink he had offered to buy. Angus went behind the bar and, taking out his private bottle from under it, splashed some of the amber liquid into a fresh glass and handed it to Bruno. After pouring another drink for himself, Angus lifted his glass in a toast.
"To the man who ended me reign," Angus boomed. He tossed off the drink, then added, "O' course, when ye 'n' tha' circus move on, I'll be champion o' these parts again."
"I'll drink to that," Bruno declared, and he did just that.
Angus poured again, and although neither man realized it at that moment, another contest had begun. They kept drinking until the bottle was empty, and then Angus broke out another from his personal supply. The tavern began to quiet down again as the customers noticed what was happening.
Aside from a slight reddening of his face, Angus was showing no effects from the liquor. Neither was Bruno at first. As might be expected with a man of his size, he had quite a capacity. But as they continued drinking, the strong man's eyes began to glaze over. He swayed from side to side as he downed his latest drink.
Angus poured again.
A few moments—and a few drinks—later, Bruno lifted his glass, licked his lips in anticipation, sighed, and toppled like a huge tree. "Watch it there!" Angus yelled as a couple of men scurried to get out of Bruno's way.
Bruno hit the floor with a window-rattling thud. Angus leaned over the bar, peering at him lying face down in the sawdust, and asked anxiously, "Ye all right, lad?"
A resounding snore was the only answer from Bruno.
A smile of satisfaction raced across Angus's face before he could replace it with an expression of concern. Bruno might have won the arm wrestling match, but Angus had drunk him under the table.
"Somebody fetch a bucket o' water," Angus ordered the room at large, and one of the men hurried to comply. He went out through the batwings and came back a minute later with a bucket dipped from one of the watering troughs outside.
"Here you go, Angus," the man said as he handed the bucket over the bar. "What are you going to do with the water?"
"This fellow's ginna have t' perform in a show tonight, will'na he?" At a nod of agreement from the townsman, Angus went on. "Well, then, 'tis our duty t'wake him up, dinna ye know?"
He came around the end of the bar, stood over Bruno's sprawled figure, and hooked a booted foot under the shoulder of the passed-out strong man. With a grunt, Angus rolled him over. He grinned as he dashed the full contents of the bucket into Bruno's face.
Bruno came up off the floor with a spluttering yell, cursing in German. He subsided as the drunken nausea hit him.
"Dinna ye worry," Angus assured him. "We'll sober ye up, 'n' ye'll be back under the big top in no time. I'll just go make some coffee."
Bruno's moan followed him, and Angus grinned again.
At the same moment that Bruno Waldman and Angus MacQuarrie were testing their strength at Angus's Tavern, Dr. Rose Keller was next door in the small house that served as her medical office, where she was just finishing stitching up a long, deep cut in the leg of a man who had a farm near Abilene. He had suffered the injury when he had become careless with the scythe he was swinging, and Rose had been required not only to tend to the wound but also to calm him down. The sight of so much blood had badly unnerved him, although the cut was messier than it was serious.
"Thanks, Dr. Keller," the man said sincerely, twisting his battered felt hat in his hands as he limped to the door. His overalls were stained with blood. He had been alone on the farm when the accident occurred and had driven himself into town in his buckboard. That in itself had been dangerous, since he could have passed out from loss of blood. "I'll pay you when I can, Doctor. I promise."
"Don't worry too much about that, Mr. Kettleman," Rose told him as she followed him onto the porch of the little house. "Just take care of yourself and stay off that leg as much as you can for at least a week. I'm sure you'll pay me later."
"Yes, ma'am, I will." The farmer looked up as a man came galloping down Texas Street from the west. "That feller looks to be in a hurry."
"Indeed, he does," Rose agreed. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the afternoon sunlight as she tried to see if she recognized the rider. To her surprise, the man drew his mount to a halt in front of the office. He dropped down from the saddle and left the horse ground-hitched as he hurried up the walk toward the building.
Dressed in a soiled white shirt, a checked vest, dark corduroy pants, town shoes, and a bowler hat pushed back on his balding head, the disreputable-looking man was no cowhand or farmer, of that Rose was certain.
"I'm looking for the doc," he said as he came up to the porch. His accent immediately marked him as an easterner, and Rose quickly concluded that he was one of the roustabouts from the circus.
"I'm Dr. Keller," she answered.
