Ethan rolled free, stood. Still on hands and knees, Nolan kept grabbing for his revolver, but the fallen horse was nearly on top of it, flailing the air around it with iron-shod hoofs. When the horse finally regained its feet and bolted, Nolan scurried for the revolver. As he did, Ethan lunged forward, sending both of them spinning through the dust. Nolan wiggled free and crabbed after the revolver, but Ethan beat him to it, kicked it under the boardwalk.
Nolan surged to his feet, eyes blazing. Ethan stumbled backward, trying to put some distance between himself and the burly gunman long enough to catch his balance, but Nolan was on him in a flash, throwing a roundhouse swing that would have broken Ethan’s jaw had it connected. Ethan managed to duck that one, but Nolan pressed forward, throwing punch after punch with machine-like efficiency. Ethan parried some, dodged others, took the rest in a mind-numbing blur of pain.
Nolan’s fists were like sledge-hammers pounding at his chest and ribs, rocking his head one way, then the other. Nolan could have finished it quickly if he’d wanted to. Instead he paused to savor his victory, a skeleton’s toothy grin splitting his face.
“You suckered me with a whiskey bottle the last time we fought, but it’s gonna be different this time,” the gunman hissed through his own mashed lips. “I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands, then I’m gonna spit in your face, the same way I spit in your old man’s face the day I shot him.”
Ethan swayed dizzily, blinking at the sweat and blood washing down over his left eye. Just a few feet away, Nolan seemed a hazy caricature of a human being, a slope-shouldered brute with fists the size of anvils, fire glowing hotly in his eyes.
He’s gonna beat you raw, boy, a voice said from behind him. Ethan looked. He saw his pa sitting astride a chunky pinto at the mouth of the alley behind the jail, his old Hawken rifle sloped across the saddle in front of him. Ethan frowned at the horse. “Dandy?” he mumbled, puzzled. Dandy had died fifteen years ago, after falling through the rotting ice of the Marias in spring.
You gotta get mean, boy, his pa insisted. You gotta remember what I taught ya.
“Yeah.” Ethan turned, became aware of a bloody drool crawling down his chin, and wiped it away. He remembered what Ira had said after his last encounter with Nolan Andrews: If it had been your daddy he’d tangled with, he’d probably be missing a few pieces of hide this morning.
“That’s true,” Ethan said to himself. Jacob Wilder had been a bare-knuckle brawler, but he fought to win, and usually did. “And me?” Ethan mumbled. “I’m Jacob’s boy.”
Nolan’s eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “You gone addled on me, Wilder? Who’re you talkin’ to?”
Ethan looked up, a lop-sided smile twisting his maimed features. “Come on and do it, gunman. Let’s see how tough you really are.” He stepped forward.
Nolan raised his hands in the precise stance of a trained pugilist—elbows in, knuckles forward, left foot forward for balance and thrust. He squinted from behind his fists.
Ethan threw a left that Nolan easily parried. Ethan edged to the side. Nolan pivoted to keep him centered. Ethan threw another left the gunman effortlessly blocked, then a right that he withdrew at the last instant. Nolan swatted empty air, and his eyes widened in surprise. Ethan stepped forward, slamming his foot at the gunman’s knee with bone-crunching force. Nolan howled and fell, and Ethan swooped on him like an diving eagle. They grappled inside their own cloud of dust, punching, gouging, kicking—Queensbury Rules abandoned in favor of something more primitive, and more deadly.
With Nolan’s thumb pressed into one eye, Ethan turned his head to sink his teeth into the web of flesh between the gunman’s thumb and forefinger. Nolan cursed shrilly and tried to drive a knee into Ethan’s groin, but Ethan twisted at the waist and the blow skidded harmlessly off the outside of his thigh.
They broke and Nolan staggered to his feet, but Ethan lunged before he was all the way up, wrapping his arms around Nolan’s waist and driving him back and down. He began swinging, an unrelenting assault that slowly but steadily broke through the killer’s defenses. Ethan pummeled Nolan’s already misshapened face, felt the cartilage of his nose soften like mush under his fists, saw the tiny white blossoms of broken teeth in the dirt on either side of his head. Yet the gunman refused to surrender; his own fists flew with unmatched fury, hammering the air from Ethan’s lungs, raining upward into his face, neck, and ribs.
