Rafe (18 page)

And another voice, lost in the din of bets made and changed, raucous laughter and jibes. “Somebody stop this. Oh, God … somebody … somebody stop this.…”

Crissa tearfully continued pounding at the hand clenching her wrist, holding her immobile.

The first wolf struck high. Tater feebly attempted to protect himself. The animal's snout slammed against his cheek, one fang catching the flesh and tearing it open, ripping away a bloody flap of skin. The impact knocked him off his feet and spun him out of the center of the pit where the second animal waited. Jomo once again attempted to reach the youngster, but because Brutus wouldn't follow, was forced to keep the remaining three at bay, swiping with his axe at one and then the other.

Tater kicked high as the second wolf leaped. His foot slipped along the sleek bristling fur as the animal lunged inside the youth's attempt to ward him off. The wolf was a hunter and knew where to strike. The yellow fangs aimed for the stomach, missed as Tater arched to get out of the way and tore deep into the boy's groin. Tater's mouth opened, but there was no scream left. Pain blotted out all ability. His legs kicked at the ravaging beast that continued to tear at his genitals. His right hand groped for the machete and found it, but the first wolf found his arm at the same time. Fangs closed on his wrist and the machete skittered away uselessly. No one heard the bone snap.

The scent of the fresh kill aroused the other wolves to a blood fury and they closed in. Tater, barely alive, was dragged across the clay floor by the crazed beasts. Jomo, free now, screamed for Brutus to follow and ran to Tater. He knocked aside one animal, kicked a second squarely in the side. The wolves jumped away as Jomo attacked. Four made it out of range of the deadly axe. The fifth jumped a trifle more slowly, reluctant to leave the soft, easy meat. The axe clove its skull, spilling the living matter on the floor of the pit to mingle with Tater's blood. Jomo freed the blade with a quick twist and turned briefly to check on Brutus. He was alone!

A slinking form behind him caught his eye and he tried to turn toward it, tripped instead on Tater's outstretched arm as the leader, the male, returned to the attack. Desperately trying to regain his balance, Jomo slipped on the blood-soaked clay and the wolf's fangs snapped, tearing his shoulder. He rolled backward, throwing the animal off before it could sink the fangs for a hanging grip, sprang to his feet and slapped aside a second beast with the flat of the axe. For a brief second he was free and managed to stoop and grab the machete. Tater twitched from time to time, a great bloody cavity where his lower vitals had been.

Brutus, berserk with fear, flailed wildly about with his machete. A streaking red-brown form flashed upward past his guard, slamming him against the wall. As fangs sank into Brutus' chest, animal and man fell to the ground. Brutus dropped the machete and began to pummel the wolf with his fists, rolling over and over until the two became a black and tawny blur on the clay floor. With a final supreme effort, Brutus loosed the wolf's vicious grasp by tearing off one of the animal's ears. The beast howled and snapped at his arm, but the black man kicked free and staggered to his feet, blood spurting from his lower neck and covering his chest in a gory, crimson bib.

The other wolves, excited by the prospects of a second kill, joined the attack on the now helpless black. Only the giant old male stayed to snap at and worry the threatened Jomo. Brutus lurched crazily toward his machete, the screams of the crowd a ringing, blurred roar in his ears. A flashing form knocked him sprawling. Bone-crushing jaws closed on his ankle, snapping the bone and nearly tearing the foot from his leg. He saw the next wolf too late, was unaware before fangs raked his face. He punched them away, his fists flailing blindly as the beast at his ankle started to drag him through his own blood across the pit.

Then cruel, gleaming jaws darted inside the wildly thrashing fists. The one-eared she-wolf closed on his throat, striking like a shark, her muzzle sinking deeply in the hard muscles, turning red and matted with his fluids. And still he continued to brawl, arms moving slower now as some machine winding down, even as the yellow-fanged canines tore through muscle and veins. Finally there was not enough blood left to sustain his life and Brutus' arms sagged lifeless to the clay. His fists, gnarled and misshapen from a life of brawling and harsh labor, slowly unclenched, finally empty of anger. When the she-wolf finally let go, his head hung back crazily on a thread of flesh.

