The Cossack Cowboy. Lester S. Taube

      “Hear tell you’re the new owner of the Three Barbs,” said a soft voice.

      Paul recognized the voice. He had heard it in the alleys of Marseilles, the back streets of Rome, and along the canals of Amsterdam. It was the voice behind a sharp blade, a stout club, or a strangler’s rope, and he wished desperately that he had a weapon of his own. It was one of the younger Birmans, about his own age. “I am owner of the Three Barbs,” he said.

      The Birman rocked back on his heels. “Hear tell you’re one of them English Lords or something,” he went on in his soft voice.

      “I am one of those English Lords - or something,” said Paul.

      The glint in the Birman’s eyes grew brighter. “You’re pretty sassy for a foreigner,” he said slowly, setting himself on the balls of his feet, the fingers of his hands twitching slightly.

      Paul stared levelly into his eyes. This is where it will come from, he reminded himself. From the eye to the brain to a muscle to a weapon or a blow. Without the least sign of warning, his fist whipped out and sank deep into the stomach of the man. A great gush of air exploded from his lips and he doubled up in pain. Paul’s stiffened hand chopped him at the base of the neck, sending him crashing down like a poleaxed steer.

      Paul did not wait to watch him sprawling on the floor - he was already walking, toward the other Birmans.