Ethan pumped his fists ruthlessly, driven by a need to win no matter the cost, to set things right for Vic and his pa and for the hell they had all gone through. Nolan’s punches became a distant thing, distantly felt. Like the thumping of a ball bounced off the side of a house. There was no longer any pain, no feeling at all save for the mindless pistoning of his arms. He drove them wildly downward until light turned into darkness and the darkness carried him away.
Chapter Twenty
It was like rising through a vat of black printer’s ink, everything sluggish and warm until, near the top, something uncomfortable crawled into the caldron with him. He tried to push it away, but it followed. Sensations crowded after it, sounds and smells and an acidic aftertaste that seemed to burn the back of his throat. And pain, a giant’s fist squeezing until there wasn’t any part of him that didn’t want to scream in agony.
It took a tremendous effort just to open his eyes, to force apart his gummy lids. Through the muck he saw starlight overhead, the faint vapor of his own shallow breathing. Gradually he became aware of a glow on the horizon, the crackle of flames, the soft touch of feminine fingers patiently stroking the back of his hand. Steeling himself for the journey, he rolled his head to the side. The light came from a small campfire. The fingers belonged to Rachel. She must have felt his slight movement because she immediately tensed up, lifting her bowed head as much in fright as relief.
“Mama, he is awake again.”
Again?
A shadow eclipsed the fire—broad, rounded shoulders, the forward hunch of a sturdy body worn down by decades of labor. Corn Grower touched the top of Rachel’s head in reassurance, then dropped to her knees beside him. The tips of her fingers glided over him like tiny antennas, feeling his forehead, neck, shoulders, measuring breath and pulse and temperature as thoroughly as Doc Carver ever had with his stethoscope and thermometer.
When she leaned back, she was smiling. “You sleep a long time, young warrior. We worry that you might not awake.”
“Mama, don’t say that,” Rachel scolded, revealing her own anxieties.
“Is all right now, Daughter. Ethan has returned to the land of the People, and this time, I think he will stay. Yes, this time he will stay.” She patted his arm with unexpected affection, then pushed to her feet. “You are thirsty, no? I bring water. Later there will be broth.”
Corn Grower returned to her fire, and Rachel leaned close. “Do you hurt?”
He shook his head negatively.
She smiled and smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “Such lies,” she said quietly. “You are very bruised, Ethan Wilder. Your chest looks like a sunset. Mama thinks maybe some ribs have been cracked. That is why it is so difficult for you to breathe, because of the bandages.”
That and the pain, he thought to himself.
“Do you wish to know what happened after you were brought here?”
Ethan had to try twice to get the words out. “Did Nolan Andrews get away?”
Her face hardened. “No, the killer Andrews is in jail, along with . . .”
“No,” he interrupted. “That’s enough for now.”
Rachel hesitated, then nodded. “The rest can wait.”
He agreed silently. If the news were bad, he didn’t want to hear it. Not yet. And if it were good, then Rachel was right. It would wait.
Corn Grower returned with water that he sucked down so ravenously she finally took the gourd canteen away from him. “You can have more later,” she promised. “With broth.”
“I ain’t so hungry, but I could drink a lake dry,” he told Rachel afte
r her mother had left. “Where am I?”
“We are still camped north of town.”
He lifted his eyes to the frosted sky. “How long have I been here?”
“Yesterday afternoon and tonight. It will be dawn soon.”
“All right.” His voice trailed off. “All . . . right.” He wanted to say more, but sleep stole over him before he could gather the words.
* * * * *
Jeff Burke came in the afternoon, driving Doc Carver’s buggy with the top down. Ethan was sitting on a cushion of grizzly bear robes under the shade of a canvas shelter fastened to the north side of Turcotte’s wagon, back propped against the rear wheel. His body—every muscle, bone, joint, and tendon—throbbed.
“Feel like taking a drive?” Jeff asked, pulling up a few yards away.
“No,” Rachel protested from the fire where she was helping her mother prepare the evening meal.
