The Texans (21 page)

“You know better than that. You just don't like Odell, and don't want to admit he pulled your fat out of the fire,” Son said.

“You're damned right I don't like him. He's too cocky,” Dub said. “And I've just about had all of your taking up for him.”

Son had his rifle cradled in the bend of his left elbow, but he turned slightly so that the muzzle was near to pointing at Dub's chest. “Now Dub, I know that look you're getting, and I'm too old to go knuckle and skull with you. You give me trouble and I'll split your noggin with a bullet, and not lose any sleep over it either.”

Dub's temper was known to be as volatile as a tornado, but he wasn't mad enough yet not to realize that Son would do just what he said. He clenched his beefy fists and stared past Son at Odell.

“You can have the hide. I've killed panthers before,” Odell said. He would have liked to have the pelt, but it wasn't worth Son having to shoot the bully.

“You're full of shit,” Dub said. “You ain't shot a big cat before.”

Odell knew he ought to keep quiet, but he couldn't. “One time back in Georgia I thought my hounds had a coon treed, but when I climbed the tree to find him and knock him out, I found out it was a panther.”

“Are you claiming that you killed a lion with a club?” Dub asked.

“I ain't
claiming
anything. That cat wasn't near as big as this one, but I killed him just the same,” Odell said. “He wasn't any too happy about me climbing up in the tree with him, and it was a bit of a tussle there for a while.”

Dub looked from Odell to Son's rifle barrel and finally laughed. “You two are a pair. Take that damned pelt if you want it. My horse probably wouldn't let me load it on him anyway. That bronc has been trying to buck me off at the least excuse ever since I bought him.”

Dub didn't lend a hand while Odell and Son attempted to load the lion on Crow's back. The horse was having no part of it, and kicked the lion out of their hands and pawed a dent in the crown of Odell's hat before they gave up their effort. They skinned the lion and stuffed a few of the choicer cuts of meat into Odell's saddlebags. Dub rode up out of the canyon and left them before they coaxed Crow into letting them tie the bundled hide behind his saddle.

“That was a big cat,” Son said as he mounted. “I'd guess him to be every bit of eight foot from his nose to the tip of his tail.”

“He'll look pretty good tacked up on a wall.”

Son rubbed his whiskers and grimaced. “You're gonna have trouble with Dub. There ain't no two ways about it.”

“I figure I can handle him.” Odell swung his leg over his saddle and followed Son out of the canyon.

“You'd best just stay as far away from him as you can,” Son said. “I believe your story about that cat back in Georgia, but whupping a catamount would be child's play compared to fighting Dub Harris.”

“I ain't never been licked in a fistfight yet,” Odell said a little proudly.

“Well, you just tackle old Dub if you're of a mind to. I can already see that I can't tell a scrapper like you anything about fighting.” Son wouldn't say another word for the whole trip back to the Prussian's evening camp.

Odell settled in for his share of supper around the fire while Son reported to the Prussian. Odell found the panther meat strong and stringy, and settled for his tiny share of the venison. The other men were apparently so hungry that they didn't mind eating meat that tasted like cat piss and praised the manly quality of their meal. More than one of them came to Odell to admire his lion pelt and to hear how he had killed it. Although he downplayed what he had done, Dub still glared at him across the fire. The fact that the men razzed the bully unmercifully for being saved by a kid didn't help matters any. Odell remained quiet and attempted to guide the conversation elsewhere.

Dub tried to fend off the teasing of his comrades good-naturedly, but every time he looked at Odell he got a little madder. It bothered him that so many of the men set store by the overgrown kid. He couldn't understand why they were so impressed by his determination to avenge his grandfather and save his sweetheart, and the fact that he had ridden the Staked Plains alone. The kid just had more than his share of dumb luck, as was evident by his finding of Bowie's knife. Dub thought he saw Odell smirk at him several times, and he was sure that that the boy was gloating over his recent embarrassment of him. And that was what he hated the worst about Odell—the fact that he wasn't scared of him. In Dub's experience, big lunks like Odell always thought they were tougher than somebody shorter.

