Phil Caphorn had taken his place at the table he had selected, where he had drunk down most of the bottle in front of him. He liked his liquor, could hold it well, and it never seemed to bother his gun-manship.
Now he was thinking. Bodine’s threats hadn’t scared him. He had been threatened before by all kinds of men. They were now all six feet under. Still, there was something about Bodine that made Caphorn pause. He had faced tough men before. He had faced men who were speedy with a gun. So what was different about Bodine?
And then there was this crazy town. Caphorn had been listening to the gossip in the hotel saloon and how Bodine’s partner, Sam Two-Wolves, had jumped into action to heroically save two men trapped in Jordan’s mine. Who would be crazy enough to help his enemy?
More importantly, it seemed as if Jordan and Hart would have to confront each other. But Jordan was losing support. It would not make Jordan’s efforts impossible, but perhaps more difficult.
Of course, in the end, that was irrelevant to Caphorn. He had been hired to do one thing, and one thing only. That was to kill Matt Bodine and Sam Two-Wolves. As soon as the gold was deposited in his bank account, Caphorn would meet the two blood-brothers and kill them.
In the meantime, he had some time to kill.
He motioned to the bartender to bring him another bottle.
Sam had never valued the open skies as much as when he climbed out of the collapsed mine entrance. He hadn’t realized how much being in the tight confinement had bothered him until he again breathed the fresh air and felt freedom.
By the time Sam had loosened the rope that had helped bring him out of his mine, the two miners that had been trapped were stretched out on the ground and being treated. A few of the workers patted Sam on the back. Much of the hostility that had existed before the explosion that caused the mine cave-in seemed to be forgotten.
Jordan would not forget. And Sam had no illusions that saving his men would cause a change in heart in Jordan. Sam looked around for the mine owner, but neither he nor his men were anywhere in sight.
Matt was talking with Malinda, who was carrying a water bucket. Sam knew that Matt would allow nothing, not even a pretty woman, to interfere with his executing his tasks flawlessly. But Sam couldn’t resist needing Matt a little.
Sam stepped over to his blood-brother. He said, “Hey, I thought you were supposed to be watching my back. And here you are with all your attention on a woman!”
“Well, hell, she’s a sight prettier than your back!”
“But what if somebody wanted to bury me in the bowels of the earth?”
“Mother Earth would just kick you back out—you’d be indigestible!” Matt said.
Malinda shook her head and said, “You two are something else.”
“Thanks for your help, Malinda,” Matt said.
“Any time,” Malinda answered politely as she walked away.
“Are you really falling for a saloon singer?” Sam asked.
“She’s not just a saloon singer,” Matt answered. “But in answer to your question, I like her, sure. But it’ll be a long time, if ever, before I ever consider settling down.”
“Just wondering,” Sam said.
With the excitement over, the crowd started to leave. Sam said, more seriously, “I don’t think Hart set this explosion.”
“I think you’re right.”
“And I don’t see what benefit blowing up his own mine would provide to Jordan.”
“Right again.”
“So who’s your guess about who set the explosives?”
“Our friend with the bullwhip who kidnapped Malinda.”
“We need to find him.”
“Even if we find him, I doubt that it will keep Jordan and Hart from trying to kill each other. It’s gone too far to change now.”
“I just want to find Parrish, and take care of him, once and for all.”
Chapter Seventeen
Parrish was disappointed. And he was angry. So far, none of his plans had worked. He wondered if Bodine and Two-Wolves were really that smart, or just damned lucky.
Parrish was watching the action at Jordan’s mine from a position on top of a rocky hill at the edge of town. From this vantage point, he couldn’t make out details nor hear the talk. He could only see Hart and Jordan working together to free the men in the mine. Sam Two-Wolves was apparently taking the lead in the rescue effort. Instead of starting the two sides shooting at each other, so that Parrish could pick up the pieces, both sides were apparently working together.
What else could go wrong?
“Freeze, Parrish.”
