“Oh dear!” said Farquahar. “I was so hoping that this unfortunate affair could be settled in an amicable fashion. Could you wait there just a second, please?” With that he rode back to his cronies and started talking quietly to the small man in the front. Jesse studied him. He looked less impressive than the others, who looked just like regular heavies who happened to be in carnival costumes. But the small man sat very straight in the saddle, as though he was trying to be taller. He wore bright white gloves, and held a riding crop. He and Farquahar started riding towards Jesse.
Close up, he reminded Jesse of that English actor, what was his name? John Lawson, that’s it. Mainly you saw him on TV these days in the glamsoaps or miniseries. He was always playing the rich villain, the head of the corp, always giving orders, plotting and screwing up other people’s lives. Other times he was a satanic force playing the computer datanet, or a sex-vampire. The difference was that this guy had a big moustache, pointed at the ends, and his eyes were a very bright shade of blue.
“Hello matey, I’m the Duke of Bedminster,” he greeted Jesse in a high-pitched voice. “Lieutenant Farquahar here tells me that you are harbouring one of my people.” His English accent was more convincing than Farquahar’s. “If you are holding Mister Crane, I’d very much appreciate it if you would let us have him back.”
“I’ve already told your sidekick here that that’s not possible,” Jesse said, blowing smoke towards the Duke’s face. The wind scattered it before it reached him.
“Oh dear. Well then Sheriff, I’m very much afraid that my men and I are going to have to give your little town a bit of a spanking.”
“I don’t much like your attitude, your majesty…”
“Your Grace, ectually,” corrected the Duke.
“Whatever. This is between you and me. It has nothing to do with the town,” said Jesse.
The Duke’s eyes turned brighter. He grinned. “Oh how positively spiffing, how jolly. Farquahar! The Sheriff here would like a duel!” He clapped his hands like an overexcited child.
“What the hell do you mean?” asked Jesse.
“It’s very simple,” he giggled. “Either you return George Crane to me right now or we’ll have to settle this matter like gentlemen. In the time-honoured manner. A duel. A shootout.”
That did it. Jesse pointed the rifle into the man’s face, fuming. The Duke was still smiling. It was then that Jesse felt the cold on his neck. It was Farquahar, who’d snuck up right next to him, and had a small automatic pistol held to his jugular.
“I wouldn’t try any hanky-panky if I were you, Sheriff,” said Farquahar. “Otherwise we’ll have to lobotomize you and feed you to the hounds. They haven’t eaten anyone for days and, believe me, they’re absolutely ravenous. Now please be kind enough to give me that nasty big gun of yours and listen to what His Grace has to say.” He took the rifle, pulled off the clip, ejected the chambered round, and took the grenade from its tube under the barrel.
The Duke rode up close and took off his gloves. His hands were pink and delicate, like a woman’s almost. “Now then, young man,” he said sternly. “Are you going to let me have George Crane back?”
Farquahar returned the empty rifle to Jesse, who wasn’t feeling brave, but who was very annoyed. He heard himself say “No. Bug off. Your Dukeship.” This time, Jesse’s smoke reached the Duke’s face. His nostrils flared.
Farquahar trained his pistol on Jesse again. The Duke rode up close to Jesse and slapped him quite gently on the cheek with his bright white gloves. “I challenge you. We shall meet on the interstate two miles east of where this road meets it at 5.30 tomorrow morning. Is that agreeable?”
“Oh don’t be so goddam dumb!” Jesse snorted. “What kind of crap is this?”
“It’s deadly serious, matey,” cut in Farquahar. “You see, His Grace has a very large number of nasty big men at his disposal. Should you fail to meet him at dawn tomorrow then you may rest assured that, at some moment of our convenience and choosing, we shall return and blow that little town of yours—and everyone in it—to smithereens, and no mistake. A case of ‘delenda est Carthago,’ to borrow from Scipio, heh-heh!”
