by Matt Rand
He said, “Chauncey,” in a soft voice, and received no reply. He sighed and hunkered down beside the dying fire. If he could talk to someone, the loneliness might fade.
He tamped his pipe full, reached for a half-burned stick, and lit his pipe. The tobacco had no flavor, and he let the pipe die after several puffs. Comparisons came into his mind despite his attempts to keep them out. One girl had everything and another nothing. Yet the one with nothing sang and worried about another person.
He said violently, “Damn it,” then glanced at Stevens. Stevens did not stir.
He sat on his heels and watched the full moon rim the prairie, then climb, its orange changing slowly to silver. From somewhere far in the distance, a coyote’s wavering howl told the moon of its loneliness.
Nelson said, “Damn it,” again, but this time softly. He should be sleeping. By now the rest of the camp was asleep, but the restlessness in him would not let him be still.
He straightened and moved away, telling himself his steps were aimless, yet they led toward Leah Mills’s wagon. He went through all the subterfuges, telling himself it was only neighborliness to see if she needed anything. He started another excuse, then admonished himself. Stop it. You know you only want to see her again.
He grinned and his stride quickened.
He came around a wagon, and her fire was almost gone, only a few winking embers remaining. He heard the noise of scuffling before he saw the makers of the noise. The shadows were deep on this side of her wagon, and it took an instant for his eyes to see the two people there.
They were locked in struggle, a silent struggle except for the slight scuffling of their feet and the heavy sound of breathing. His eyes picked out the wide bulk of a man, then the slender figure of a woman. The smaller figure freed a hand, and Nelson saw it rake at the other face.
He heard the man’s muttered yelp, then an oath as he sprang forward. His blood boiled and raced along his veins. There was no mistaking Jarmon’s bearish bulk. Why didn’t Leah cry out against him?
Nelson reached Jarmon before the man was aware he was near. He clamped a hand on his shoulder and jerked him backward. Jarmon let go of her with a startled squawk and started to turn. The turn was not completed before Nelson’s fist smashed into the side of his face.
Jarmon went backward with stumbling steps, his arms flailing to keep his balance. A knee buckled beneath him, and his shoulders thudded against the ground.
Nelson flashed a glance at Leah. She breathed hard, and he saw the rise and fall of her breasts. Her dress had been torn in the struggle, and he saw a bare shoulder before she gathered the tatters together.
“Are you all right?” he snapped.
“All right,” she panted.
Nelson put burning eyes on Jarmon. The man was sitting up and shaking his head. He pawed at his bruised cheek, then lifted his head. The blow had knocked him into the moonlight, and his eyes were small and malignant.
“Damn you,” he said. “I’ll break you in two for that.”
Nelson moved to him as Jarmon struggled to his feet. He hit him flush on the jaw with all the weight of his shoulders behind the blow. It snapped Jarmon’s head back and jerked him off his feet. He lit on his back, and the impact was loud in the stillness.
He was not out, for he kept trying to lift his head. His hands clutched at the ground, snatching up handfuls of dust, then releasing them.
Nelson stood over him. The man’s eyes were glazed, and blood trickled from a corner of his mouth, running into his beard.
Nelson was panting, more from anger than from exertion. “Jarmon, I ought to kill you for what you tried. I will, if—”
He never finished. Jarmon’s hand swept out and fastened around his ankle. Nelson’s foot was jerked from under him, and he went down hard. Leah’s startled gasp filled his ears.
The impact against the ground slammed the breath out of Nelson, and before he could recover it, Jarmon was on top of him. A forearm jammed across his throat, putting a gagging sickness in his mouth. His eyes swam, and the silver of the night turned to a red that dipped and swam before his eyes. Jarmon’s knee pinned one of his arms, and the other had so little space he could not throw an effective blow.
Jarmon grunted, “You bastard, I’ll kill you.”
The words penetrated the fog in Nelson’s mind. He felt the fiery rake of Jarmon’s nails as they clawed for his throat. His shirt tore, and the nails scraped furrows along his collarbone. Jarmon’s breath pushed at his face like a gusty wind, and he smelled the reek of whisky.
