The bruiser leered mockingly. He seemed to enjoy this hugely.
"Pretty, ain't yer? I'd spoil it for yer if it wasn't for yer old granpop there. It might break his heart to see his little grandson hurted. Better beat it, sonny, while the goin's good."
Then Sally heard three things all at once,—the harsh cry of Carlotta—she recognized the dancer now—calling: "For Gawd's sake, stop 'em, Mac, the big guy's gotta gun"; the cool voice of the leader, who before had seemed utterly indifferent, cutting the night air: "Don't be a damn fool, Pete, they're not looking for trouble"; and the more telling comment of Ben's arm—yes, she could have sworn she heard the impact on the bone and gristle of Pete's forehead, flush on the scar.
The hairy forearm countered. On the stomach. It hurt too. Ben grunted angrily, then rushed him. Pete's footwork was slow and heavy, and the boy caught him again on the scar. The white mark changed to angry red, but the bruiser got one back, an ugly one, on the mouth this time. Ben turned his head swiftly. He was spitting blood.
"Stop them," shrieked Sally, then looked around. Jack Beam, Benson, Yeo, and the gypsy, had joined the group, forestalling any foul play.
The fighters clinched and struggled over the smooth place to the north of the palm. Three neat ones, right, left, and right again, Ben got to the ribs, and Pete clinched, crouching still lower in agony like a wounded bear. Recovering in the infighting, he curved his fist viciously around to the kidney