Odell was scraping a little meat and fat from the lion hide with his Bowie knife, and the sight of two things that Dub envied brought his temper to a boil. He reached out with one foot and kicked the fire as if by accident, knocking sparks all over Odell.

“Watch it,” Odell said irritably.

Dub stood quickly. “Are you looking for trouble?”

Odell took a deep breath and pointed casually with his blade at Dub. He didn't mean the gesture as a threat and did it without thinking. “I reckon it was an accident.”

“I'll teach you to pull a knife on me.” Dub immediately drew his own knife and started around the fire.

Odell lunged backward off the saddle he was sitting on and barely managed to avoid the swipe of Dub's blade. He sucked in his gut with his back arched and his arms thrown out as Dub's backhand stroke cut a long slit in the belly of his leather hunting shirt. Odell stabbed with his Bowie and missed badly enough that Dub caught his wrist. Dub tried to wrench the blade away, and stuck his leg behind Odell in an attempt to backheel him to the ground. Odell skipped over the extended leg and caught Dub's knife wrist as he reared it above his head for a downstroke.

The two of them slung each other around the fire in an attempt to free their knives. Odell strained to pull away from Dub's viselike grip, and then gave suddenly, punching the heavy butt of his knife handle into the other man's temple. Dub was knocked to one knee, but Odell took a deep cut across his thigh for his trouble when he tried to close. Dub got to his feet with blood seeping from his scalp, and the two of them circled slowly while they looked for an opening to kill each other.

The sharp click of a cocking hammer and the cold steel of a pistol barrel pressed against his temple stopped Dub in his tracks. His eyes grew wide and white in the dim light as he looked to the Prussian at his side without moving his head. The man's hand was as steady as a rock and his finger was on the trigger. Son Ballard stepped in front of Odell with his rifle ready.

“Kentucky Bob, you stay out of this,” Son said to Dub's brother, who was slipping closer to the fire with his rifle. “I don't want to shoot one Harris, much less two.”

“Herr Dub,” the Prussian said coolly, “I can't afford to lose a single man, but if there is to be any killing, I will be the one to do it.”

Dub released his knife without argument when the Prussian reached for it. Dub knew that Son Ballard might give a man fair warning, but it was a wonder the Prussian hadn't already shot him.

“That goes for you too,” Son said to Odell. “Put up your knife.”

Odell sheathed the Bowie while he kept an eye on Dub over Son's shoulder. “He came hunting me.”

“I was just going to whittle on him a little,” Dub said to the Prussian. “You can take your pistol down if you want.”

All of the Texans had gathered close. Most of them didn't look too happy with Dub, but there were a few that seemed generally enthusiastic to see a scrap. Odell realized that nobody believed he could whip Dub, and the thought bothered him greatly. He'd been able to straighten a horseshoe with his bare hands since he was thirteen, and there wasn't a man among them that reached his chin except for Placido. He was tired of being treated like a kid, and thought it high time they all learned who the bull of the woods was. If it took whipping a knothead like Dub Harris to gain some respect, then that was what he was going to do.

“Fists are good enough for me. If Dub there wants a licking, then I'll give him one,” Odell said.

Dub smiled, but his eyes were crazy. “You've got to come out from behind all these skirts if we're going to hug.”

The Prussian scowled at Odell before lowering his pistol and stepping aside. “Let him loose, Son. These men seem bound and determined to butt heads.”

Son winced at Odell before stepping away. “I'm telling you, it's gonna hurt.”

Odell cracked the knuckles of both his fists and loosened his big shoulders in his shirt. “Don't worry, I like to fight.”

“Uh-huh.” Son nodded his head and motioned Odell toward Dub with a grand sweep of his hand. “Have at it, Killer.”

Nobody was quite sure what Odell expected, but it was obvious that what he got was no part of his thinking. Maybe he thought he and Dub would scratch their feet in the grass, or spit across a line in the dirt before fighting. However, he learned in a hurry that Dub had done all the talking he intended to do. Just as Odell was about to spout off something tough-sounding, Dub charged forward swinging both fists. Whatever it was that Odell was going to say was stopped by one of Dub's meaty, scarred fists planting itself on his cheek. It was as if a mule had kicked Odell in the head; somehow the sawed-off brawler managed to kick him on the knee and slug him in the face once more as he was falling.