He tried to roll, but Jarmon anticipated the movement and flattened out against him, holding him to the ground. Thumbs were at the base of Nelson’s throat, feeling for the hollow of it. They crept upward, dug in, and the relentless pressure started.
The air in his throat turned to fire, and his lungs swelled until he thought they would burst. His free hand kept slamming at Jarmon’s face, and the man did not even seem to notice the blows.
A solid wall of blackness was creeping up, erasing the red before his eyes. He wildly threshed his body, using up energy and accomplishing nothing.
He lay still, trying to marshal the little reserve left in him. He bent a leg and worked a knee upward until it was beneath Jarmon’s body. He had little room to use, a few inches at most. He jammed the knee into Jarmon’s groin with all his remaining strength. The force lifted Jarmon’s body, and the breath of his hollow groan fanned against Nelson’s face.
The pressure of the thumbs was not quite so bad, and Nelson gulped at the small amount of air allowed him. He rammed the knee home again, and Jarmon retched hollowly. Spittle flew into Nelson’s face, and the thumbs slipped. Air rushed into Nelson’s mouth, feeling raw against his tortured throat. He felt a slackness run through Jarmon’s body, and he slammed the knee once again. Jarmon’s body bent in a convulsive arch, and his hands slid away from Nelson’s throat, the nails digging in to retain their hold.
Nelson freed his arm and put both palms against Jarmon’s chest. He could breathe, and the suck of his breath had a hungry sound. Jarmon writhed and moaned as Nelson shoved his weight off him. Those nails still tore at Nelson as he tried to slide from beneath Jarmon’s body. He brought his right hand around in a wide arc, slicing the edge of his palm across the bridge of Jarmon’s nose. The moaning was broken by a quick yelp of pain. The weight of the blow added the leverage Nelson needed, and Jarmon rolled off him. He held his nose with one hand and his groin with the other. The moaning was a constant, blubbery sound now.
Nelson staggered to his feet and braced his legs to keep from falling. Leah started toward him, and he waved her away. This was not yet done. He would make certain.
He lurched to where Jarmon lay and reached for him. He grabbed a fistful of Jarmon’s undershirt and vest and hauled him to his feet. He was weaker than he had thought. He almost went over backward.
He sledged his free fist into Jarmon’s nose, feeling the soft pulping of it under his knuckles. If the palm edge had not broken the nose, his knuckles did.
He released his hold and let Jarmon fall, knowing a fierce satisfaction at the blood gushing from the wrecked nose. He bent and dragged the man to his feet again. Jarmon’s hands beat weakly against his wrist.
Nelson knocked him down three more times, and as his strength returned he put more force into each blow. Jarmon’s face was a bloody ruin, and red froth bubbled at his lips. He lay without moving, and in his red rage Nelson did not see that the man was unconscious.
He reached for him again and felt someone tugging at his arm. He looked around, and it was Leah.
She said, “Don’t. You’ll kill him.”
He let his head fall and his hands open. “I guess I intended to,” he muttered.
She said, “Come sit down. Please.”
He thought, If I sit down now, I’ll never get up again. And this thing was not quite complete.
He forced his trembling legs to obey his will and walked to the water barrel. He dipped
out a bucketful and went back to Jarmon. He sloshed the contents of the pail into the man’s face and watched the dark rush of the blood wash away to be replaced by more.
Jarmon stirred and groaned. Nelson prodded him with a boot toe.
“Get up.” His voice was a whip.
Jarmon tried and fell back. His groaning increased.
Nelson put pressure behind the toe. “Do you want me to start over?”
He looked around, wondering why the fight had not aroused the camp. Then he realized it had been a silent fight, except for the thud of blows and the stamp of feet. It had been fairly brief, but a great deal of raw violence had been packed into those few seconds. He was relieved that no one had been drawn here, both for her and for himself.
Jarmon sat up, and his head hung down on his chest.
Nelson drove the toe of his boot into the man’s thigh. The blood in Jarmon’s mouth turned his yelp into a faint, reedy sound.
