Read Online West from Singapore (Ss) (1987) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louis L'amour
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beachcomber against the bar with such driving force that his head bobbed, just in time to meet the sweeping right that lifted him off his feet and knocked him bloody and broken into a corner.
Then Ponga Jim whirled around. Half crouched, his eyes blazing with an unholy fire, he faced the crowded dive. Swaying drunkenly, he stared, hands working.
The startled crowd stared, and the giant Gunong ran a thin tongue over his parched lips. Feverishly, his eyes sought the door. Ponga Jim took a step forward, and then, with the speed of light, he leaped.
Gunong's knife slashed out. A half inch closer would have ripped Ponga Jim's stomach open. But it ripped his shirt from side to side and left a red slash across the skin.
Then Jim was upon him with a hail of blows that swept down almost too fast for the eye to follow. In seconds Gunong was out cold.
But Ponga Jim was playing no favorites. He smashed out and knocked a Buginese cutthroat reeling. Someone leaped astride of his back and he grabbed the man by the head and threw him bodily over his shoulder into the wall. With a roar of fury Jim waded into the crowd. Blows rained about him. Men screamed with pain, and he felt hands grasping at his legs. He kicked back desperately, and somebody cried out.
With a leap, Jim reached the bar. He smashed a bottle over the head of the nearest man. Maddened faces, streaked with blood and sweat, massed around him. A fist struck his chin, staggering him. He came up with a broken chair leg.
The room was a riot of fighting and insane fury.
Suddenly Jim remembered the gun, and his hand jerked up and ripped open the holster.
Then he cursed with fury. To hell with it! He slammed a fist into a face nearby, grabbed the man by the throat and jerked him to arm's length overhead, and heaved him out into the crowd. He was swaying dizzily, and suddenly he was conscious that his arms were heavy, that he was fighting with his back to the wall. Still they crowded around him.
The floor was littered with injured men, but still he didn't use the gun. For an instant, they drew back, staring at him with malevolence.
A big Dyak was down, his face a smear of blood. He tried to get up and then fell back. The pack sensed a kill. Like wolves about an injured bull, they circled warily. They were closing in now.
Ponga Jim Mayo crouched, waiting. He still had the gun, but like a true fighting man, he hated to use it. Guns were his business, but a fight was a fight, and gang fight or otherwise, Ponga Jim Mayo had always won. Desperate, bitter, bloody, but always he and his crew had come out on the top.
Stello, who had hung back, now came forward. He was clutching a kris, and his lips were parted in a sneer of hatred. Yet, even as Jim waited, knowing the next attack would be the last, he realized something was behind this, something more than a mere attack on his cook. These men were cutthroats, but they were organized cutthroats.
They hadn't gathered here by accident. Even as he realized that, his mind leaped to his ship, to Romberg, to ...
Stello smiled, his beady eyes gleaming maliciously. "You want beg now, Ponga Jim?
You want die now?"
The big half-caste took a step forward. Behind him, the semicircle moved forward.
In a split second they would attack! Ponga Jim's hand, out of sight behind the bar, fell across the handle of the shot-filled hose that the bartender used in case of brawls. In that instant, Stello lunged. But as he lunged the loaded hose swept up and lashed him across the face!
Ponga Jim Mayo heard the bones crunch, saw the big man's nose flatten and his face turn blue with that vicious blow. And in that instant the doors burst open and Slug Brophy leaped in, followed by the crew of the Semiramis. What followed was a slaughter.
Somewhere outside a policeman stopped. He looked at the door. He saw a notorious cutthroat stagger outside, trying desperately to pull a knife from his chest. Then the officer turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Then Ponga Jim whirled around. Half crouched, his eyes blazing with an unholy fire, he faced the crowded dive. Swaying drunkenly, he stared, hands working.
The startled crowd stared, and the giant Gunong ran a thin tongue over his parched lips. Feverishly, his eyes sought the door. Ponga Jim took a step forward, and then, with the speed of light, he leaped.
Gunong's knife slashed out. A half inch closer would have ripped Ponga Jim's stomach open. But it ripped his shirt from side to side and left a red slash across the skin.
Then Jim was upon him with a hail of blows that swept down almost too fast for the eye to follow. In seconds Gunong was out cold.
But Ponga Jim was playing no favorites. He smashed out and knocked a Buginese cutthroat reeling. Someone leaped astride of his back and he grabbed the man by the head and threw him bodily over his shoulder into the wall. With a roar of fury Jim waded into the crowd. Blows rained about him. Men screamed with pain, and he felt hands grasping at his legs. He kicked back desperately, and somebody cried out.
With a leap, Jim reached the bar. He smashed a bottle over the head of the nearest man. Maddened faces, streaked with blood and sweat, massed around him. A fist struck his chin, staggering him. He came up with a broken chair leg.
The room was a riot of fighting and insane fury.
Suddenly Jim remembered the gun, and his hand jerked up and ripped open the holster.
Then he cursed with fury. To hell with it! He slammed a fist into a face nearby, grabbed the man by the throat and jerked him to arm's length overhead, and heaved him out into the crowd. He was swaying dizzily, and suddenly he was conscious that his arms were heavy, that he was fighting with his back to the wall. Still they crowded around him.
The floor was littered with injured men, but still he didn't use the gun. For an instant, they drew back, staring at him with malevolence.
A big Dyak was down, his face a smear of blood. He tried to get up and then fell back. The pack sensed a kill. Like wolves about an injured bull, they circled warily. They were closing in now.
Ponga Jim Mayo crouched, waiting. He still had the gun, but like a true fighting man, he hated to use it. Guns were his business, but a fight was a fight, and gang fight or otherwise, Ponga Jim Mayo had always won. Desperate, bitter, bloody, but always he and his crew had come out on the top.
Stello, who had hung back, now came forward. He was clutching a kris, and his lips were parted in a sneer of hatred. Yet, even as Jim waited, knowing the next attack would be the last, he realized something was behind this, something more than a mere attack on his cook. These men were cutthroats, but they were organized cutthroats.
They hadn't gathered here by accident. Even as he realized that, his mind leaped to his ship, to Romberg, to ...
Stello smiled, his beady eyes gleaming maliciously. "You want beg now, Ponga Jim?
You want die now?"
The big half-caste took a step forward. Behind him, the semicircle moved forward.
In a split second they would attack! Ponga Jim's hand, out of sight behind the bar, fell across the handle of the shot-filled hose that the bartender used in case of brawls. In that instant, Stello lunged. But as he lunged the loaded hose swept up and lashed him across the face!
Ponga Jim Mayo heard the bones crunch, saw the big man's nose flatten and his face turn blue with that vicious blow. And in that instant the doors burst open and Slug Brophy leaped in, followed by the crew of the Semiramis. What followed was a slaughter.
Somewhere outside a policeman stopped. He looked at the door. He saw a notorious cutthroat stagger outside, trying desperately to pull a knife from his chest. Then the officer turned and disappeared into the darkness.
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