The Warriors (57 page)

He struggled into his trousers, shushed Nancy’s next warning, then patted her hair.

“Gonna be all right, hon. We’ll have a fancy time right till the cock crows.”

He left the Ballard beside his hat and returned to the front. “Stand back two or three paces, if you please, Mr. Brown.”

The shadow shrank. Jeremiah raised the flap. Brown stood at the far edge of a pool of butter-colored light between the main and secondary tents. Quickly Jeremiah eyed the other man. Smiled.

“You don’t mind if I’m cautious? Show me the linings of your coat. Spread ’em wide.”

Brown looked annoyed, but did as Jeremiah asked. No bulges or unexplained slits were visible. He gave a satisfied nod and left the tent.

“Didn’t mean to talk so sharp to your boy—” He dug in the pocket holding the bills from the sale of the latest kill. “How much will that be for all night?”

Brown had his hat in his right hand and was mopping his pate with the other. He dropped the hat, shot his arms forward, and caught Jeremiah’s ears. “Damn cheating Reb!” he cried.

Brown jerked Jeremiah’s head forward and simultaneously lowered his own. The top of his skull hit Jeremiah’s face like a log ram.

Angry and dazed, Jeremiah backstepped. Brown released him. The impact of Brown’s blow multiplied the images he saw. Blood began to trickle from his nose.

He’d never come up against a man who fought in such unorthodox fashion. He didn’t know what to expect. He staggered to the side, hands hunting a support. Brown sidled forward, lunged for his shoulder.

Jeremiah managed to elude the grasping hands. He put his left foot behind him. His bare sole came down hard on a sharp stone embedded in the ground. He teetered, off balance. Brown lowered his head and charged.

He butted Jeremiah just above the belly. With a grunt, Jeremiah reeled over and slammed on his spine, conscious of Nancy outside the tent, her soiled wrapper clutched to her breasts.

Butt Brown landed on top of him, both knees in Jeremiah’s midsection. Jeremiah’s vision cleared just enough to give him a sharp look at the saloon keeper’s face. At the very least, the man meant to maim him.

“Nancy, the rifle!” As he called to her, the edge of Brown’s hand chopped his throat. He gagged.

A second, even less clearly defined figure appeared behind the young prostitute, then scampered away. Alice’s customer.

Brown had Jeremiah’s ears again. He lifted Jeremiah’s head and pounded it against the ground.

Then again,
slam.

Jeremiah threw a punch. It grazed Brown’s jaw but did no damage. Brown’s lips peeled back. His nose shone with sweat. Blood smeared Jeremiah’s mouth and chin. He nearly fainted when Brown rammed his head down a third time.

“Think you can come in here”—Brown bashed his forehead with a heavy fist—“high-assed and snotty and break my rules?
No,
sir!”

A knee bore into Jeremiah’s crotch, the pressure excruciating. Brown had taken him by surprise. The advantage had belonged to the stocky gambler ever since. Brown’s face was dark as a beet, his eyes pitiless.

“Rifle
—” Jeremiah croaked as Brown chopped his throat again.

Nancy hesitated. Brown’s knee jerked, digging. Jeremiah almost screamed from the pain in his groin.

Once more Brown resorted to ear pulling. He tugged Jeremiah’s head up and snapped his own head forward. The scarred skull loomed, shooting straight at Jeremiah’s eyes.

He managed to wrench onto his side. Brown had meant to knock him out with a butt to the forehead. He absorbed the blow on his ear. His head rang.

He wedged his hand between his body and Brown’s. Found the man’s belt buckle. Hoisted with all his strength and succeeded in hurling Brown off.

When Jeremiah reached his feet, he wobbled. Blood and mucus continued to drain from his nose. His head and his testicles hurt unbearably. Where was Brown?

He found him, indistinct in the lantern’s glow. The saloon keeper was disheveled but steady. He lowered his head. Ran at Jeremiah.

Something hard jabbed Jeremiah’s side. He saw a flash of metal, caught hold and yanked the Ballard away from Nancy. He dodged clumsily, twisted, and booted Brown’s behind. The kick and the momentum of Brown’s charge hurled him to the ground. His jaw snapped hard against the dirt. Jeremiah’s first advantage.

He pressed it. Using the Ballard as a club, he swung down from straight overhead. He broke the stock on Brown’s skull.

