Ashton responded with a soft chuckle. “Then why don’t they come and make their complaints known to me?”

Her heavily lined brow puckered into deeper furrows as she pondered his question. “I guess they’re afraid of you, but I don’t understand why. There’s more of them.”

“Just find a place to hide if they manage to gather up their courage,” he suggested.

“You’d be wise to take your own advice. I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve seen what some of these ruffians can do. In fact, you’d be wise to leave now.”

“I came looking for a man, and I haven’t found him yet. He has two fingers missing from his left hand….”

“No one in this room fits that description,” she stated and moved away. Beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her loose slippers made a slight flip-flop sound on the sawdust floor. Her appearance seemed very much a part of this desolate life, and yet as he studied her, Ashton wondered if she might not have known a different way once. She carried herself with a subtle grace the harlots could not match. While they slumped and sauntered their way among the men, trying to provoke some business for the night, she moved with the delicate air of a queen, albeit a ragged one. Even the way she talked hinted of some tutoring.

Coming back to his table, Sarah set down a sparkling mug and a tin pitcher of lukewarm, foamy ale beside it, then stood back and folded her hands as she waited patiently for him to lay out the necessary payment. When he did, her eyes widened in astonishment at the shiny gold color of the coin.

“Oh, that’s far too much, sir, and I doubt if I can get the proper change from the barkeep. He’s sure to raise the price and keep as much of it as he can.”

Ashton reached into his pocket and placed the larger, duller coin on the table beside the gold piece. “This is for the barkeep; the gold is for you…for finding me a clean glass.”

She hesitated briefly, seeming bewildered by his generosity; then with tears in her eyes, she gathered the coins into her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wingate. I won’t forget this.”

Ashton sampled the ale from the mug and then wrinkled his nose at the acrid taste of the brew. If this was the best drink in the house, he mused with repugnance, he would certainly be hard-pressed to sample any other.

With unhurried aplomb he settled his black, low-crowned hat upon his head, disregarding the manners of a proper gentleman, and laid out the cards again, playing with the casual air of one ultimately bored. He continued in this vein for some time, and was just about to give up his watchful vigil when a group of four men pushed open the swinging doors. The leader was a thickset hulk of a man whose forehead sloped toward bushy brows and narrow, recessed eyes. A remarkably large, purple-veined nose jutted out and downward over thick, sneering lips. Just inside the door he halted and braced his left hand on a post while he surveyed the crowd. Ashton was quick to note the absence of two fingers from the meaty paw, and he felt a prickling on his neck when the piggish eyes settled on him.

The hulking brute straightened and squared his shoulders, straining the seams of his short jacket as he thrust out his barrel chest. He hitched up his trousers over his protruding belly and then raised both hands to settle his knit cap at a jaunty angle on his head. He strolled ponderously forward, swinging his heavily muscled legs wide with each step before planting his large feet firmly beneath him. Ashton stiffened as the ungraceful fellow approached, for the man seemed to be leading his cronies directly toward his table. His tension eased considerably when the miscreant settled at a table next to his, and he let out a slow breath of relief.

“’Pears we’ve got the hoity-toity folks from Upper Town acomin’ down to our digs these days.” The huge lout chortled as he jerked his thumb in Ashton’s direction.

Ashton surmised that it would not be long before the foursome found some excuse to set upon him, yet it was as if some perverse patience urged him to wait them out. Lazily bracing a booted foot on the rung of a chair, he continued his game of solitaire, but was no less primed for action.

The bear-sized giant banged a beefy fist on the rough planks of the table as his voice rose to an ear-numbing bellow. “Here now! Where’s a servin’ wench? Bring us some ale!” He lowered his voice and sneered aside to his companions: “H’it’s gettin’ so’s a man has to beg to get a drink ’round here.”

The strumpets kept their distance, having a care for their continued good health, and it was Sarah who hastened to fill large pitchers and bring them brimming to their table. They ignored the mugs she provided and reached for the tins, but halted as Sarah cleared her throat and announced, “The barkeep said you have to pay before you drink.”

The leader glared at her, but she returned his stare unflinchingly. Finally he dug into the pocket of his jacket, bringing out a handful of coins from which he laboriously counted out a sum and laid it on the table.

“That’s enough for only three pints,” Sarah informed him smartly. “You received four.”

The pinheaded lummox grudgingly added more coin to the rest, then with a leering grin added a single penny to the heap: “And a little somethin’ fer yerself, me dearie.”

The woman gave him a wan, unenthused smile and reached out to sweep the coins into her hand, but before she could draw back, the two fingers of the maimed hand closed with vicious intent upon her upper arm. With a cry of pain she jerked away from the hefty bully and glowered at him as she rubbed the already darkening bruise.

“You mindless red-neck!” she snapped. “Keep your dirty hands to yourself!”

“Eh, now!” he hooted. “I likes a woman with spirit. Why don’t ye go find one o’ them fancy gowns what yer sisters are wearin’ an’ dress yerself up fer me? Ye wouldn’t be half bad to look at in the proper clothes.”

“The same certainly can’t be said of you,” Sarah retorted and sidestepped his sweeping slap, saving herself another bruise, but her agility seemed to challenge the man’s own questionable spryness. Half rising from his chair, he snatched her skirts and spun her around into his embrace. She screeched in outrage as he pulled her down onto his lap, and almost immediately his hand settled between her thighs. The abused woman’s eyes widened, and she gasped at the affront while she struggled desperately to escape his grasp.

