“Well, lad,” Lancaster said with a smile after what seemed an eternity of staring silently at each other. “I understand ye’ve a matter of some importance to discuss with me. I’ll tell you now, nae Guernica nor I will be joining you on your trek back home.”
“I have come as a duly appointed messenger of the law,” Gary Wayne replied. “I have followed your trail these weeks diligently with one aim in mind: To bring you back to face justice.”
“As I just this very minute said…”
Gary Wayne spoke over his former mentor, and as he spoke his gaze turned to steel and he gritted his teeth. “But now that I have found you, I do not believe I will honor my mandate.” Here he pulled the star off his jacket lapel and threw in the dust at Gringo’s feet. “Now that I am here, I aim to exact my own justice for the death of my own blood.”
Lancaster’s smile faltered. “What blood is that then?”
“Garrett,” The anger in Gary Wayne’s voice was only barely held in check. “You ran him over in the performance of his duty and sped on without so much as pausing to spit on his corpse.”
“Laird ha’mercy,” Lancaster’s jaw fell, and there was no sign of his former sardonic humor. “Gary Wayne, as God is my witness, I had nae idea.”
Gary Wayne dismounted Gringo and stood within arm’s reach of Lancaster. “You killed my baby brother, Lancaster. It matters not at all that you did it unknowingly while riding away with your trollop.” Lancaster winced at that and set his jaw, but otherwise said nothing. Gary Wayne continued through clenched teeth. “Blood calls for blood, Lancaster,” Gary Wayne backhanded Lancaster with his right hand, spinning his head with a snap, “and I demand satisfaction.”
Lancaster turned his head to face Gary Wayne again. “Pistols at ten paces, then?” He rubbed his cheek.
Gary Wayne chuckled grimly. “If I wanted to shoot you, Lancaster, I’d have shot you last night on the parapet. I aim to kill you, but I aim to kill you with my hands.”
Lancaster looked at Boris. “You are, I take it, his second?”
Boris had not considered it before, but now he nodded curtly without a word. Gary Wayne smiled grimly at his partner all anger at Boris’ earlier intercession forgotten.
Lancaster then turned to Corporal Blumenthal. “Well, Danny Boy,” said a hint of his former humor returning. “Will ye stand as my own second? I’m sure we can agree to conduct this affair here before the gates so ye’ll nae leave your station.”
Corporal Blumenthal looked nervous and gave no response. “Of course, ye will,” Lancaster said slapping the young sentry on his shoulder. “Good lad.”
Boris dismounted his horse and stepped beside Gary Wayne. Lancaster removed his gun belts and handed them to Blumenthal. Gary Wayne stood staring daggers at Lancaster until Boris cleared his throat. Gary Wayne turned to him with a questioning scowl. Boris looked pointedly from Gary Wayne to his gun belt. Then with an exasperated sigh, Gary Wayne removed his own pistol and handed it to Boris who slung it over his shoulder. Lancaster then whistled for a stable boy gawking from the gates and motioned for him to take both Valliant and Gringo.
“See that they are both watered, fed, and rubbed down,” Lancaster instructed him before turning to Gary Wayne. “I suspect we best get this star--”
Gary Wayne cold cocked him with a roundhouse punch to the right side of his head, causing his face to whip around in time for a well-placed hammer punch to his jaw. Lancaster reeled for a second, giving Gary Wayne an opportunity to deliver a swift kick to Lancaster’s gut, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall back. At which point Gary Wayne fell upon his adversary straddling his chest and pummeling his face with such speed his arms all but disappeared in a blur.
Corporal Blumenthal seemed nervous about this turn of events and turned to Boris as his fellow second. “I’m not sure that was, strictly speaking, a legal move.”
“I am sure you’re right,” Boris agreed. “Why don’t you go over there and tell Gary Wayne that?”
Blumenthal looked at the ginger-haired young cowboy who was by now straddling Lancaster and pummeling his face into a bloody pulp. “I could be wrong,” he admitted. “Best to leave it by.”