The gunfighter recognized the voice behind him.
“So you finally found me, Shannahan. You going to shoot me in the back?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“It’s just not very sporting.”
“And what you did to me in the river with your bullwhip was sporting?”
Parrish didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “What are you going to do with me?”
“Stand up. Very slowly. And turn around to face me.”
Parrish did as he was told. Shannahan was standing with a large caliber, older handgun aimed at Parrish. Shannahan was holding the reins to Parrish’s horse.
“We’re going into town.”
“For what purpose?”
“You and I are going to have a little fight.”
Matt and Sam were still talking when they saw Parrish walking back into town. Behind him was Shannahan, holding a gun on him in one hand and the reins of Parrish’s horse in the other hand.
“How do you like that?” Sam said. “Ask, and you shall receive.”
“Shannahan got Parrish, and I didn’t even hear any shots being fired.”
“Look at the vermin I found in the rocks,” Shannahan said. “He was so stupid, he didn’t even hear me coming. Just as well. I didn’t want to shoot him, anyway.”
“What do you have in mind?” Sam asked. “We know he was the one behind the shots being fired at Matt, the kidnapping of Malinda, and probably the blowing up of Jordan’s mine. I’m sure any one of a number of people would be glad to take this fellow off your hands”
“I’m sure they would, too,” Shannahan said. “But I have another idea in mind. But I’ll need your help, Sam.”
“Name it.”
“I’m still stinging from the whipping he gave me in the river. I want to face him in a fair fight. I want you to referee, make sure he doesn’t pull anything underhanded.”
Matt laughed. “I’d be surprised if he can do anything that’s not underhanded,” he said.
Shannahan asked, “Would you do that for me? It’s a matter of honor.”
Sam did not laugh. “I understand honor. I’d be the last to deny you the pleasure. When do your propose this match to take place?”
“Here. Now. In front of everybody in town.”
“I’d be happy.” He turned to Parrish. “You heard the man. Take off your gunbelt and put it over there by your horse. If you live through this fight, I’ll let you ride away. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if some of Malinda’s admirers didn’t come looking for you, anyway.”
Parrish looked confessed. Shannahan was removing his shirt to reveal well-developed muscles. He wasn’t big, but he was strong. Parrish removed his gunbelt, placed it gently near the horse. He stepped over to his horse, pretended to rub it as he quietly loosened his saddle bag without anybody noticing. He figured he might need an ace in the hole.
“So what are the rules?” he said, as he turned.
“Take your best shot,” Shannahan said. “I’ll still beat you.”
A circle had started to form around the two men in the street. As word got around, several bets started to change hands. Even Jordan and Caphorn came out to see what the ruckus was all about.
Shannahan put up his fists and stood in a boxer’s stance.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m ready for you.”
Parrish de
cided to leave his shirt on. He approached Shannahan warily, trying to get a feel for his movements and any potential weaknesses. The two men circled each other slowly.
Suddenly Shannahan’s right fist moved in a blur with two quick jabs. Both hit Parrish in the head. He bounced back, shocked. He hadn’t seen the blows coming, he only felt them when they hit.
He started to watch a little closer now and missed the next blow. It was a left to the stomach. As Parrish moved, he struck out with his right, followed by his left. His right hit only air, but his left struck a glancing blow to Shannahan’s ear. Shannahan danced back as if he hadn’t felt a thing.
This wasn’t Parrish’s kind of fight. It was too fancy for his taste. He preferred old-fashioned street fighting. After all, Shannahan told Parrish to try anything he wanted.
Parrish moved in, dodging blows. He struck Shannahan’s chest and stomach repeatedly, but they apparently had no effect on the Irishman. For each blow delivered by Parrish, Shannahan delivered a similar blow, with more effective results. Parrish started to feel the punches. He moved back, out of range.
Shannahan remained dancing around.
