"Arty!" he heard, followed by a scream as Honey saw he tapper lying senseless on the floor. It as all the diversion Rutherford needed. He grabbed a rattan stool and hurled it at the nearest of the two tappers who, as Rutherford had hoped, was too full of liquor to react quickly. The stool grazed his temple, stunning him just long enough for Rutherford to follow through with a two-fisted attack to his abdomen, which put the second tapper out of action and left him retching beside the first at the base of the bar. There was only one left.Honey screamed again. The last attacker had smashed the bottle of scotch against the bar rail, and he now slashed at Rutherford with the jagged glass weapon, showing all the force and fury of an animal. One stab caught Rutherford's forearm. Another cut his wrist, as he used his bare arms to ward off the tapper's thrusts. He needed a cloth, a coat, anything for protection, but there was no time to look around. He reached for another bar stool, but a third jab penetrated his left shoulder. His arm was covered with blood.
He's going to kill me, Rutherford realized, as his eyes met those of the tapper. Frenzied, tiger-like, the eyes were full of hate. This was not simply a fight, not just another barroom brawl. I was a battle for something basic: territory, dominance, an instinctual battle for the right to remain.
But even as these thoughts occurred to him, Rutherford saw the tapper lash out a fourth time, directing his blow toward his opponent's large mid-section. Rutherford managed to slow the thrust by blocking with both hands, but the jagged edges of glass cut across his open palms, pressed onward, and penetrated his shirt and the soft flesh of his stomach. Rutherford winced, heard Honey scream a third time, and fell in a heap near the two tappers who had gone down before him. It was over. He was beaten.
But he was not dead. In fact, moments later -- he had no way of knowing how long -- Rutherford awoke on the floor near the bar. Everything ached: his head, his arm, his hands, stomach and chest. The three tappers were gone, apparently not as badly hurt as he had hoped they were. The barkeep could be heard stirring behind the bar.
At Rutherford's side, a few feet from the door where Honey had dropped it, was the crumpled blue envelope he had left at her table. He reached over and pulled it closer, dirtying its blue wetness with smears of cakey blood. How silly of her to have brought it here, he thought. As though it were still important. He wanted to laugh at her, laugh at the whole situation. But his stomach convulsed and tears came to his eyes instead.
Outside, there were voices... Honey's and a man's. Soon she was standing in the doorway once more, this time with a policeman from the district station at the center of town. He was a dark little man with a huge gun on his hip. His khaki-colored uniform was perfectly clean and neatly pressed.
"What has happened here?" he exclaimed. Rutherford pushed himself up to a siting position and tried to smile, but he did not say a word.
"Big fight!" Honey cried. "Pertempuran. Tell him, Arty." But she was so shaken, she could not turn to look at him.
The bartender was up again, and he told the policeman how the fight had begun, how the tappers had got drunk and been boasting about their martial arts skills, how they had started breaking trays with their kicks. Rutherford had come in and tried to stop them, but they had all escaped. That was all he remembered; he had been knocked unconscious.
"Is it true?" the policeman asked. But Rutherford simply stared at him and remained silent. What did it matter?
"Well, we'll catch up with them," the officer continued in a hollow tone. He patted the gun on his hip. "They won't get away. They'll have to pay for the damage, of course."
Rutherford clutched the bar rail with his left hand and slowly pulled himself to his feet. The policeman watched; Honey was still trembling, her head turned away. Rutherford's shirt was covered with drying blood, but it was mostly blood from his arm. Jagged as the bottle had been, it had not cut deep. The roll of fat at his middle had served as padding against the blow, though the force of it had knocked the wind out of him. He, too, was hurt less badly than the tappers had probably imagined.
"Let me help you," the policeman offered, once Rutherford was standing again. He answered with a shake of his head.
"I have a motorbike," the policeman went on. ""I'll take you home."
"No thanks," Rutherford said at last. "I think I remember the way." And he dropped the wadded envelope near Honey's feet at the doorway, as he stepped from the bar to the dark night outside.