Boris removed his watch from his vest and flipped the cover open. The face read about a five minutes to twelve. He better wrap this up quickly, he thought, before Lancaster has a chance to turn this around.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when Gary Wayne’s balance seemed to slip for an instant, giving Lancaster the opening he needed to slip out from under his attacker and scramble away far enough to gain his feet again.
Gary Wayne, for his part, fell face forward when Lancaster squirmed out of his grasp, and before he had time to pull himself up, Lancaster had run at him delivering a swift, though relatively weak, kick to Gary Wayne’s rib.
“I am sorry for Garrett’s death,” Lancaster said as Gary Wayne rolled to his side trying to catch his wind, “but I will be damned if I let you kill me over it.”
“Blood,” Gary Wayne wheezed as his wind came back to him and he clambered to his feet, “calls for blood.”
Lancaster stopped and stared at his opponent, a hint of frustration in his voice. “I don’t even know what that means.” Then he lowered his head and bull-rushed Gary Wayne, but the younger man easily sidestepped, causing Lancaster to stumble. He managed to steady himself before Gary Wayne could reach out to topple him over.
Gary Wayne had started strong, but he quickly began losing his steam as the morning wore into noon. They fought this way, neither one gaining a definitive upper hand, until half past midday when Gary Wayne, rising from an awkward stumble, shook his head to clear it. Lancaster took this opportune distraction and, diving in with his balled fist, punched Gary Wayne’s chin so hard his jaw snapped, and even from across the field, Boris and Blumenthal heard a sickening crack. Gary Wayne stumbled further backward, trying in vain to regain his footing as Lancaster spun on his left leg and with his right leg raised high, kicked Gary Wayne in the side of his head. Lancaster was not without injury, though. His mud-spattered white trousers ripped at the seat when his foot connected.
Gary Wayne tried to regain his strength after that, and while he did manage to hold his own for a while, it soon became clear to everyone but the two combatants that Gary Wayne was done for. He did manage to sideswipe Lancaster’s legs out from under him once, and he got in a well-placed groin punch or two, but for all intents and purposes, all his tuck was gone.
Lancaster seemed unaware, however. He continued to stomp and kick and pummel Gary Wayne’s body with a vengeance. Indeed, Lancaster himself seemed a mindless animal, no longer speaking words, but merely grunting emphatically as he stomped down on Gary Wayne’s limbs and repeatedly kicked him in the head.
After hearing the crack of Gary Wayne’s knees, and no accompanying groan from Gary Wayne, Boris feared that his friend was dead and tried to stop the fight, but Lancaster seemed oblivious. It finally took both Boris and Blumenthal to pull Lancaster off Gary Wayne’s broken body, and even then, he tried to rush back and continue his assault when the two showed signs of loosening their grips.
“Por favor. Let me see him,” a woman’s voice came from behind them. They turned to see Guernica approaching.
She looked pale and physically sickened by the spectacle, but she came to Lancaster and gently cradled his face. At her touch, Lancaster’s eyes came into focus, and he whispered her name. “They came for you,” he whispered. “They came straight up to the gate to take you away.”
“Shhhh,” she cooed, “Hush now, mi vida. It is over now.”
“I’ll nae let them take you.” Lancaster’s voice was stronger now, and while he spoke to Guernica, he stared at Boris.
“Si, mi vida.” Guernica pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and wiped blood and sweat from Lancaster’s face. “I know.”
Boris moved to his friend’s body and felt for a pulse. It was there but thready. His breaths were shallow, and his reflexes u
nresponsive. Blumenthal followed and knelt beside Boris.
“Is he…?”
“He is alive,” Boris said turning his head over his shoulder to Lancaster, “but only barely.”
Lancaster’s returning gaze was cold, and he spoke in a seething monotone through gritted teeth. “Get that son of a bitch to bed and out of my sight, and do it now.” Then, holding his trouser seat closed as Guernica led him back into the fort, “Every bleedin’ time I fight, me tailor is the only man who profits.”