They weren’t joking. Jesse couldn’t be sure that the scam he’d pulled with the Maniax would work a second time. These guys looked too smart to ride into an ambush. And he wasn’t dealing with some bunch of hick bikers. They might have bigger guns. All they need do in that case was take up positions around the town and lay siege, picking everyone and everything off bit by bit. Besides, he was supposed to be Sheriff. He was being paid by the Residents’ Association to put his ass on the line and to keep them out of it as far as possible. No, this was his responsibility alone.
“Okay. I’ll be there,” he heard himself saying.
“Splendid! Good show! Oh, it will be such fun!” said the Duke, turning his horse round and rejoining his men.
“Okay, now we need to settle a few formalities,” Farquahar carried on. “First, will you be bringing any seconds?”
“Seconds. Uhhh… No, I guess not,” Jesse replied.
“Very well. Now, the rules are quite simple. The fight is to the death. Should you emerge victorious, which I don’t envisage as being in the least bit likely, we shall no longer bother you, nor even enter this county again. In the event of His Grace winning, we shall travel to New Carthage to claim George Crane. You have our word that the townspeople will in no respect be molested. Provided, of course, that they surrender Mr Crane peacefully.”
“Uhhhh… That sounds fair, I guess,” Jesse said.
“Splendid! The only remaining matter, then, is the choice of weapons. What’s your preference, swords or pistols?”
“Automobiles.”
“But of course! Very well, that is entirely agreeable. His Grace will turn up in one of the Rollers. Now, is there any other outstanding business?”
“Yeah,” Jesse snarled, feeling more irritated by the minute. “How the hell do I know there won’t be a whole bunch of His Grace’s goons out there waiting to sandbag me, huh?”
Farquahar laughed. “My dear fellow! I don’t know what you take us for! His Grace is a man of honour. We’re not some gang of adolescent renegade hoodlums! Of course there won’t be an ambush! Good heavens, man, if we wanted to gun you down like a mongrel I could have shot you just now, and I still could.” That was true enough. “Let me make this as clear as I possibly can,” he continued, “there will be no ambush, matey. For your part, you had better not try any monkey business either. The whole shooting-match will be filmed by a TV helicopter, and the Duke’s chaps will all be watching it back at home. Should it transpire that you have set a trap for him, then I can assure you that they will return to avenge him by thrashing your little town and everyone in it. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Excellent. Now we understand one another. Well, all that remains to be said is may the best man win. Better get home and get an early night, hadn’t you? Early start in the morning and all that. Cheerio!” He extended his hand for Jesse to shake. Jesse ignored it. Farquahar smiled, shrugged, turned his horse and cantered back to the Duke and his men. They rode off in the direction of the highway.
Jesse had put a spare clip into the rifle and loaded another RAG, but it didn’t look as though he’d be able to take them on his own terms. But he decided to follow them just to make sure they really were going. Also because he found it hard to believe that a group of men in red jackets would be dumb enough to ride around such dangerous countryside on horseback all the time. He kept his distance, wishing he’d planted some of his Scimitar mines this far out.
Near the highway there were a couple of heavily-armoured trucks waiting. Each bore the coat of arms of the Duke of Bedminster. They loaded up dogs, horses and themselves and drove off eastward.
Jesse gave Bastard the spurs and headed straight back to town and to the jail and straight into Crane’s cell, wanting a lot of answers quickly. Jesse had already decided that if the stranger wa
s as silent as ever, he’d beat the crap out of him, and to hell with Doctor’s orders.
Perhaps it was hearing his name for the first time in days that decided George Crane to open up without Jesse having to resort to violence. To Jesse’s immense relief, he didn’t speak with an English accent.
Crane was an engineer. About nine months ago he’d hitched a lift East with a convoy that had been jumped sandside by a renegade gang called the Bushwhackers. The Bushwhackers would have killed him, or just left him to rot, but he made himself useful to them fixing vehicles. He’d thought plenty about trying to escape, but had never got the chance.