Brown yelled. Jeremiah hurt too much to stop or be merciful. The Ballard barrel seemed to fuse with his hands as he kicked Brown’s ribs.

The stocky man retched, flopped onto his back. A hand brushed Jeremiah’s forearm.

“Leave him be, Joseph! He’s whipped.”

Nancy’s words made no impression. Both pride and body had been injured too badly. He knelt on Brown’s waistcoat, the positions of a few moments ago reversed. Gripping the Ballard at muzzle and breech, he shoved it down like a bar across Brown’s throat.

The man’s eyes popped. Fingers groped for Jeremiah’s face. He straightened his arms. Pushing.
Pushing
—

Brown couldn’t reach him.

He laughed at the sudden and pathetic fright in the saloon keeper’s eyes. It took only a few moments more to cut off the man’s air supply. Brown’s discolored tongue shot between his clenching teeth. His body arched three times, each spasm less violent than the one before. Then he collapsed. Jeremiah didn’t lift the rifle for another thirty seconds.

When he staggered to his feet, he was still shaking with rage directed mostly at himself. The saloon keeper’s treachery and wild fighting style had nearly cost him his life.

Alice lifted the tent flap, took one peek at his red smeared face, and darted back inside. He realized Nancy was weeping.

“Joseph?”

“What?”

“Is he—?”

“Yes.”

“I gave you the gun just so you could scare him off!”

He barely heard. His rage subsided, replaced by a forced calm. This unexpected turn changed the situation completely. He had to flee—without delay.

“Hand me my clothes, Nancy. Appears I won’t be seeing you for a while.”

Nancy stood with the wrapper fallen away from one reddened nipple. His eyes fixed on her wet face. For a moment weary despair swept over him. She was actually sorry the crazy bastard was dead! And terrified of him because he’d done the deed.

“I said I want my clothes, goddamn it!”

Nancy rushed inside. His heartbeat was slowing. He stepped to the edge of the annex, glanced toward the main street. Against the smoky glare of lamps and the bulk of the train, men passed back and forth, making so much racket the scuffling had gone unheard.

That gave him a margin of time. He’d wake Kola, hitch the mules, and be rolling across the prairie in fifteen minutes. Kola would have to drive. He felt too groggy.

Nancy brought his hat, boots, shirt, and long underwear. He held out the Ballard.

She wouldn’t touch it.

His fondness for her was swept away by disgust. Were all whores like this? Miserable with their pimps, and just as miserable without them?

He laid the rifle on the ground. Used his shirtsleeve to swab some of the mucus and blood from his mouth and chin. Then he climbed into his drawers, donned his shirt, and pulled up his suspenders.

“Joseph, you didn’t need to kill—”

He pointed the Ballard at her exposed breast. “Don’t go soft on me, hon. What do you think he meant to do to me? Now listen. You stay in that tent half an hour before you fetch anyone to look after the body.”

His dark eyes held pinpoint reflections of the lantern. His lips thinned to little more than a slit.

“If anybody comes chasing me sooner than half an hour, Nancy, I promise I’ll see you again. Someplace. I won’t be coming for your services, either.”

“God.” A shiver. “You aren’t the kind of man I thought you were.”

“I can say the same about you. Brown was a no-good, reckless—”

“He took care of me!”

“You expect me to stand still and let some dishonorable son of a bitch jump me and put out the lights? No, ma’am! Get inside!”

He jerked the Ballard at her. She reacted like a startled rabbit, hurrying to the sanctuary of the tent.

“Half an hour—no sooner!” he called. Unsteadily, he walked toward the rear of the annex.

For a moment he felt sick at his stomach. Why did it always end the same way?

Because you enjoy doing a man to death. Don’t deny it. You started to enjoy it the moment you pulled the trigger on Serena Rose.

All right, he
had
taken pleasure from watching Brown’s last moments. But the gratification had been costly. It created a whole host of new problems.

He’d have to change his name again. He probably should have changed it before he reached the railhead. That Texas boy he’d foolishly spared was no doubt raising a halloo down south. Searchers might come this far north. They’d discover Joseph Kingston had come this far as well.

Fuzzy-headed and still in pain, he staggered on. He passed three more gambling establishments and pulled up short. In the leak of light from the street, he spied Kola’s empty blanket beneath the wagon.

And two men, one unfamiliar, squared off against each other.