Now Ashton had been taught at an early age to respect womankind whatever the circumstance, and he had generally subscribed to that ethic. This display of beastliness was simply too much for him to endure. Rising to his feet, he tugged down his vest and stepped to the other’s table to confront the uncouth lecher.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe the lady desires to be free of you. Why don’t you save us both a lot of bother and release her peaceably?”

The swinish one spilled the ragged woman to the floor in some astonishment. No one had ever had the gall to interfere with him before. Reaching down, Ashton assisted the serving maid to her feet and pushed her toward the bar as the calloused rapscallion came out of his chair with an apoplectic purple mottling his face. The man had not yet attained a state of balance when Ashton’s fist swung around, with his full weight behind the blow. He caught the burly one on the jaw and sent him sprawling backward across the table into his companions. Chairs splintered asunder as the three progressed rapidly to the sawdust floor, with loud “whomphs” and “whoofs” attesting to the force of their landing. The quartet struggled up, grasping for knives, clubs, or whatever weapon came quickly to hand. Ashton forestalled their efforts by kicking the table, along with its contents, on top of them. Ale spewed out of tin pitchers, stinging eyes and filling flaring nostrils. Snarled curses filled the air as the foursome went down again in a thrashing tangle. Unrelenting, Ashton added confusion to the melee by sailing his own table toward them with a lusty heave. The brawny leader had rolled and risen to his hands and knees when the wooden piece caromed off his backside, launching him headlong into his cohorts.

More unfriendly shapes approached through the gloom of the place, forming a veritable wall of darkness that crept ever closer. Ashton recognized the vengeful gleam in their eyes, and cautiously backed away, snatching up the broken leg of a table as he went.

“Ssst! Mr. Wingate! Over here!”

Quickly Ashton glanced behind him to see Sarah crouched in an open doorway. Leaping over a fallen chair, he accepted her invitation with proper haste and charged through the portal, slamming it closed behind him and ramming home the bolt. The pair of them fled through the stacks of provender that filled the dimly lighted room until their flight was halted by the stout rear door that was stuck fast in its frame. Ashton lent a shoulder to open the reluctant barrier as the uproar rose in the tavern behind them. Finally after another forceful shove, the outside portal swung free, allowing them to escape. The alley was narrow and slippery with mud, but his guide knew every bend and puddle. She was little more than a dark shape flitting through the shadows as Ashton paused to barricade the rear exit. He followed apace and was within a step of a corner when the stout door crashed open again. The sudden shouts of the unruly gang attested to the fact that they had been seen, and the chase was on.

Ashton caught the slender arm of the woman and pulled her along with him as he raced around the corner of the shanty. They ran up the sloping incline of Silver Street, pushing every ounce of energy into their limbs. The way was muddy, and the wet mire sucked at Sarah’s ragged slippers, impeding their progress. With the pursuing ruffians rapidly closing the distance between them, there was no time to bend down and free the shoes from their cloth bindings. A wagon had been drawn across the street on the upper part of the hill, and they dashed around it, no more than a few short strides ahead of the following band. Shouts of victory were already being raised as the rowdies sensed the imminent capture of the pair. They followed around the end of the van, but slid and skidded to an uncertain halt as a slightly larger collection of darker shapes rushed out of the shadows into the lantern light. Sarah gasped as she found herself in the swarm and threw herself behind her champion, only to hear him chuckle.

“It’s all right. They’re friends.”

“You mean they were waiting here all along?” she questioned loudly as the two forces came together.

Ashton chuckled. “I always like to plan ahead when I can.”

He sobered abruptly as a bearded man seized his lapel, and he spun about, driving a hard fist into the other’s belly and following with a cross to the chin. The man’s head snapped back with the force of the blow, but Ashton was given no respite as another pressed for attention. Judd entered the fray with a zeal that nearly shriveled the valor of their adversaries. Not only was he quick and powerful, but with his long arms he could reach out a goodly distance and land hard blows, which his opponent had to survive in order to strike back. Not to be outdone, Sarah jumped on the back of another would-be attacker and clawed at his face from behind. A bite on his ear made him yowl in pain, and he redoubled his efforts to shake off the she-cat who rode him.

From every aspect it was a wild and mucky melee. Mud was plentiful, and with the momentum of hard-driving fists, many were sent sprawling or sliding through it on their backs or bellies. The dark ooze soon coated friend and foe alike until it became a chore to discern who was who in the meager light of the street lanterns. There were more than a few who took on the appearances of river monsters as large globs clung to them and created awesome shapes. Brief queries began to precede blows, and many, realizing their mistakes, turned away from companions to fight back to back against the enemy.

Still, the ranks of the Lower Town antagonists began to dwindle as one by one they slithered senseless into the muck or crept away, unable to summon the proper incentive to endure further punishment. Ashton was beginning to feel some hope for the outcome when a bellow of glee made him spin about. He found four ominous shapes advancing upon him from the edge of the fray. They were relatively untouched by the filth as if they had held themselves apart from it, but in any circumstance the four would have been recognizable by the broad, square shape of the one who led them. They hefted heavy cudgels in meaty fists and spread out as they moved in.

“Mr. Wingate, suh,” the brawny one addressed him with a chortle, “you’re ’bout to meet your maker.”