Saturday afternoonin the Imperial Hotel.Regulars. Laughter.A squeezebox. An old mandances a stiff-jointed jig.Alone by the window, Kellysips on an ale,gazing at High Street's passing parade.A stocky, bull-necked man walks by,jolting him out of his reverie.Bloody Wright!Wild enters the bar.Kelly turns, glares.Words fly.About a stolen horse-Isaiah Wright: sentence eighteen months,for illegally using, not stealing;Edward Kelly: sentence three years,for receiving the same beast,though he didn't know it was stolen.Wild hadn't bothered to tell him that.Ned also hadn't forgottenthe arrest by Senior Constable Hall-helped by others, the bloated Scothad tried to kill him.(His mother was certainly rightwhen she told him as a boy,The police have it in for our lot, son.)This is the first occasionNed and Wild have seen each othersince doing time.Kelly rises from his stool, fists clenched.Wright, a notorious fighter,calmly stands his ground. All right, Ned. If that's what you want . . .The sporty publican, Rogers,a well-known organizerof wrestling bouts, fist-fights, cricket and skittles,nimbly steps in.Gentleman, gentlemen!No fighting in here.If you really want to settle this . . .He outfits the combatantsin boxing attire-white singlets, silk shorts, lightweight shoes-then calls to his off-sider,Take over. I may be some time.Rogers, the two men and half the pubproceed to the sporting groundon the banks of Spring Creek,below the fruit and hop garden.Others join them along the way.Rogers takes center stage.He extends his arms,establishing distance between the two men,both physically impressive,particularly for the time:Kelly, age nineteen, six feet tall, 12 stone;Wright, twenty-five, five-eleven, a stone and a half heavier.The spectators, wide-eyed, expectant,form an enthusiastic circle.Among them, many faces familiarto Kelly and Wright: Brickey Williamson,Joe Byrne, Aaron Sherritt, Tom Lloyd . . .Rogers holds forth:The Old London Rules, gentlemen.No Marquis of Queensberry here!The crowd cheer loudly.Eyes locked, the two men nod.Rogers flourishes a stickthen draws a line in the dirt.Mr. Kelly and Mr. Wright-to the mark!Wild charges forward, swinging.His first punch,a roundhouse right,would have knocked a man's head offif it had connected.Kelly, watchful, sees it coming and ducks.Wright swishes the air.Ned's first blow,a short right to the solar plexus,is thrown from the heels.Wild doubles over, lets out a groan,for his trouble gets two jabs to the head.He stumbles back, hands up, blinking,trying to clear his vision.He smiles.Fighters always smilewhen they know they're in trouble.Momentarily, he sees two Neds.One will be plenty.For much of the round, they stalk each other,feinting and throwing inquiring jabs.Wild tries another haymakerbut it misses by a good two feet.A straight left from Ned to the nose draws blood.End of Round One.The next few rounds.Ned, more scientific, picks off the taller, bulkier Wildwith stinging jabs.Then Wild, veteran of many battles,starts to fight more cleverly,no longer recklessly swingingand leaving himself an easy target. …