The man frowned. "A woman doctor?" he exclaimed. "Nobody told me nothing about that. Ain't there a real doctor in town?"
Rose looked at him patiently. Her serenity concealed her irritation with such reactions.
Before she could answer, the farmer she had just treated spoke up. "Listen here," the man said. "There ain't a better doctor, man or woman, in Kansas than Dr. Keller here. And if you don't think so, I'll be glad to argue the point with you."
The stranger held up both hands, palms out in a gesture of peace. "Hold on, hold on," he said. "I didn't come here to get in a fight with some hayseed." He turned back to Rose, ignoring the farmer's angry stare. "Look, Doc, I'm from Professor Houser's circus. We've got a hurt man out there, and the professor sent me to fetch a doctor. Can you go take a look at our guy?"
Rose nodded. "Of course I'll go. What happened?"
"The count was working with his cats, and one of 'em got carried away. I didn't see von Berndt, but I imagine he got mauled pretty good."
"Just let me get my bag." Rose put her hand on the farmer's arm. "You go home and get some rest, Mr. Kettleman."
"Reckon you'll need any help out at that there circus?" Kettleman asked.
Rose shook her head. "I'll be fine."
The roustabout shuffled his feet and said, "I don't want to hurry you, Doc, but I'm going to be in a lot of trouble if the count bleeds to death while I'm waiting for you."
"Yes. Just a moment." Rose hurried into the house and returned a moment later carrying a bonnet and her black medical bag. She was pleased to see that the farmer had departed for home as she had requested. Gesturing at the buggy tied up in front of the building, she said to the roustabout, "Would you like to ride with me?"
"No thanks. I'll ride the horse and lead you to him."
Rose tied the bonnet over her hair, placed her bag on the floorboard of the buggy, and climbed onto the seat after untying the horse's reins. The mare hitched to the buggy was strong and dependable, if not built for speed, with a sweet nature that Rose liked. Rose backed the buggy away from the boardwalk and turned it west down Texas Street. The roustabout fell in beside her on horseback.
In a few moments they were gazing across the prairie at their destination. The sight of the organized camp with the colorful big top dominating its center surprised and delighted Rose. As she and the ro
ustabout approached the circus camp, she considered the multitude of wonders awaiting the farmers, ranchers, and merchants of the area. Entertainment on wheels, pure and simple, that was what it was.
Driving past the makeshift corral with its grazing occupants, she spotted Flint and Cully riding toward her away from the heart of the camp. With a wave of his hand and a concerned look on his face, Flint motioned to her to stop.
"Is there some trouble, Rose?" he asked as he drew up beside her buggy.
"Someone has been hurt here, Lucas. Evidently one of the big cats attacked the trainer. I've come to see to his injuries."
"Marshal, we're in a hurry—" the roustabout began.
"Yes, just a moment," Flint said, frowning as he appraised Rose's disheveled escort. Turning to Cully, Flint quickly instructed him to return to town. With a wave to Rose, Cully spurred his horse and rode off. For a second time Flint looked at the roustabout and then said firmly, "I'm coming with you."
A tiny smile lit Rose's eyes as she flicked the reins. It was typical of this man to show his concern for her. She enjoyed their relationship—the many evenings they shared dinner and good talk, the mutual respect they had for the way each worked. A rare, warm understanding had grown rapidly between them that had become very important to her.
The roustabout led them to four wagons grouped near the edge of the camp. Three of them were huge cages. Visible through the bars, lions and tigers paced restlessly. The fourth wagon was evidently the home of the big cats' trainer. It was enclosed, with a door on the rear and a set of removable steps leading down from the door. A man sat on those steps, but he stood as Rose and Flint approached.
Rose recognized the blond-haired man from the parade. He had exchanged his tight, gold-spangled costume for a white silk shirt with flowing sleeves and whipcord pants that were snug on his muscular legs. High black boots completed the outfit. One of the sleeves of the shirt had been cut away from his arm, and the crimson stain on the silk contrasted sharply with its whiteness.
The man stood calmly waiting for them as Flint dismounted and helped Rose down from the buggy. Then he strode forward. Rose had the medical bag in her left hand. The man reached out, caught hold of her right hand, and lifted it to his lips before she knew what he was doing. She stood there, flustered, as he said, "Count Lothar von Berndt at your service, my dear."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 29