Parrish moved in again, this time trying to throw his punches at the other man’s weaving head. Each punch was effectively blocked by the other man. Parrish couldn’t see how Shannahan did it. He was quickly tiring from the effort of trying to break Shannahan’s defenses, much less from the repeated blows that kept landing on his body. As he tired, it seemed more of Shannahan’s punches landed, draining him even more.
During this whole time, Sam remained neutral. He watched the two men fighting, but said nothing and did nothing to interfere. Parrish wondered what he would do if he tried something “underhanded.” Maybe it was time to give it a try?
Shannahan reached out with a blow to the head. Parrish went with the punch, fell to the ground near his horse.
“Get on up,” Shannahan said. “I’m not nearly through with you yet. This is just the start. You won’t get off that easy.”
Parrish moved slowly up as if he could barely move, using his horse for support. Shannahan, impatient, danced in closer. Parrish reached up to his saddle bags, as if for support, but slipped his hand inside the flap.
Matt was watching the fight with interest. So far, Shannahan was giving a good show. Matt was no boxer, but had seen enough to know when a good fighter was toying with another man. Had he wanted to, Shannahan could have knocked down Parrish at any time.
“Want to place a bet?” Hart said. “There’s still a few who are betting on Parrish. The smart money is on Shannahan.”
“No bets,” Matt said. “Seems to me like there’s no contest.” He glanced down and was surprised to see a bullwhip, similar to Parrish’s, in Hart’s hand.
“What’s this?” Matt asked.
“As you know, Shannahan’s been looking for Parrish for quite awhile. He’s been planning this for just as long. He thinks that Parrish is going to try to get smart. He wanted to be prepared, just in case.”
“Does Shannahan know how to use that thing?”
“He’s been practicing. He may not be as good as Parrish, but he can hold his own.”
“Then why did he want Sam to referee for?”
“You never know what a man like Parrish will pull. His weapons are primarily a gun and a whip. A whip Shannahan can handle. But a gunman he’s not. It’s always possible that Parrish would have a gun hidden somewhere. You never know.”
“That is true.”
“But I also think in some way Shannahan wanted Sam to know that he is not a coward and not a weakling. Though he appreciated Sam stepping in and helping on the day you guys arrived, Shannahan thought that he was somehow less of a man because another had to help him out of the tight spot.”
“That’s crazy,” Matt said. “It took a helluva man to face Parrish, unarmed and by himself.”
“You know that. I know that. But to Shannahan, it’s a matter of personal honor. By having Sam ‘referee, ’ Shannahan figured it would somehow make his victory that much better.”
“A matter of honor,” Matt said. “Hope it doesn’t get him killed.”
“Come on, Parrish,” Shannahan said. He was barely breathing hard. “What are you waiting for?”
Parrish turned suddenly, the bullwhip in his hand. It snapped out, barely missing Shannahan’s ear. The crack was loud in the air.
Sam stepped forward.
“That’s out,” he said. “If you don’t put it down, I’ll be forced to take it from your—probably dead—hands.”
“No, that’s alright,” Shannahan said.
“No. I intend to keep this fight fair.”
“Like I said. It’s alright.” Sam turned to see Hart handling a similar bullwhip to Shannahan. “If this piece of crap wants to raise the ante, that’s his choice. I thought he might try something like this. So I made sure I was prepared.”
Sam smiled and said, “Go to it, gentlemen.”
Parrish stopped in mid-stride. What was going on here? He had given any number of whippings in his time, but had never faced another man armed in the same way. Well, how difficult could it be? He was the expert, after all. He would just show his stubborn Irishman how a real whipping felt.
The gunfighter loosened his wrist, popping the tip gently a few times to make sure it was working right. Shannahan was no longer dancing around, but moving around warily, holding his whip lightly in his hand.
Parrish struck out, but his whip did not pop this time. Instead, Shannahan’s whip also struck out, blocking the first whip’s movement. The tips of both whips landed on the ground. But before Parrish could move, Shannahan had his leather in the air. It lashed through the air, landing on Parrish’s right shoulder. The gunfighter heard the whistling of the whip, felt the sharp pain. He looked down, saw his shirt was torn and that blood had been drawn.
