The restaurant’s front door opened and six men filed into the building. Three sat on stools beside the bar while the others walked toward Paul. The one in front was a heavy-set, fleshy-faced man with dark eyes and hair. Stopping in front of Paul, the man asked, “That your truck out there?”

The voice was unnecessarily loud and particularly annoying to Paul who had just forked a second piece of pancake. “Yes,” he replied.

“You’ve got some of my black paint on your truck,” stated the raspy voice.

Paul wanted this noise to just go away. “Someone sideswiped my truck,” he said. “It’s only an old truck anyway.”

“That rust bucket of yours did a thousand dollars damage to my car,” stated the persistent voice. “Now, you can be a good hillbilly and give me cash or check for a thousand dollars. If it’s a check, I know it will be good because I have ways of making sure checks don’t bounce.” The man’s fat face had picked up a film of sweat along with a red tint and his eyes had an icy shine.

“Any check I’d write for a thousand bucks would bounce,” answered Paul. “But don’t worry, I won’t charge you for hitting my truck.”

“You’ve got nerve for the position you’re in hillbilly,” stated the man scornfully before he swung a fist at Paul’s face.

An upward turned fork, containing a chunk of pancake, speared the oncoming fist. A piercing scream spewed from Croft’s twisted mouth as he used his other hand to grab his torn wrist, trying to stop a spray of blood. Two men beside Croft lunged at Bridger. A powerful kick from Paul’s boot sent a chair smashing against the first man’s legs. Gasping, he went down, holding his knee. Seizing the other man by the front, shirt collar, Paul tightened it in a twisting movement then rushed the choking man toward the side door. He hit it with a crash that knocked it open while smashing the window and splintering the frame. Anger now seared though Paul, energizing him. Turning, he saw a blurred movement of a fist that hit his face, knocking him over a table and chairs. Forcing his mind to focus, he stood, ramming the legs of a chair forward and upward into an advancing man’s crotch. He went down in agony while Paul was punched in the side of the head. His head was kicked sideways by the punch. Looking down at the floor, seeing some of his blood splattering against floorboards, he swung the chair again, hitting a man in the face, sending him crashing part way through the front window. His screams brought assistance from another man.

Paul walked to the side doorway and stepped outside just as the guy who had been choked was about to enter the building. He backed away and Paul continued walking to his truck. Opening the driver’s door, he sat on the seat, and started the engine. For the first time, he realized that the black car had been parked to block the truck. Paul drove forward. Screaming tires shot gravel from the lot amid an acrid smell of burning rubber. The car lurched sideways, releasing the truck. It jumped forward to the road, turned sharply and headed south.