Nelson said, “If I see you in camp in the morning, I’ll kill you.”
He made a movement with his hand, and Jarmon struggled to his feet. He started away on legs that buckled and threatened to throw him. He broke into a staggering run to keep from falling.
Nelson looked with wondering eyes at the girl. “I wanted to kill him,” he said.
She said, “You’re bleeding. Sit down. Please.”
She pulled him toward a log, and he went, unresisting.
Blood flowed from surface lacerations. There were many of them, and their combined flow made a frightening sight.
She dipped a cloth into water and wiped away the blood, and he could feel no tremble in her fingers.
She said in a low voice, “I was frightened.”
He tried to grin. “I was doing some worrying myself.”
A shiver ran through her. “He was upon me before I knew he was there. His arms…” She let the sentence fade away.
Her head was bent over his scratches, and he looked at the curve of her cheek. There was a good, clean smell to her.
He asked, “Why didn’t you yell?”
“I suppose I was too startled at first. Then I thought I could get him to go away without waking Father. It’s been so many nights since he’s slept.”
Nelson started to say something, then stopped when he felt eyes upon him. He looked up, thinking it might be Jarmon coming back. Stevens stood just inside a strip of shadow. Nelson could just make out the oval of his face.
He called, “Chauncey.”
Stevens turned without replying. In a moment the shadows had swallowed him. The effect of his stare was still with Nelson. It was almost as though Stevens had left his eyes to watch him.
He thought of Melissa, and his uncomfortable feeling grew.
From the wagon, Anson Mills said in a sleep-heavy voice, “Leah, is anything wrong? I thought I heard something.”
The intimacy of the moment was destroyed for Nelson. He pushed himself to his feet and said curtly, “Your father’s awake now.”
He strode away and did not look back. He felt another pair of eyes staring at him.
Chapter Four
Jarmon was gone when Nelson awakened in the morning.
He expected Stevens to say something about the night’s events. He waited through breakfast and all during the saddling. Several times he caught a weighing look in Stevens’ eyes, and it put an odd anger in him. He was not accountable to Chauncey Stevens for any of his actions. Still, he did not go near Leah before they broke camp.
As they rode along Nelson thought furiously, I don’t give a damn what Stevens thinks. Melissa had made her choice, and that choice freed Nelson O’Shaughnessy.
He kept feeling Stevens’ eyes resting upon the scratches on his face and neck. Each time he looked up, Stevens’ eyes would slide away. A queer stubbornness possessed both men. One would not speak of it until the other did, and so nothing was said.
Mounting had been agony for Nelson, though he rode easily now. His chest and throat still ached, but the ache was dull now. He was surprised at the number of bruises on his body. In the heat of the fight he had been unaware that Jarmon had hit him so often.
The noon stop was two hours behind them when he turned his head and said, “We’ll see Nacogdoches within the hour.”
A flicker of interest appeared in Stevens’ eyes. “I’ll be glad to see a town,” he said.
“Don’t expect anything,” Nelson warned. “I told you it’s been destroyed three times. The Indians, the Americans, and the Spaniards each had a try at it. If it wasn’t for its location, it would never have lasted this long.”
They crossed a swag in the prairie and topped the slight rise beyond it.
Nelson reined up and said, “That’s it.”
A handful of buildings lay sprawled on the prairie before them. Even from this distance, their tired, sagging lines were plain. Weather had beaten them to a uniform gray, and an air of neglect hung over the town like a pall. Tents extended beyond the buildings, and Stevens stared.
He said, “Looks like quite a few more people there than you mentioned.”
A frown hardened Nelson’s face. “It does,” he agreed. “And I don’t know who they are. Ride back and tell the wagons to pull up. No one is to go into town until I say so. And every man is to keep his gun ready.”
He scowled at the figures racing toward them from town. The horsemen easily outdistanced the running men.
“Stay clear,” Nelson called as the first horseman reached him.
