The Argo Goes West

69, The Great American Fist Fighting

Saloon "Last Chance" was crowded with many customers after a long time. It was the busiest since the saloon opened. Frenchy, the proprietress, shed tears with joy.

"What are you crying about?" asked a tall man in military uniform. He is Roberts. Much like Frenchy's first love. The man who seduced her when she was young and naive and ran away.

"I'm not crying. I just got dust in my eye," Frenchy replied with a laugh.

"Where are you from?"

"I can't tell you."

"I want to know."

"Make a guess?"

"Yes... Chicago."

His answer was correct. But Frenchy lied. "Wrong."

"What is the correct answer?"

"I can't tell you. But if you come to the saloon more than once, I might get drunk and accidentally tell you."

"That's a shame," said Roberts. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning. But I'll be in Reno for a while, so maybe I can come again."

"Reno is far away."

"I can go anywhere for you."

Doc Morton shrugged next to Roberts. And he drank whiskey. It was the lowest alcohol drink. He knew it was diluted with water.

At the center table in the saloon, Chester, the engineer, was playing the guitar and singing.

The bronze giant begged Deke

Please don't kill me

I know you are strong seaman

Crossing seven seas

But I didn't know

You were on land

If I knew it I woldn't move

On the marble stand

The people of the town also got excited together. They were happy to be freed from their weeks of isolation from the outside world. But there were also unhappy people. It was the artillery unit of Car 8, led by Sergeant Paul Reisman. They had never fought in battle before. What they did was dig a pit to trap the giant. Once on Battle Mountain, they were ordered to clean the pigsty. Reisman declined, saying it wasn't their job. However, when the captain asked them to help because they were not enough staff, they had no choice but to obey the order. After a hard day's work, they had a drink to cool off. And yet, hearing Chester's hero song, they were disgusted.

Someone's elbow hit Riseman's shoulder. Liquor spilled out of the cup and wet Riseman's pants.

"What the hell are you doing!?"

Riseman stood up and delivered a powerful fist to his opponent.

Then fist fighting started all over the place.

Sheriff Nash, who was present at the saloon, yelled, "Stop, stop!" But no one listened to him. Nash pulled a pistol from his gun belt and tried to fire a threatening shot into the ceiling, but Roberts stopped him.

"Let them do what they want. They all have lively faces. Fist Fighting is a man-on-man sport."

Then he said to Frenchy. "Don't worry. The military will pay for the repairs. Claim more than the amount of damage."

"I do," Frenchy nodded with a smile.

"But..." Nash was still trying to say something.

"Think of it as bloodletting," said Doc Morton. "As a doctor, I don't support bloodletting, but I do believe that hot-blooded people need to let off steam regularly."