thought country boys were supposed to be tough. Guess you're all
just a bunch of dirt-scratching cowards."
In a dimly lit corner booth, away from the glare of the windows,
a shadow shifted. A raspy, steady voice cut through the stagnant air.
"I reckon I could use five hundred dollars. Need a new alternator for
my John Deere."
Every head in the saloon turned toward the corner. An old man
slowly pushed himself up from his chair. His name was Arthur
Pendelton, though most folks just called him Artie. He was in his late
sixties, a fixture of the community known for his quiet demeanor
and his struggling, albeit well-kept, soybean farm.
Arthur was not a large man. He was lean, with shoulders slightly
stooped by decades of manual labor. He wore faded denim overalls
over a worn flannel shirt, despite the heat. His face was a map of
deep wrinkles, weathered by wind and sun, and his hands were
gnarled like old oak roots. Most noticeably, he wore a pair of
massive, heavily reinforced, mud-caked steel-toe work boots.
Jake stared at the old man, disbelief giving way to uproarious
laughter. "You've got to be kidding me, old timer. Sit down before
you break a hip. I'm not looking to commit murder today."
Arthur didn't smile, nor did he look intimidated. His slate-gray
eyes were calm, fixed unblinkingly on the young fighter. "The offer
was five hundred dollars for three minutes. You didn't specify an
age limit, son."
"Look, grandpa," Jake sneered, stepping closer. "I'm a
professional fighter. I break bones for a living. I'll snap you in half."