Very calmly, Durban took the pipe from his mouth and said, "All right, let's settle this here and now. But not with a riot."
"How then?"
"There's an old custom where I come from . . . mining country, back in Colorado." He turned slightly back toward Kinsman and winked. "When two men have a difference of opinion, they settle it fairly between themselves. Do you two want to fight it out right here . . . Marquess of Queensberry rules?"
Colt shrugged, then nodded.
"Oh, no, you don't!" screeched the miner. "He's a bloody tryned killer. A soldier. Probably a karate expert . . . chops bricks with 'is bare hands an' all that."
Durban scowled from under his shaggy brows. "Very well then. Suppose / represent the American side of this argument. Would you be afraid to fight me?"
"You? You're an old man!"
"I may be almost seventy," Durban said, stuffing his pipe into a jacket pocket, "but I can still take on the likes of you."
The miner looked bewildered. "I ... you can't . . ."
"Come on," Durban said, very seriously. He raised his fragile-looking fists.
One of the other miners put a hand on the first one's shoulder. "Forget it, Bert. He's crazy."
Bert wavered, uncertain. Durban was ramrod straight, looking like a slim rod of knobby bamboo next to a snorting red-eyed bull. Kinsman watched, unable to move. That guy'll kill Durban with one punch. Then what can we do? What can I do?
The miner finally stepped back, muttering and shaking his head. They all turned and began walking slowly back down the tunnel corridor, toward the pub.
Durban let his hands drop to his sides.
Colt puffed out a breath of relief. "Thanks, man."
"Very courageous of you," Leonov said thoughtfully.
But Kinsman said nothing. What would I have done if it had come to a brawl? What would I have done?
The four men walked slowly back to Durban's room, two 167 levels up closer to the surface.
'The whisky's in the brown carryall," Durban said as they entered the windowless room. "Help yourselves." He went straight to the bed and stretched out on it.
Colt and Leonov went to the whisky. Kinsman took a close look at the old man. His face was ashen, his thin chest heaving.