“Sure,” Ethan lied.
“Ethan!”
“I’m fine,” he told her, creaking to his feet like an old man. He hobbled over to where Jeff waited in the buggy, pretending not to notice Ethan’s gnome-like waddle. Rachel walked with him, although keeping her hands at her sides so as to not draw attention to his weakened condition. He felt more confident when he was able to steady himself by holding onto the carriage’s rim. Standing aside, he looked at Rachel. “Come with me.”
She looked surprised by the request, but climbed into the buggy without hesitation. Ethan heaved himself carefully after her, then sank back gratefully into the leather upholstery, face shining with perspiration. With everyone seated, Jeff flicked the lines, and Doc’s mare moved out briskly, making a tight circle back toward town.
“I reckon you know what happened?” Jeff said, more a statement than a question.
“No, I don’t,” Ethan confessed. “I haven’t asked.”
Jeff gave Rachel a quizzical glance, but didn’t say anything. They drove down Hide Street at a trot. As they approached its intersection with Culver, the jail on the corner, Ethan frowned, staring at the mouth of the alley behind it. Noticing his reaction, Jeff said: “Something wrong?”
Ethan shook his head. “Naw. Just thought of my old man all of a sudden.”
Jeff and Rachel looked back as they passed the alley, but Ethan had already turned his attention forward, the image of his pa sitting on Dandy already fading from his memory.
“Where are we heading?” he asked.
“Doc’s.”
Ethan’s throat went dry, and he turned his face away lest they spy his fear. When they pulled up in front of the neatly painted house on the south end of town, he felt a lurch in his chest to see Ben rising from the hard wicker chair on the shaded front porch.
“Ethan!” Ben shouted, vaulting the railing rather than take a short step to the side to use the steps. He ran up to the buggy, all broad smiles and shining eyes, face freshly scrubbed, hair trimmed down to sod-buster length.
Nearly choking on his joy, Ethan said: “Who put you through the wringer?”
Ben tousled his own hair self-consciously. “Aw, Claudia Carver did this. Tried to skin me to the bone, but I wouldn’t let her go no shorter’n this.”
“Missus Carver,” Ethan corrected.
“Uhn-huh, that’s who I said.”
Jeff guffawed and swung down from the carriage. “Take these, youngster,” he said, handing Ben the lines.
Ethan was slower to step down, and Ben’s expression sobered, watching his brother lumber away from the buggy.
“Dang, Eth, you walk like you’re a hundred years old.”
“I feel like I’m a hundred years old,” Ethan acknowledged. He slipped his arm through Rachel’s, and they made their way to the house together.
Doc met them at the door, eyeing the younger man’s gait critically. “How bad is the pain?” he asked as Ethan passed.
“Tolerable.”
“I can give you some laudanum.”
Ethan paused only a second. “I wouldn’t turn down a spoonful tonight to help me sleep.”
Doc nodded. “I’ll give you a bottle.”
They went through the office to the small recovery room. Expecting the worst, Ethan came to an abrupt stop in the door. “Good Lord,” he whispered.
“Not quite,” said Joel. His nose was bandaged and his eyes were black, but he looked pretty good sitting in a chair beside the open window.
Vic smiled, seemingly as self-conscious at being caught abed as Ben had been about his haircut. “Hey, big Brother,” he said, a new strength in his voice.
Ethan looked at Doc, who shrugged. “It was either attempt to operate on him myself or watch him die. I decided I didn’t want to do the latter.”
“You did it?”
“Two days ago, right after you left to fetch Joel and Ben from Elk Camp. I decided on making a small incision, then used tweezers to remove the bullet and bone fragments.” He grinned with self-conscious pride. “For a blind old man with the tremors, it turned out all right.”
“He’s gonna live, though Doc says he’s gotta stay in bed at least a week,” Joel added.
For the first time, Ethan noticed the splint on Joel’s leg, half hidden behind the bed. “What happened to you?”
Joel grimaced. “One of Nolan Andrews’s gunnies fetched me a bullet to the leg. Burns like hell, but Doc says it didn’t bust no bones, so I ought to be on my feet before long.” He smirked, but cautiously, out of respect for his swollen nose. “Just not up to any heavy liftin’ back home. I reckon you ’n’ Ben’ll have to tote my share of the work for a while.”
