Tom grinned and began making clucking noises like a chicken.

Harry was more to the point. “No deal, Hayama. He’s not getting off the hook that easy. I challenged him and he accepted, so he’s going to have to fight. You just go back and tell him we’ll wait here one more hour. If he isn’t here by then, we’ll come and get him.”

Hosato smiled. “That will not be necessary. As I said, I have been instructed by Mr. Mathers to settle the affair. If possible, this was to be done with an apology. If not…” He shrugged and let the sentence hang in the air.

“What do you mean—?” Harry began.

“He’s taking Mathers’ place,” interrupted Casey.

“What?” exploded Tom, finally coming to life. “He can’t do that. Mathers was challenged, and he’s got to be the one to fight.”

Hosato looked at the umpire.

“It is not without precedent,” Moabe ruled, “for a challenged party to appoint a champion to fight in his stead.”

The brothers bit off their objections and huddled together for a quick conference.

Hosato smiled to himself. He found a certain ironic justice in the situation. If thugs tried to use the format of a duel to cloak a murder, it was only fitting they find themselves bound by the rules and traditions governing that form of combat. He caught Moabe’s eye. The black looked at him impassively for a moment, then slowly closed one eye in a conspiratorial wink. Hosato was not the only one present who appreciated the humor of the situation.

“Okay, Hayama!” Harry called. The huddle was breaking up. “It’s your funeral. If you want to die instead of Mathers, that’s your privilege. We’re willing to settle this with you.”

Moabe was suddenly between them, one hand on the butt of his blaster.