A few weeks later, along came His Grace the Duke and his men. Not on horseback but with an impressive group of armed vehicles and cykes. They destroyed the Bushwhackers completely. The few of them that hadn’t been killed—including George Crane—were taken prisoner. They were brought back to the Duke’s ranch in Stuart County, about 200 klicks east of New Carthage. The Duke, said Crane, owned thousands of acres of useable land around there. On it, he grew crops—vegetables, corn, tobacco—for sale to the food corps, or for private sale to big towns all over the South. He also had large plants vat-growing proteins, shamburgers, goatroast and other syntheats. A great deal of the corn that the ranch produced was for making alcohol, which was what most of the Duke’s vehicles were run on. George was an expert on alternative fuel systems to gasoline and, whether he liked it or not, he was put to work in the Duke’s alcohol production plants.
The point was, explained George, that the Duke couldn’t run his ranch, or “estate” as he called it, without a lot of helping hands. And since paying people is expensive, he used slaves. George was a slave. It was a simple equation. The Duke would challenge renegade gangs all over the area and, simply because his operation was more disciplined and organized about it, usually won the fight. This way, he expanded his own empire as well as taking prisoners who were then put to work down on the farm. Neither state nor federal government interfered. Why should they? Most of the Duke’s slaves were renegade scuzzballs, desperadoes, outlaws and killers, and nobody cared about them. In the eyes of the politicians, the Duke was doing the community a favour by blowing away the renegades, and he was doing the surviving renegades a favour by rescuing them from their lawless ways and giving them regular work. And if innocents like George Crane got caught up in the system from time to time, that was just too bad. Nobody said it was a perfect world.
So George had escaped, but not before getting shot by a guard. He took a car, outran the pursuit, ran out of juice, walked the rest, and that’s where Jesse and Johnny had come in. And George was very grateful they had.
George reckoned that the Duke’s posing like an English lord was just an act to impress people. He might really be an Englishman who’d come to the Land of the Free to find the space to act out his weird fantasies. George was certain that his sidekick Farquahar was as American as chain guns and apple pie.
Jesse resolved to meet the Duke for the duel next day. If His Lordship won, then the town would have to look after itself. If he won, Jesse couldn’t be sure the Duke’s men wouldn’t come riding in—or more likely driving in—any way, but they could deal with that if the need arose. George reckoned the Duke was into what he called “fair play” in a big way, as if his life was one big game of croquet and you had to play by the rules. He’d whip his slaves half to death if they crossed him, and then give them the best medical attention money could buy.
Jesse left George’s cell unlocked, telling him he might as well stay there because that was the only spare bed in town. Jesse told him not to tell anyone else about the duel, that he was to wait by the radio next morning when he’d check in every 15 minutes. If the calls stopped, he was to get onto the radio net with the codeword that got the local posse together. They’d get the town defences organized. For good measure, he also called Johnny Barrio and explained there might be trouble tomorrow. If he didn’t hear the 15-minute check-in to George he was to raise the alarm on the radio tree system among the outlying farms.
So Jesse went home to sleep—and to dream. It was a desultory business in which the Duke of Bedminster, dressed like a Confederate gentleman, figured prominently. The Duke stood over him in a field of cotton plants and kept calling him “boy.” It didn’t take an expensive city PZ shrink to explain the significance of the dream.
Jesse got up at four-thirty, breakfasted on cold chicken and milk and went over to the jailhouse to wake George.
He wasn’t there.
The bastard had run out. There’s god-damned gratitude for you, thought Jesse. There he was, putting his sweet ass on the chopping-board for George’s stinking hide and he’d checked out.
He went out back to get the car, and there was George, his head in the engine. He’d been up all night fixing it up. Even though he still had only one fully-operational arm, he’d re-tuned it, cleaned all the dust and grit out of the weapons systems. He’d even checked the tyre pressures and wiped the windshield. All Jesse had to do was toss him a quarter and jump in. George smiled, wished him luck and went indoors to take up position by the radio.
Jesse strapped in. Head back, back straight, deep breath, foot on the hammer, and he was off.