Bets were won. The second to go down. Three-to-one said the nigger with the axe stayed the longest. Three-to-one won. And then the bets on how long he would last. One man, one nigger, against the four crazed wolves. Rum was forgotten. Two eagles said he'd kill two before the others got him. One gold eagle against ten said he'd kill them all. Five planters took twenty dollars each of the confident hundred wagered by another that the old male would be the one to take him.…

Jomo stood alone, besieged. The wolves were more careful, now, closing in steadily from all sides, hunting slowly and purposefully. One got too close, grabbed the axe blade and almost succeeded in dragging the weapon from Jomo's sweaty grasp. Jomo drove the point of the machete into the knotted muscle of the bitch's shoulder and with a yelp she let go and darted away, snapping angrily at the wound. The others ignored her, walked stiff-legged toward their prey. Jomo shrugged the wounded shoulder and, his back to the wall, moved to his right, slowly circling the pit, never allowing them to center on him, coldly waiting for the moment to take them one by one.

Rafe watched on helplessly as Jomo circled, passing directly beneath him. Even as he watched and analyzed, the cold thought echoed through his mind over and over. Ezra sent them to die. They weren't ready. The thought built its own rhythm, pounded in time with his blood. Around him the spectators were near frantic with the spectacle. Even Crissa? He dared a glance. No. He searched the onlookers. The girl was gone. At his side, Butkis began to mimic a wolf howl. Some of the others took up the crazy sound, howling in glee. The pack was closing in. The leader broke off from the others and came around to intercept Jomo's path, cutting him off. The bitches came in from three sides. Big, husky brutes, darting forward and back, forward and out again, barely outside the range of the blood-stained blades.

Butkis was beside himself with amusement. He sent a stream of spittle off to the side, twisting his body to accept a clay jug of home brew from a nearby trapper. The brass hilt of his cutlass gleamed in the sun. A hand, burnt dark from the sun of two continents, swept down to cover it.…

The she-wolf snapped at his left and Jomo clubbed her with the flat of his axe, spun and hacked a chunk of meat from her companion in front of him. The machete blade glanced off bone and bit into the clay floor. There wasn't time to bring it up. Jomo tugged, the sweat streaming from his face. He could see the third bitch coming for him, could do little more than hold out the axe and hopefully fend her off. But if the leader attacked with her.… He turned, eyes gleaming.

Then a scream, a terrible warrior's howl, and a black form hurtled from the air above. The male leaped back. The bitch was not so swift. Rafe landed on her, knocking her to one side, the full force of his weight behind the cutlass skewering the animal and driving the blade deep into the clay, pinning the writhing beast to the pit floor.

Ezra came to his feet, his drink spilling to the side, his face registering total surprise. Butkis groped at his belt, unable to accept the fact Rafe had taken his cutlass.

The male rushed Rafe even as the giant rose to his feet. He caught the animal in midair by one paw and fell back, snapping his powerful wrists as he dropped. Howling with surprise and pain, broken leg hanging limp, the startled wolf slammed into the far wall and fell to the ground. Jomo reacted quickly, a huge grin on his face and a jubilant battle cry in his throat. He shouted Rafe's name, jerked the machete free of the sticky clay and tossed it to him. Whirling to knock aside the she-wolf, he leaped close to the giant pitbuck. The two, tall and short, stood back to back in the center of the pit.

“What yo' doin' down here, nigger?” Jomo managed between gasps.

“Don't know, N'gata,” was all Rafe could say. “Don't know. Just here is all.” There was time for no more, only the exhilaration of battle.

The wolves attacked. They regrouped and came in low and snarling, darting past the blades only to be driven back by a well placed kick or two. They fell back and began circling. Rafe and Jomo waited patiently, breathing deeply and biding their time, two old hands resting and gathering their strength.

Above them Butkis grabbed a pistol and aimed at Rafe. He glanced across the yawning mouth of the pit. Ezra's eyes bore into him and the lord of Freedom shook his head, “No.” Butkis swore to himself, swore to repay the nigger below for taking his cutlass. No nigger ever.…

And finally the wolves closed in, sprung to the attack. Jomo and Rafe lunged as one at the old she-wolf. The beast, unable to halt her momentum, dove into the whirling steel trap set by her intended prey. The machete sheared away one front leg as she passed Rafe, and Jomo's axe broke her back a second later. Red fur and black skin, yellow fangs and biting blades. Rafe ducked beneath the old male as he sprang awkwardly to help his dying mate. The machete sliced the red, furry belly and the wolf crumpled to the ground, walking on his own entrails. At the same instant Jomo's axe caught the last wolf in the neck. Their dying howls rose to fill the pit, then stopped simultaneously as the two black warriors ended their pain with fiercely driven killing blows.

