B. Dix in the ass with authority. It whacked his shoulders a moment later. And last the back of his head cracked against dirt as hard as the fist that had put him on it. “Your asses are mine,” he croaked through puffy lips. He tasted blood, which pretty well had to be his own. Since he hadn’t managed to bite anybody, or hit them hard enough to splatter. Leastways, not on him. His answer was a boot in the short ribs. Steel-toed, by the feel. At least nothing was broken. Yet. But the day was young. Actually, the day was dying in an explosion of clouds in the sky over the parched, cracked, table-flat land to the west, whose reds and hellish oranges and general clotted-mustard undertones suggested the possibility they presaged acid rain, rather than just sunset. Spring crickets were creaking like unlubricated joints. It was the fight that was relatively new. There were maybe six of them, five men and a fireplug-shaped woman with one ear named Betty Lou.
