Man with No Name- Brass Knuckle Beating

Once across the threshold, Ramón turned the Winchester and, with his teeth bared in a silent snarl, swung the weapon. The butt caught the stranger under the right ear and he went over sideways with a deep-throated grunt.

“Soften him up a little, Chico,” Ramón said quietly, turning the Winchester once more so that he covered the stranger.

Chico, grinning wickedly, removed the glove from his right hand, the brass knuckle-dusters gleaming viciously in the light of the spluttering oil lamps. The stranger lay face down, rolled over on to his back with another grunt as the toe of Chico’s boot smashed into his ribs.

“Lift him,” Chico demanded and Miguel and Esteban moved forward eagerly, slipped a hand under the arms of the American and jerked him to his feet. Stunned and winded, his legs unable to support his weight, the American hung limply between the two Rojo brothers.

“Just once, Chico,” Ramón instructed.

The stranger tried to ride with the punch, but his neck muscles would not respond to his wish and the brass knuckles smashed into his mouth with all of Chico’s great strength, gashing open his lower lip.

“Where did you hide Marisol and her husband Julián?” Ramón bellowed.

The stranger spat blood and Chico looked at Ramón, saw the nodded signal and let fly another vicious punch, this time closing the right eye and raising an ugly blue bruise above it. Another nod sent Chico’s fist to the American’s jaw.

“You have been causing nothing but trouble since you came to San Miguel,” Ramón said softly. “Playing, as you Americans put it so well, both ends against the middle. You would have done better not to stay in the middle. Chico!”

A series of fast, piston-like punches rained on to the face of the American, turning the flesh into a mass of black and blue welts interrun with the scarlet of fresh blood. His breathing was heavy and ragged, interrupted by low groans of pain. A punch driven into his stomach doubled him over and another to the point of the jaw sent him backwards as his arms were released.

Esteban looked down at the beaten man with a gentle smile. “I think he is
thirsty, Ramón. You are thirsty señor? No? It is too soon to drink?” The stranger responded with a groan, squinting his good eye, seeing his surroundings as a blurred mixture of indistinct shapes and colors.
...

Chico looked at Ramón, received a nod of assent. Defenceless, unable even to raise his arms to protect himself, the stranger leaned heavily against the cask and waited for the attack. It came quickly, Chico’s brass-covered fist lashing out time and again, smashing into the face, turning it to a pulp, then beginning to pound the body. The stranger staggered backwards across the storeroom until he was tight against the wall. A final one-two to the stomach and eye sent him crashing to the floor. He made no sound except for his heavy breathing, and he did not move.

“That’s enough,” Ramón barked. “For today. Sooner or later he’ll talk. It’s just a matter of time.”

“What shall we do with him?” Esteban asked.

“Leave him. Watch he doesn’t escape or die. Otherwise, do as you like.”

Ramón turned and went quickly out into the passage. The other tree cast final glances at the prisoner and then followed Ramón, slamming the door. A bolt slid into position.

One of the stranger’s eyes snapped open but the other was a mere slit surrounded by swollen, lacerated flesh. He was in the angle of the wall and floor and was able to use both surfaces to force himself into a sitting position, low groans accompanying each movement of his body.

- A Fistful of Dollars novel, chapter 17