They saw him. It was too late to run.

A few minutes earlier, Michael had decided to satisfy his curiosity about the stranger before returning to the bunk car to turn in.

He cut between Tidwell’s and the packed, noisy Bird Cage. At the rear of the tents he stopped, disappointed. The blanket beneath the wagon had been abandoned. The Indian had evidently gone off to search for his friend.

As he turned to retrace his steps, the corner of his eye caught movement at the far edge of the saloon tent. A shambling figure appeared around the corner.

Michael’s stomach spasmed. He recognized Butt Brown’s bearded helper. The young man carried some kind of club.

Toby slouched through the shadow cast by the Bird Cage. “Hullo there, mick.”

Michael drew a deep breath. Had Brown’s helper been following him while he strolled? There could be no other explanation for the young man’s abrupt appearance.

“Butt sent me to see you.”

“A few weeks ago, you and I said all that was necessary.”

“Thought we did,” Toby agreed. “But we hear you’re still spoutin’ off about Butt.”

“The way I answer questions about your boss is my affair.” Michael tried to act relaxed as he swung to the left, in the direction of the main street. “Good night—”

He heard the hiss of air as the maul handle came down. He sidestepped, but not soon enough. The handle slammed his right shoulder.

He lurched, dropped to one knee. Toby jumped in front of him, grinning.

“Plan to give you a few more like that. Then maybe you’ll plug your mouth. Don’t you make it too easy on me, though. Robs it of all the sport.”

Quietly, Michael said, “I’m not going to fight you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No.”

“Damn coward, that’s what you are! I knowed it the first time we met up.”

Toby Harkness had shifted to a position directly between the mercantile and gambling tents. Michael’s path was blocked.

He climbed to his feet and forced his hands open; they’d fisted almost without his being aware of it.

“Stand out of the way.”

Toby hawked and blew spit on his trousers.

“All right,” Michael said, his anger bubbling so fiercely he could barely contain it. He pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees. “I’ll take another route.”

He wrenched his head as the maul handle whistled in from behind. Despite his quick move, the wood clipped him alongside the ear. His hand shot up to cover the side of his head. Toby giggled.

Anger shone in Michael’s eyes. “Back off! I’m not going to fight.”

“I told Butt you was yella.” Toby poked Michael’s cheek with the smoothed end of the handle. “Yella from tip to toe.”

Michael jerked his head out of the way, narrowly avoiding the next thrust. He refused to shout for help. But neither would he answer Brown’s thug in kind.

Just stay calm. You knew one day it would come to something like this.

“Yella dog, yella dog!” Toby chanted. The handle gigged Michael beneath the eye.

Toby gave the wood a twist, then stabbed it into his midsection. “Ain’t you gonna howl for me, Mr. Yella Dog?”

“You witless bastard!”

“Hey, the dog can bark! Bark some more—” He took a shuffling step. “Come on, let’s hear a yelp.”

Toby smacked the handle lightly against the ear he’d already hit.

“I said yelp!”

The handle struck Michael’s temple.

“Yelp!”

He brought the handle down on Michael’s right shoulder.

A pitiless inner voice spoke the truth of it.
There is no way out of this unless you go after him.

He wanted to do it. The desire was like a dizzying drunkenness.

Growing incoherent, Toby rammed the handle into Michael’s belly. “You yella mick fucker!
Act like a man!”
When Toby spit this time, the moist gob landed beside Michael’s nose.

He cursed and surprised Toby by fastening both hands on the maul handle.

Don’t!

He was too enraged to heed the cautioning voice, or care about the vow. He tore the handle out of Toby’s fingers. The younger man was startled, slow to react. Michael raised the handle over his head, his clenched hand white.

Eyes on the length of wood, Toby began to retreat.

DON’T!

With a slashing outward motion, Michael flung the handle. It turned end over end, clattering against the wagon. He turned his back on Toby—perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever done—and started to walk.

He felt neither victorious nor proud of himself, only ashamed.

He heard Toby run for him, heavy boots scuffing the ground. He turned. Toby dug in his heels a couple of feet away. A smile crept back on his oafish face.

Slowly Toby flexed his fingers.

“What the hell’s going on?”

The white man with the streaked hair lurched out of the dark, a rifle in one hand, hat and boots in the other. The white man’s sleeve was marked with blood. So was his face.