The man pulled up and spat an amber stream of juice into the dust. “Wal, now,” he said. “If that ain’t a hell of a way to treat our welcome.” His eyes rested on Nelson’s hand, hovering near the gun butt, and he made no attempt to come nearer.
He was dirty beyond belief. His hair and beard were a wild thicket, and if his clothes had ever been washed, they had long since forgotten it. He scratched himself, never taking his bright, beady eyes off of Nelson. The horse and saddle were good, too good to have been acquired honestly by this man.
Other horsemen joined the first one, and they were of a kind, the same dirty clothes, the same filthy skin.
The first horseman said, “He ain’t friendly, boys,” and broke into jeering laughter.
Stevens came back, and his eyes were startled as he saw the dozen horsemen blocking their path.
Nelson said in a low voice, “Some of the kind I told you about.”
The bright gleam was back in Stevens’ eyes. “They look rough.”
“They’re as rough as they look,” Nelson said. “Did you warn the men?”
Stevens nodded.
Nelson stood up in the stirrups and waved his arm forward. He caught the glint of sunlight from several rifle barrels. He eased the reins, and his horse moved forward. The dozen horsemen still blocked their passage.
“Keep moving,” he said to Stevens. “It’s a bluff. There’s not enough of them to make a show of force. They want to see how far they can go.”
The nose of his horse almost touched the horse in front of it before its rider jerked it aside. The horsemen split to either side, and Nelson and Stevens rode through the narrow lane.
There were jeering comments on Stevens’ clothes, and Nelson saw his face burn bright. But the gleam never left his eyes, and a little smile turned up one lip corner.
The wagon train had the jeering escort all the way to town. Just beyond the outskirts, the riders were joined by the men on foot. The comments swelled in volume.
Stevens’ smile grew. “It’s the most stimulating reception I ever had.”
Nelson responded to the smile. This man would do. He had known that since the first night in Natchez. This was only additional proof.
He halted the train on the east side of town and was meticulous in his supervision of the forming of the corral. He doubled the usual guard and made sure their new cap-and-ball rifles were much in evidence. Some of the men grumbled at not being allowed to go into town.
Nelson said, “Look at them.”
He pointed to the townspeople gathered outside the bulwark of wagons. They stood there jeering at the newcomers and spitting great gobs of tobacco juice. But each of those men had a coldly speculative eye, and that eye dwelt at length on the rifles.
“Do you know what keeps them off of you now?” Nelson demanded. “It would cost them too much to come after you. But go out there and they’ll cut your throats for the pants you’re wearing.”
The wagon-train men looked at the men outside, then back at Nelson. He saw their hands tighten on their rifles. The grumbling stopped.
He made a round of the camp, and Leah cut across to intercept him. He stopped and waited for her, stifling the impulse to glance around to see if Stevens were near. She asked, “Is it really dangerous to go into town?”
“It is, Leah. Those men are deadly when the odds are in their favor. Don’t go outside the enclosure. For any reason.”
She smiled and said, “You left last night before I could finish doctoring you. And before I could thank you.”
The smile sent a warm tingle through his veins. He said, “I had things to attend to.” He nodded and turned away, afraid the tingle might trap him into saying something he did not wish to say.
He looked back after a dozen strides. She still watched him. He thought there was laughter in her eyes. He quickened his stride, muttering to himself under his breath. Why had he lied to her? He shook his head and said a soft oath.
He rejoined Stevens and said, “I’m going into town. Want to come?”
Stevens’ eyes danced. “It might be interesting.”
Nelson drew a large square of folded paper from his bag. “I wrote this before we left Natchitoches. I want to post it. I also want to learn why Nacogdoches has grown so.” He stepped over a wagon tongue, and Stevens followed him. Nelson said, “You’ll hear squawks when they read this. Maybe there’ll be more than squawks.”
Stevens brushed aside the tail of his coat, and his fingers touched the butt of his pistol. “We can talk loud, too.” The bright, wicked gleam was in his eyes.
The townsmen had drifted away some time ago, tired at receiving no response to their jeers. Nelson saw no one until he reached the outskirts of the town. He stopped a man and asked, “What are all these people doing here?”