For a scratch job, the Sheriffs car was something the community could be proud of. The engine and armour had come from a Sanctioned Opmobile that had been wasted by renegades a few miles away. The machine-guns were mail-order from an advert in Guns and Killing magazine. It also had radar, a minelayer, a 360-degree camera mounted up top and some other little tricks.
After George’s servicing, she was going like a dream.
Jesse felt sick. Shouldn’t have had such an early breakfast.
He switched on the radar, ran the routine checks on the weapons computer and, now that he was a way out of town, test-fired the guns, chewing a tree-stump on a corner up front to rags with a short burst.
A TV helicopter passed overhead, with the News Syndicate logo on the belly. That was all Jesse needed. Farquahar had said this would happen, but he felt it was intruding into his private affairs. If he was going to fry, he’d rather it wasn’t while being watched by millions of other folks, and if he was going to be a prime-time spectacle, then the least they could do was pay him. They had plenty of money, after all.
But in a way, it helped. It stopped him feeling nervous and made him angry instead. He hit the interstate at 5.26 AM and headed east. The sun was already quite high in the sky. He’d have to watch for the bad guy coming at him out of the sun. The radar showed nothing yet.
The highway here ran long and straight for miles, but what made this area such a suitable venue for a car-fight was the old Stuart river, right next to it on the north side. The river had dried up years ago, leaving a three-mile wide flat plain of hard, cracked-up mud.
The radar picked up a booger coming head-on from the east. Jesse put his shades on, tensed up on the wheel and stepped on the pedal.
He would have been surprised if the Duke of Bedminster had an ordinary battle-waggon, but this was weirder than he’d expected. It was English, of course. A Rolls-Royce done out in royal blue. Its windows were heavily-tinted to match the colour of the bodywork. You couldn’t see inside. And the car didn’t seem to be mounting any weaponry.
Jesse steadied his car, concentrating on drawing a bead on him, one eye on the fire-control computer, watching the cross-hairs converging, just another second or two…
Something flashed on the Rolls’s windscreen. Jesse couldn’t see properly, and he swerved to the right to avoid hitting the other car. There was a smell of something burning. The side of his head was starting to sting. The Rolls-Royce banked to the left, leaving the highway and bumping into the riverbed.
Jesse pulled off his shades and felt his temple, next to his right eye. Blood. There was a stinging pain like something had cut it. He kept moving forward along the road, and on the radar could see the Rolls turning to come up for a pass on his tail. Laser. That’s what it was.
The Duke had a front-mounted laser somewhere, and the smell of burning was Jesse’s own flesh and hair and some bit of the car behind him. It had just missed his eye. If the Duke had been aiming the laser straight ahead, it wouldn’t have come anywhere near his face. As it was, the bastard was aiming it at Jesse’s eyes, trying to blind him. Nasty, real nasty, Your Dukeness, thought Jesse.
The Rolls was on his tail now, and closing fast. “Okay, bastard. Eat some of these,” muttered Jesse, pumping six mines out behind him in a wide pattern. But the Rolls banked a little and missed them all comfortably.
Jesse turned hard left, clattering and thumping onto the riverbed. He kept going left in a wide arc, trying to get in behind the Rolls-Royce. The Duke, however, just pulled a long-smooth semicircle and kept right on his tail.
For want of a better idea, Jesse decided to try and outrun him. He headed west, giving it all the gas he could find.
Jesse pulled away, and got the impression that the Duke must have been surprised to see what looked like an old heap of rusty rivets putting on the kind of speed that Detroit and the Good Lord never intended a Lincoln Continental to do. But the Rolls was powerful, too, and it wasn’t long before he’d caught up again, flapping the Sheriff at a steady 240 kph.
This went on for what felt like five minutes, during which Jesse remembered to check in with George over the radio and tell him everything was fine. Fine? What the hell was saying? He laid a few more eggs out behind, but once more the Rolls dodged them with contemptuous ease.
Jesse saw from the rear camera that the Rolls Royce radiator grill was moving upwards. It wasn’t concealing a radiator at all but, by the look of things, a whole trunkful of trouble. Out of the front of the hole came poking an evil, phallic-looking red tip. A missile. It fired.
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