Blumenthal helped Boris lift Gary Wayne, and between them they carried him to the fort infirmary where the camp surgeon, a man named Gaius, admitted that the best he could do was bandage his wounds, splint his broken arms and legs, and give him a bunk to rest in.
“I would not advise moving him for at least a week,” Gaius said, shaking his head, “but it may be academic if he cannot be treated by a better equipped doctor than I. At least give him a few days rest here before heading out. I will petition General Wicke to allow you to remain at least until the day after tomorrow.”
“Much obliged,” Boris said. “If you’ve no objections and a free bunk, I’d be beholden to you if I could remain here for that time. I don’t suppose there is much catching up to be done between myself and Lancaster.”
“I don’t suppose there is at that,” the surgeon agreed and motioned to the bunk beside Gary Wayne’s. “Stay as long as you like.”
Lancaster did not check on Gary Wayne, nor did he send for Boris, but Guernica did visit the next day to inquire after the wounded lawman and bring food to Boris. She returned Gary Wayne’s star, which Blumenthal had retrieved from the dust, but she did not stay long, and few words beyond the necessary were exchanged.
At daybreak of the second day after the fight, Lancaster did come to see them off. He seemed much calmer now. And he looked with remorse on his handiwork as Boris slung Gary Wayne as gently as possible onto Gringo’s back.
“Get him to Bretton,” Lancaster said as Boris tightened the straps securing Gary Wayne to Gringo. “Our camp surgeon is adequate, but he really needs Doc Todd.”
VI.
Boris finished his coffee as the sun peaked over the horizon, spreading its golden beams across the desert floor. He poured the rest of the liquid on the fire and shoveled dirt over the coals with his trowel.
He rose and approached Gary Wayne’s body. His breathing was stronger this morning, and his pulse ran steadily. Boris once again strapped him to Gringo and tied the reins to Valliant’s tail.
“I reckon we’ll be to Bretton this evening,” he said. “If not, then tomorrow.”
Then he mounted Valliant, whipped the reins, and set off on the last leg of the journey.
Chapter Ten – Percy
I.
“You that new boy? Jim Murratt’s boy?” It was one of them old timers what spent most of the day in the Caring Lion was talking to me. I tried to learn everybody’s name when I first started sweeping up mornings and evenings, but there was a whole passel of them, and it seemed to me like one old drunk passed out on a table looked pretty much like another, so it was considerably hard for me to keep them all straight.
Besides, didn’t nobody much care for talking to the boy what did the sweeping up, so I generally just kept to myself.
This is all to say that when the old man spoke (he was all the way on the other side of the room), I didn’t figure he was talking to me. I started looking around to see who all else was in the bar, but wasn’t nobody there but me and him. I bent over and scanned under the tables. Maybe there was another drunk laid up on the floor somewheres.
“Hey!” he slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “You deaf?” He didn’t seem to have a tooth in his head.
I set my broom against a table and scratched my head. “Oh!” I said. “You’re talking to me.”
“Ain’t nobody else here, is there?”
I moved over to the back of the bar, with the faro and poker tables and looked at them. “I don’t reckon so,” I answered.
The old man looked at me like a horn had sprung out of my head, so I felt my brow to be sure. “Boy, you must be the fool everybody says you is.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I ain’t heard what everybody says. Maybe.”
The old man grumbled and spit tobacco juice on the floor. I wished he had waited til I put the sawdust down, though. “Are you,” he asked again, “Jim Murratt’s boy?”
“I am.”
The old man grinned, but I couldn’t see nothing funny in what I said. “You sure?” he asked.
I thought about that. “Well, Ma said I was, and Gramps never contradicted her, but I don’t remember much about it,” I replied. “I was quite small at the time.”
The old man chuckled and spit on the floor again. “You got his humor, that’s sure.”
I walked over to the bar and grabbed one of Caleb’s brass spittoons and brung it over to him, setting it at his feet.
“Much obliged.” the old man nodded at the spittoon. “Yeah, you got his sense of humor, sure, and you got his look, too, with that gold hair of yourn.”
