"We'd be out of place… out of time," Jesse Shingles said.

Will could only nod, cowed by the sheer intensity of emotion he'd aroused in the group. He sighed shakily.

"Well, whatever, I have to get Chester out. Even if I have to do it myself," he said.

Tam regarded him for a moment and then shook his head. "Stubborn as a mule. Talk about like mother, like son," he said, a grin returning to his face. "D'you know, it's uncanny how much you sound like her. Once Sarah set her mind on something there was no budging her." He ruffled Will's hair with his large hand. "Stubborn as a bloody mule."

Imago tapped Tam's arm. "It's him again."

Relieved that he was no longer the center of attention, Will was a little slow to catch on, but when he did he observed that across the street a Styx was talking to a hefty man who had wiry white hair and long sideburns and wore a shiny brown coat with a grimy red neckerchief coiled around his stubby neck. As he watched, the Styx nodded, turned, and walked away.

"That Styx has been dogging Tam for a long time now," Cal whispered to Will.

"Who is he?" Will asked.

"Nobody knows their names, but we call him the Crawfly, on account he can't so easily be shaken off. He's on a personal vendetta to bring down Uncle Tam."

Will watched as the figure of the Crawfly dissolved into the shadows.

"He's had it infor your family since your ma gave the White Necks the slip and went Topsoil," Imago said to Will and Cal.

"And till my dying day I'll swear he did in my pa," Tam said, his voice flat and oddly lacking in any emotion. "He killed him, all right… that was no accident."

Imago shook his head slowly. "That was a horrible thing," he agreed. "A horrible thing."

"So what's he cooking up with that scum over there?" Tam said, frowning as he turned to Imago.

"Who was he talking to?" Will asked, peering at the other man, who was now crossing the road toward the crowd outside the tavern.

"Don't look at him… that's Heraldo Walsh. A cutthroat… nasty piece of work," Cal warned.

"A burglar, lowest of the low," Tam growled.

"But what's he doing talking to a Styx, then?" Will said, totally confused.

"Wheels within wheels," Tam muttered. "The Styx are a devious bunch. A belt becomes a snake with them." He turned to Will. "Look, I may be able to help you with Chester, but you've got to promise me one thing," he whispered.

"What's that?"

"If you get caught, you'll never implicate Cal, me, or any of us. Our lives and our families are here and, like it or not, we have to stay in this place with the White Necks… the Styx. That's our lot. And I'll say it again: They'll never let it rest if you cross them… they will do everything they can to catch up with you—" Suddenly, Tam broke off.

Will saw the alarm in Cal 's eyes. He spun around. Heraldo Walsh was standing not five feet away. And behind him a throng of drunkards had parted fearfully to allow a phalanx of brutish-looking Colonists through. They were clearly Walsh's gang — Will saw the fiery hatred in their faces. His blood ran cold. Tam immediately stepped to Will's side.

"What do you want, Walsh?" Tam said, his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched.

"Ah, my old friend, Tamfoolery," Heraldo Walsh said with a vile, gappy grin. "I just wanted to see this Topsoiler for myself."

Will wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

"So you're the type of scum that chokes our air channels and pollutes our houses with your foul sewage. My daughter died because of your kind." He took a step closer to Will, raising his hand threateningly, as if he was going to grab at the pertrified boy. "Come 'ere, you stinking filth!"

Will cowered. His first impulse was to run, but he knew his uncle wasn't about to let anything happen to him.

"That's far enough, Walsh." Tam took a step toward the man to block his approach.

"You're fraternizing with the godless, Macaulay," Walsh yelled, his eyes never leaving Will's face.

"And what do you know of God?" Tam retorted, stepping fully in front of Will to shield him. "Now, you drop it! He's family!"

But Heraldo was like a dog with a bone — he wasn't about to let go. Behind him, his supporters were egging him on and cursing.

"You call that family?" He thrust a dirt-stained finger at Will. "Sarah Jerome's mongrel?"

At this, several of his men let out wild howls and whoops.

"He's the filthy offspring of that traitorous woman who ran for the sun," Heraldo snapped.

"That's it," Tam hissed through his clenched teeth. He slung the dregs of his beer at the man, hitting him square in the face, dousing his hair and sideburns with the watery gray fluid.

"Nobody insults my family, Walsh. Step up to the scratch," Tam scowled.

Heraldo Walsh's coterie began to chant, "Milling, milling, milling!" and very soon cheers filled the air as everyone out on the sidewalk joined in. Others came rushing out of the tavern door to see what all the commotion was about.

"What's going on?" Will asked Cal, terrified out of his wits as the huge crowd hemmed them in. Right in the center of the closely packed, overexcited rabble, Tam stood resolutely in front of the dripping Heraldo Walsh, locked in an angry staring match.

"A fistfight," Cal said.

The pub owner, a stocky man in a blue apron, with a sweaty red face, pushed through the tavern doors and threaded his way through the mob until he reached the two men. He barged in between Tam and Heraldo Walsh and kneeled down to fix shackles to their ankles. As they both took a step back, Will saw that the shackles were connected by a length of rusty chain, so that the two fighters were bound together.

Then the owner reached into his apron pocket and brought out a piece of chalk. He drew a line on the pavement halfway between them.

"You know the rules." His voice boomed melodramatically, as much for the benefit of the crowd as for the two men. "Above the belt, no weapons, biting, or gouging. It stops on a KO or death.

"Death?" Will whispered shakily to Cal, who nodded grimly.

Then the pub owner ushered everyone back until a human boxing ring had been squared off. This wasn't an easy task, because people were jostling against one another as they vied for a view of the two men.

"Step up to the mark," the man said loudly. Tam and Heraldo Walsh positioned themselves on either side of the chalk line. The pub owner held their arms to steady them. Then he released them with the shouted order: "Commence!" and quickly retreated.

In an attempt to knock his opponent off balance, Walsh immediately swung his foot back and the length of chain — six feet or so long — snapped taut, yanking Tam's leg forward.

But Tam was ready for the maneuver and used the forward momentum to his advantage. He leaped toward Walsh, a huge right fist flying at the shorter man's face. The blow glanced off Walsh's chin, drawing a gasp from the crowd. Tam continued with a fast combination of blows, but his opponent avoided them with apparent ease, ducking and diving like a demented rabbit, as the chain between them rattled noisily on the pavement amid the shouts and cries.

"By Jove, he's quick, that one," Joe Waites observed.

"But he don't have Tam's reach, do he?" Jesse Shingles countered.

Then Heraldo Walsh, crouching low, shot up under Tam's guard and landed a blow on his jaw, a sharp uppercut that jarred Tam's head. Blood burst from his mouth, but he didn't hesitate in his retaliation, bringing his fist down squarely on the top of Walsh's skull.

"The pile driver!" Joe said excitedly and then shouted, "Go on, Tam! Go on, you beauty!"

Heraldo Walsh's knees buckled and he reeled backward, spitting with anger, and came back immediately with a frenzied salvo of punches, clipping Tam around the mouth. Tam moved back as far as the limits of the chain would allow, colliding with the crowd. As people stepped on those behind to give the two fighters more room, Walsh pursued him. Tam used the time to collect himself and reorganize his guard. As Walsh closed in, his fists swiping the air in front of him, Tam ducked down and exploded back into his opponent with a combination of crushing blows to his rib cage and stomach. The noise of the thudding wallops, like bales of hay being thrown on the ground, could be heard over the shouts and jeers of the spectators.