That Crazy Viking

"Oh Lord, that crazy viking is in trouble again!"

At times of great crisis, sometimes it is a good idea to relax and take stock. Doc does so. He takes a deep breath. He freshens the chew in his mouth. He looks about the room.

There is a small window just large enough for a small man to squeeze through seven feet up along the back wall of Dr. Ritenrong's cell. It is fitted with iron bars and no glass. The walls of the office are lined with wanted posters, news clippings, a map of the area, and other posts and notices. The surface of the sheriff's desk is cluttered with quills, logbooks and pipe cleaning equipment. The desk its self is locked. There's a small pantry in the corner messily laden with tin plates and cups along with bags of oatmeal and cornmeal, plus a few potatoes and some onions rotting away at the bottom. Nearby is an iron stove still warm with dying coals.

Doc cracks the wooden shutters on the front windows to look outside. Sheriff Jones is leaning up against the wall, blocking his view through the window. There is obviously some commotion. He can see Michigan Militia troops shouting and pumping their fists in excitement.

Doc opens the door and steps out. The dozen militia men surround Thunderhorse in a semicircle shouting and encouraging a fight between him and one of their own. The small keg of whiskey is smashed on the ground nearby, with surprisingly little wet around it. On second thought, that's not so surprising.

The Sheriff spits a bit of chew. "Yer brother's a piece a' work. He was out here drinkin' when he up'n shouted some gibberish at them boys when they was walkin' by. Well one thing led to another an', well, there y'are," Jones nods towards the ruckus. "I'd arrest 'im fer bein' a nuisance and brawlin' in public, but I think them boys'll teach him a lesson well enough."

Thunderhorse is standing his ground silently as the militia men holler at him. The other man in the ring is not small; he's just as tall as Thunderhorse but lanky and wiry instead of hulking and huge.

"Get 'im, Earl!" shouts another man. "Show that gimp not to lip off!"

Earl stands in fisticuffs position, ready to box. Thunderhorse stands ready, brows furrowed. Before anyone can react, Thunderhorse launches his fist into Earl's face. His nose gives way with a pop.

Earl staggers back, grasping his bleeding face. He throws a wild right hook, dizzily, before collapsing on the ground.

The crowd gasps and hushes, but only momentarily. Another man is peeling off his jacket, getting ready to step in for his buddy.