“I expect we can handle that,” Ethan said, the words jamming up in his throat so bad he had to look away.
“Let’s let these two rest,” Doc said, shepherding them out of the room.
There was a chair in front of Doc’s desk. Ethan eased into it. Jeff sat down across the room and removed his hat, while Doc led Rachel into the parlor to find his wife.
“Rachel didn’t tell you what happened?” Jeff asked when they were alone.
“I didn’t want to hear about it last night, and couldn’t seem to bring it up today. I expect I was afraid of what she’d tell me.”
“Then you have some catching up to do.” Jeff hesitated, debating where to start. Finally he said: “I talked to Suzie Merrick again. She pretty much confirmed what I’d begun to suspect.”
“That it was Nate Kestler who beat her up?”
“No, that it was her pa. Her stepdad, I mean. Seems like Lou’s been feeling his oats ever since Suzie started to fill out a dress. Nothing out of hand yet, but he was pushing her for it, and Suzie kept resisting. That’s why he got so hot under the collar when he saw she was starting to favor Joel. Jealousy, I guess. I wouldn’t know what kind of thoughts drives a man to do something like that. Anyway, Suzie’s ma wouldn’t press charges, but I sent Lou packing south to Fort Benton with the information that, if I ever saw him around Sundance again, I’d shoot him on sight.” An uncomfortable look came across the sheriff’s face. “I meant it, too.”
“Joel’s in the clear?”
“Completely.”
“What about Andrews?”
Jeff smiled. “There’s the good news in all this mess. Andrews and what’s left of his crew are locked up, waiting for a U.S. marshal to escort them to Helena for trial. Charlie Kestler is with them.”
Ethan’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “I knew that son-of-a-bitch was in on it.”
“He was, for a fact. I told you I’d contacted the marshal in Bismarck. Well, Kirk kept digging for me, and it turns out Westminster isn’t as big as they’d wanted folks to believe. It’s actually owned by a trio of businessmen out of New York, one of whom happened to be Charlie Kestler’s uncle, who also coincidentally happened to own stock in the Saint Paul, Minneapolis, and Manitoba Railroad.”
“Then the railroad is going to build a spur to Sundance?”
“It’s not a done deal yet, but talk is serious enough that th
e uncle wanted to get involved. Charlie was running squatters off the land to claim it for the Lazy-K, and, if the railroad did come through, he’d own the right of ways to some of the likeliest crossings on the Marias.”
“Can you prove it?”
Jeff nodded happily. “I sure can. Turns out Gerard was wrong about Andrews and his men killing old Emile Rodale. They tried to, but that old cougar put the slip on them, then hightailed it out of there on foot. He turned up in Fort Benton a few days ago, lame and weak from walking all that way with a bullet in his shoulder, but clear-headed enough to tell the law what’d happened. It was Andrews who implicated Charlie Kestler, and he’s got a telegraph and some banknotes drawn on both the Lazy-K and Westminster accounts to back him up. It ought to hold up in court just fine.”
“Then it’s over?” There was a note of doubt in Ethan’s voice.
“Looks that way. You Wilders are free to go as soon as you feel like riding.” After a pause, he added: “I’m sorry about your pa, Ethan, and I’m sorry about jailing your brothers. I want you to know I didn’t have any choice but to lock them up until I could sort out what was going on.”
“I’ve got no hard feelings on the matter, Jeff.”
“Good, I appreciate that.” He stood and put on his hat. “I’ve got to get back to the jail to relieve my new deputy. I reckon Ben or Rachel can drive you back to camp. When you’re up to it, I’d like for you to stop by the office and fill out another Incident Report.”
“I’ll do that.”
Jeff nodded and turned away. When Ethan heard the front door close behind the lawman, he leaned back in his chair. He felt suddenly wrung out, as if all his joints had come unhinged at the same instant. Hearing the soft pad of moccasins, he looked up to see Rachel standing in the parlor door, holding a tiny cup as fragile as a sparrow in both hands.
“Claudia thought you might like some tea,” she said.
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