Odell hit the ground flat on his back, and he was dimly aware of Dub's boots impacting with his torso. The punishment was mercifully short and Odell was soon left where he lay. His head felt like it had been busted wide open, and everything in his body screamed at him to just stay down. He rose to his hands and knees and turned his head enough to see Dub's boots a few feet away. He knew that as soon as he attempted to stand Dub would be on him again, but his shame was as great as the anger rising up in him.

“Stay down, kid. You don't want any more.” There was a hint of laughter in Dub's voice.

Odell managed to get one leg under him and lurched to his feet. Dub immediately closed with him and Odell barely managed to duck enough to take a punch off the top of his head. His brain refused to think properly, and his legs seemed to have lost all their strength. He fell into Dub, trying to smother the swinging fists and to use his size to his advantage. He caught Dub's thick neck under his left arm and grasped the back of the man's belt with his other hand, hurling him across the fire. He staggered through the shower of embers and landed a long, looping right hand to Dub's ear that tore it half off. Dub bellowed like a bull and bobbed and weaved and ducked so that Odell busted his left fist on the top of Dub's head.

Odell had never hit anything that didn't go down to stay, and he cocked his right fist for a mighty blow that would have downed a horse. He intended to end the fight right then and there, but he was way too slow. Dub stepped inside the ponderous swing and hit him twice to the body and head-butted him under the chin. It was as if every time Odell got the space and time to throw a punch, one of Dub's was already hitting him. They grunted and strained in the smoky dust, and Dub's blows landed with dull, meaty thuds. In a matter of seconds, Odell lay on the ground once more with his face in the dirt.

“Stay down, Odell.” Son took a hesitant step forward.

Odell heard none of them. He scooted his knees up under him and struggled to push himself up with his forearms. There was something in his eyes that might have been his own blood. He recognized what he thought were Dub's knees and lunged weakly forward. Dub laughed and dodged easily back and let Odell fall on his face again.

“You ain't worth the trouble.” Dub dusted off his hands and spit at him.

“We ain't done yet,” Odell croaked.

“You just get up again,” Dub jeered. “You're going to fiddle around and make me mad.”

“He's had enough,” Son said. He and the Prussian stepped forward and grabbed Odell's arms as he wobbled to his feet.

“That kid's lucky I didn't give it to him worse. He better walk softly around me from now on, or I'll finish what I started.” Dub turned his back.

Odell was too weary to put up much of a fight against the hold Son and the Prussian had on him, but he leaned out with his battered face jutted forward. “You come back here. I ain't licked yet.”

Dub ignored him and walked away. The Prussian and Son guided Odell to his saddle, and the young man slumped down on it with his forearms propped on his knees. Everyone was staring at him, and he wiped the blood and the slobber from his face and stared back. His right eye was already swelling badly, and blood poured from his mouth where he had bit his tongue.

“I guess they're all laughing at me,” he said after a long while.

“Nobody's laughing at you,” Son said.

“Dub ain't near as big as me.”

“Yeah, but he's twice as mean. None of us doubt your grit.”

“I sure didn't put up much of a fight.” Odell's breath was still coming in ragged gasps, and his sore tongue made it even harder to talk.

“I'd say you made a fair showing. At least you busted his ear. That's something,” Son said. “Hell, there ain't a man here that can whip that cranky sonofabitch, as bad as many of them would like to.”

Somebody sat Odell's hat on his head, and a few more men walked by and nodded at him in passing. It came as a shock to him, but truly, nobody seemed to be laughing at him. In fact they seemed to approve of something he had done.

“Get up and dust yourself off,” Son said, “and don't be trying to hide your marks. You earned 'em.”

“I'll get him next time,” Odell muttered.

“By
Gott
, I believe you do love a fight.” The Prussian chuckled.

Odell examined his swollen face with his fingertips. “I reckon I've still got a bit to learn at that.”