"No," Albert said quickly, "he was just funning."

"No, I think he called me a coward."

"He did that all right," one of the men in the crowd said, helpfullike.

Billy Bob turned to the man. "You think so?"

"Certain," this big-mouthed fella answered.

"It don't amount to nothing," Albert said, "just some old man shooting off wind. He most likely don't know Wild Bill from a pine knot."

"No, the big mouth said, "that there is the real Texas Jack, and he once backed down Wild Bill."

"The hell he did," Billy Bob said. "That's a lie. He didn't never back down no Wild Bill Hickok." He put his hands on his gun butts.

"Well," Big Mouth said, sort of fading back in the crowd a bit, "that's still Texas Jack."

Billy Bob looked at Albert, then he looked at me, then he looked at the crowd, which had started to shuffle.

Albert cleared his throat. "Ladies and gents, we going to bring on ole Rot Toe, the wrestling ape now. He's from the same place my folks come from, Africa."

"And he looks like your grandpa." It was Big Mouth again. Some of the crowd laughed.

Albert smiled like that was the kindest thing ever said about him. "Well now, that just might be for true, just might be. We colored boys ain't always sure who our folks are."

That got a big laugh. It sort of made me sick to see Albert do that, even if he was trying to turn the crowds attention from Billy Bob and onto something new.

Albert led the crowd over to the ring, and Billy Bob, still standing like a cow that had gotten a lick from the butcher hammer, looked over to me and said, "Did that Texas Jack call me a coward? Was he making a showdown?"

"I didn't get it that way," I said.

"Yeah," he said, like he wasn't really asking my thoughts, just thinking out loud, "I reckon he did. Do you think that was the real honest-to-God Texas Jack?"

"He don't look a thing like he was described in them dime novels, so I don't reckon it is."

"No. No he doesn't," Billy Bob said, and he walked back to the wagon kind of hangdog-looking.

I let out a sigh, figuring things were going to be all right, you know, and I went on over to the wrestling ring. When I got there, Albert had gotten Big Mouth to cough up some money and get in with Rot Toe.

Rot Toe was on a leash inside the pen, the leash was attached to one of the ring poles. He was also wearing a muzzle and gloves so he couldn't bite or tear an arm or leg off a fella. Big Mouth, who was pretty good-sized, had his shirt off and was holding his hands wide and waving them around like he was about to do some serious damage on that Jungle ape.

"Now you give my grandpa a real hard time, hear me, Mister?" Albert said.

Big Mouth grinned at Albert through the netting. "I'm gonna choke him plumb to death."

"You do that," Albert said. "We can always make plenty more nigger grandpas, can't we?"

Big Mouth laughed. The crowd moved up close to the ring. Albert turned and saw me. He wasn't smiling like he had been. "Let Rot Toe go, Little Buster."

I went around to the other side and took the leash and collar off of him. "Go get him," I said.

And he did.

Big Mouth grinned when Rot Toe turned and started across for him, and I guess it was them red silk shorts we made Rot Toe wear for decency that made Big Mouth in a good humor. They were funny. But when Rot Toe dropped down to running on his knuckles, or rather them big, padded gloves, and Big Mouth seen the spit coming out between the muzzle straps, the color faded out of his eyes. It was too late for him to back down, and he'd already made a horses ass out of himself in front of all them people, saying how he'd strangle Rot Toe and all.

Rot Toe grabbed Big Mouth by the head and leg, tossed him on the floor of the ring and jumped on him a bit. Big Mouth crawled off toward the netting, trying to find the place where Albert had parted it to let him in. But Rot Toe was used to that trick and he grabbed up Big Mouth again, this time by the feet, and slung him around in a circle, whipping him up in the air now and then like a bull whacker trying to crack a whip. Finally he let go and Big Mouth hit the netting and flopped back on the floor, his face and bare upper body marked with red net marks.

"You about to tire him," Albert chanted at Big Mouth. "Stay with it, he looks real weak."

Big Mouth screwed his face up, rolled to his feet, and yelled to Rot Toe. "Come get me, you ugly nigger."

Rot Toe grunted and waddled toward Big Mouth. Big Mouth ducked and rushed in on Rot Toe, grabbed him around the middle, tried to pick him up for a body slam. Rot Toe wasn't going for it though. He locked his gloved fingers into the edges of Big Mouths pants and pulled them down with a jerk, which was another thing he did kind of regular which I forgot to mention.

Big Mouth's big, white butt was poking out at the crowd and ladies screamed at the sight of it, which seemed reasonable to me. I sort of felt like screaming. A few of the ladies, sticking to the fashion of the day, fainted, and there was one or two that just stared like maybe they was in shock. The men were laughing so hard it darn near drowned out Big Mouth's cussing and the sound of his feet as he beat a hasty circle around and around the ring.

You see, Rot Toe had run him the rest of the way out of his pants and was lazily following him on all fours, paying about half a mind to what was in front of him, and the rest of it to the crowd, which was cheering him on. Way Rot Toe bared his teeth looked a whole lot like a happy kid smiling.

Rot Toe finally got tired of the game, caught up with Big Mouth, snatched his feet out from under him and flung him up against the netting a few times, then dusted the floor with him six or seven strikes, and wandered off in a corner to pick at fleas on his chest.

Big Mouth inched his head around to sight Rot Toe, then started crawling for the spot where Albert had let him in. "Let me out," he was whispering, "let me out."

Albert was laughing so hard, looked as if he was going to go to his knees. Me and the crowd weren't doing bad neither.

Albert unhitched the place where the net lapped over, and Big Mouth, looking a lot less full of himself, crawled between it and flopped his naked butt to the ground.

A tall, gangly fella with a nose like a sun-dried cucumber smiled at Big Mouth and said, "Think you got him strangled yet, Harmon?"

Harmon didn't say a word. He stood up, and stiff as a soldier on parade, he walked off, his white rear end spotted with dirt, the sound of laughter rumbling like little, sharp thunders behind him.

When it turned dark, Albert hit the stage lanterns and got ready for Billy Bob to make his Cure-All talk. But two things happened right off to upset the apple cart. When I slipped behind the curtain to get Billy Bob to tell him it was time, he was gone. Wild Bill was still on the hand truck, and he was at the end of Billy Bobs stoop, his guns still cocked and pointing to where Billy Bob slept. I went over to the head of the stoop and seen there was a dime novel lying there, parted, facedown. I picked it up. It was Texas Jack, Deadwood Pistol Demon, or The Shot That Never Missed. It was one of the few dime books ever written entirely about Jack, though he come up mentioned in a few others.

I seen that the place it was open to was about the time Texas Jack was supposed to have backed down Wild Bill. The story said Jack opened his coat, showed his pistol, said "Name's Texas Jack," and stared at Hickok in a menacing manner, which I reckon was what he was doing to Billy Bob.