Man with No Name- Brawl with Red Cavanaugh

“I didn’t hear you say what the bet was, mister.”

The hunter took the chewed remnant of the cigarro from his lips, inspected it carefully and dropped it on the floor. He ground it under his boot and spat out a shred of tobacco. His lips moved in the faintest of humorless smiles.

“Your life, Red.”

The outlaw stared at him blankly, scowling as his slow mind groped for the meaning of the words. Then comprehension hit him and he came up, roaring curses, kicking the chair away as he sledged at his enemy with massive fists. The other blocked the blows with elbows and forearms like steel bars and caught Red in a rib-crushing bear hug. Red’s immense right hand closed on his adversary’s throat like a wolf trap.

Panting, straining, they turned in a grotesque, slow-motion death waltz until their feet tangled with the fallen chair and they went down with a crash that shook the building. The hunter was on top. The hard edge of his open palm sliced in a short, vicious arc that broke the death grip on his throat. They scrambled to their feet, hammering one another.

Red Cavanagh had bull-strength but no skill. The other parried most of the punches, while his own fists methodically made a pulp of the red-head’s big face. A solid right sent the outlaw crashing down the steps to the saloon floor. Half-stunned, Red tried to rise, then belatedly remembered his holstered gun.

He had it half-drawn when the flying figure of the hunter slammed down on him, smashing the breath from his lungs, sending the pistol skittering across the floor. Bouncing up, the Man With No Name caught the front of Red’s shirt and hauled him erect, rocking his head back and forth with vicious, open-hand slaps. Whirling the heavy figure around, he slammed it against the bar.

“Alive or dead, Red? The choice is yours.”

Behind them, the swinging doors flapped softly and a cold, deadly voice said, “Let—Red—go!”

The hunter moved slowly, turning only his head until he could see the owner of the voice. Three hard-bitten toughs stood just inside the doors, covering him with cocked pistols. All three bore the stamp of gunfighters— the cold eyes, the bared teeth, the tied-down holsters, the boots planted wide for balance.

- For a Few Dollars More, chapter 2