I didn’t know whether I needed to thank him or not, so I just stayed silent. If folks think you’re a fool, I have learned, talking ain’t likely to change their mind.
“And I don’t reckon Laney was much inclined to stray,” he added then mumbled something I couldn’t much hear.
“So, you knew my Pa,” I said after he seemed to get lost in his own thoughts. I said it like a statement, so Ma’d be satisfied I wasn’t asking no questions.
“Your Pa?” he asked, “Meaning Jim. Yeah, I knew him.” He nodded his head thoughtfully, then spit over the spittoon onto the floor again. “Wasn’t a finer Indian fighter this side of the Mississippi.”
He kind of nodded off after that, so I picked up the broom and finished sweeping the old the old sawdust out and went out back to get the new.
As I reached the door to the back yard, though, the old fella hollered after me. “Your daddy was a hell of a man, son. He saved my life one time, and I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget it.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at him.
“He saved your life,” I said, walking back to his table.
“Is all you can do is just repeat the last thing anyone tells you?”
“No sir,” I replied. “I can sweep floors and clean manure, too. And the Reverend’s learning me my letters.”
He hissed through his teeth and waved his hand at me. “You want to hear this story or not?”
“Yessir.”
II.
“Your Pa was an Indian fighter born and bred. I heard he was some kind of deadeye in the War until he deserted, but he never talked about the War himself.
“‘Ag,’ he told me once, ‘I went off to war because I thought it was the right thing to do for my country, but I couldn’t stomach it. I saw things there no man should ever see, and I never felt sanguine about our reasons for splitting. In the end, I just couldn’t keep it up in good conscience.’
“That’s all he ever said about it to me, and I reckon that’s why he quit the Indian fightin’, too. It didn’t set right with him. That man treated everybody like they was white. It beat all you ever seen. Didn’t matter who they was. Hell, he treated ol’ Braddock out there like they was blood kin. I know Braddock was one of his people’s people back in Carolina, but still. He doted on that man like you ain’t never seen no white man dote on a darkie.”
I hadn’t never seen no colored man at all until I met Braddock, so I just nodded like I understood.
“Anyway, back before Bowdon Hill, your Pa was one hell of a fighter. I seen him once kill three of them godless savages with one rifle shell. Went straight through the first one’s skull and out the other end, then it smacked through the one behind him’s eye. Killed ’em both quicker’n you could say ‘spit.’ But the second one slid off the side of his horse and got all tangled in the legs of the pinto riding next to him. Tripped it up
and sent the Indian riding it flying through the air like a ragdoll. He landed face first on a rock and split his skull like a melon.
“I was right impressed and told him so, but ol’ Jim, he don’t say nothing. Looked a little peaked, to tell you the truth. For a man who could kill Indians that well, he never did take a whole lot of pleasure or pride in it. I don’t reckon you could spot me the price of a drink while I tell this? Story-tellin’s thirsty work, you know.”
I looked at the grandfather clock, Caleb had standing back behind the bar. It read about half past eight, but I wasn’t right sure how good time it kept seeing as didn’t nobody think to reset the weights on the regular. But it was clearly south of noon, and I figured Caleb wasn’t liable to drag in until after lunch. So I went over and poured the old man half a swig of whiskey, but I topped it off with the water pitcher Caleb kept under the bar for the late night drinks when folks was too drunk to notice.
He kinda looked at it sideways, but he didn’t say nothing other than to sigh. “Guess I better make it last,” he grumbled as he took a sip, “seeing as it’s free and all.”
“I think it was Ardiss give your Pa the idea to stop Injun killin’.” The old man said, inhaling the fumes from his shot glass and setting it down in front of him. “Had to be, on account of he didn’t do no more of it after Bowdon Hill, and that’s when Ardiss won the Indian Wars without firing a shot.”
III.
“We had trouble with them savages from the get go. I don’t know what all got them riled up, but it seemed like once we told them what land we had and where we was willing to let them live, it wasn’t good enough for them. I tell you, boy, nothing beats a redskin for orneriness.
Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2 Page 20