A blood-red anger seethed through Parrish, and he started cracking his whip like the devil himself. It sounded like a series of gunshots as he struck out at Shannahan. Parrish was pleased to see blood on the Irishman’s cheek, though he had yet to land a solid blow. It seemed that his coordination was off, that his power was far less than it usually was, that his reaction time was extremely slow.
Then he realized the trap that Shannahan had set for him. His repeated blows to Parrish’s body and head had exhausted him, reduced his strength and his reflexes. It kept Parrish from working at his usual level of ability, while Shannahan was still relatively fresh.
Parrish snapped his whip several more times, but his muscles felt like they were turning to rubber. In the fights he had been in, he had never taken such a beating and remained standing. He had never had to fight for such a long period of time without a rest.
As if seeing Parrish’s weakness, Shannahan moved in. His whip started popping. It landed repeatedly on Parrish, tearing his shirt to pieces, making bloody the material that was left. The pain started to build in Parrish’s body, joining with his fatigued muscles to scream in agony.
Almost in a panic, Parrish lashed out with a blow that entwined the tip of his whip with that of Shannahan’s. For a moment, they were knotted together, making each of them useless. Parrish jerked his hand, pulling the whip from Shannahan’s hand. Parrish tossed down the useless whips, and dived at the Irishman. He grabbed Shannahan’s knees, forcing him to the ground. He moved in, tried to land blows on the man beneath him. Shannahan still somehow managed to block them, even from his difficult position on the ground.
Shannahan arched his back, then flipped the other man over his head. In seconds, the Irishman was back on his feet. He reached down, grabbed the bullwhips, shook his loose.
“How’s it feel to be on the receiving end?” Shannahan asked. His whip popped repeatedly, though his blows landed lightly. He could have killed Parrish any time he wanted to, but his purpose was more to teach him a lesson than to kill him.
Parrish tried to get away from the blows, that seemed to hurt far worse than they should have
for landing no harder than they were. He crawled, tried to run, then fell under the barrage that never seemed to stop.
Finally, he was where he wanted to be. His holster was only a few feet away, with the handle facing him within easy reach.
He rolled the remaining few feet, managed to touch the gun handle when he heard Sam’s voice, “Stop right there, Parrish. Make another move, and I’ll shoot you.”
Parrish glanced up to see Shannahan standing quietly, whip in his hand. Not far from him was Sam. His gun hand was steady, inches from his gun, ready to draw and shoot if Parrish made any further move for his gun.
Chapter Eighteen
Sam had tried to keep the fight fair, and had, up to a point. Though Parrish was not a boxer, he managed to hold his own well enough. When Parrish pulled out his whip, Sam started to step in and stop the fight, until he saw Shannahan pull out a whip of his own. It was then that he decided to pull back and let nature take its course.
Now it was time to step in again.
Parrish’s gun was still in its holster, on the ground where he had placed it before the fight started. His hand was on the handle of the gun, ready to pull it out and use it on Shannahan. This time, the Irishman was not equally armed and Sam was not about to let him be killed in cold blood.
“Hold it right there, Parrish,” Sam said. His voice was cold and cut through the air like the whips had earlier.
Parrish paused, his fingers barely touching the gun handle. It might as well have been inches or feet for all the good it would do him now. Sam was fast, maybe as fast as Parrish in a fair fight. But Sam now had the drop on the gunfighter.
Shannahan looked over at Sam, as well. The Irishman had a puffy eye and a bloody mouth from the fight. The gunfighter, however, looked worse. His entire face was puffed out and bloody. His clothes were torn, with streaks of blood showing where the whip had touched him. His hair was matted with sweat and blood.
“This is my fight, Sam,” Shannahan said. “I’ve been looking for his yahoo for days. You stay out of this.”
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