The only sound left was the thin whine of the skewered female, still alive and pinned to the clay floor. Rafe went to her side. The wild eyes glared up at him, full of animal hatred. The giant black raised the machete slowly, brought it down swiftly.

Suddenly, it was very, very quiet.

9

The final strains of the fiddle played out. The last dancers stood about wearily, recalled high points of the weekend, climbed into carriages and calèches and made their way into the dusk. Crissa sat in her room, well away from the window, half listening to the retreating, slim threads of sound. Little remained of the candle she so ardently watched. Soon the flame would sputter and fail and the room would return once again to darkness. She had forgotten to bolt the door and regretted the omission when it opened to admit Captain Bennett.

“Crissa?” Steve called softly.

“I'm here.” He closed the door, walked to her. “Where were you?” she asked dully.

“Tapper Solomon came across fresh sign. Atakapan. Early this morning. Maybe a hunting party, maybe a raiding party, maybe just snooping around. I went out to look and see if I could figure out what they were up to.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“There wasn't time. Besides, you were asleep.”

“No. I mean the pit. Why didn't you tell me about the pit?”

Steve sighed, crossed and sat with his back against the window. “I didn't think you'd understand. And after seeing you with that ol' nigger in New Orleans.…”

“You are so right. I do not understand. Men butchered for sport? You call that entertainment? The very idea is disgusting, nauseating. Even my own mother was there to watch.”

“This isn't Boston, Crissa. Oh, I'm not in favor of it myself, but they
are
only darkies. Some even manage to win their freedom. Even the niggers figure it's worth the chance. And if they weren't fighting in the pit they'd be cutting up each other and causing Lord knows how much trouble among the peaceful darkies. Those pitbucks are criminals and troublemakers.”

“Rafe was no criminal.”

“Who?”

“I recognized him. He came here with Ezra five years ago. An intelligent, sensitive young man.”

Steve rose abruptly, stepped close to her. “Rafe,” he said disgustedly, “is the worst of the lot. Worse than any of those they killed in the insurrection in Saint Charles Parish. He's killed over forty niggers, two or three white men and some Indians to boot. He hacked them to death with a machete. And you talk of him as if you were childhood.…”

“Stop it. Please leave. Go on back to … wherever you're going.”

“This is Louisiana, Crissa. It's frontier. Your Boston-learned code of ethics and morals is meaningless out here. You should know that.”

Crissa did not answer. Steve stared at her a moment more, then shrugged in a helpless gesture of resignation. He turned at the door, sudden anger rising to spite her childishness. “By the way. They'll be whipping your old friend. The sensitive, intelligent one.”

Crissa spun in her chair. “Why?”

“He broke up the match. Jumped in and helped one of the other niggers fight off the dogs. Bets had to be called off. A lot of upset people.”

Crissa was out of her chair and pushing past him through the door before he finished. The house held only a few revelers. Most had left for home and the few left inside were women waiting for their men who had gone outside for the whipping. Crissa rushed through the hall and stormed onto the front gallery to find the front yard empty. She ran to the end of the gallery where she could see a crowd gathered behind the line of trees separating house from compound. Several torches illuminated the rapidly gathering darkness. She caught her breath and ran off the porch, hurried toward the circle of burning brands.

The crowd of men gave way before Crissa's frantic importunings. Inside the circle she saw Ezra standing with hands behind his back, his toadlike body held primly erect. In front of him stood Butkis, a cruel cat o' nine tails gripped in his swarthy fist. Towering over the guard's none too slight bulk stood Rafe, his back naked and glistening in the flickering light.

“This is gonna pleasure me, nigger,” Butkis snarled. “Oughta have a bullet through ya' for touchin' my cutlass. Yore lucky Mistah Clayton don't see it that way. Now I'm gonna make ya' feel not so lucky.”