“I have. And I’ve seen it done many times. That’s the weapon he’ll use. I’m the best one for this. Do like I ask. Once the fight begins, you run like hell.”
“All right. But I’ll be coming back for you.”
“No. Don’t bother with me. Just get back to the ranch. Warn Pa.”
Loggins called over to them, “Shut up, you two!”
Dusty figured he and Josh wouldn’t find another chance to speak before the fight. He hoped Josh would do as asked, or the entire plan would be in vain.
Dusty knew Falcone was right. He could never kill just to make a point. The only reason he could kill was in self defense, or the defense of others. Like back at the ranch when Falcone’s men attacked, or at the way station in Nevada.
The thought of that way station brought Haley Anderson to mind. He imagined her, now in Oregon. Working a small farm alongside her father, and thinking of the young gunhawk who had saved her life. Waiting, wondering if he got the letter she left for him, and if he would be coming for her.
He didn’t believe he would live to see another sundown, and he found himself feeling a pang of regret that he might never taste Haley’s kisses again. Never look into her eyes again. The home he had allowed himself to imagine building alongside her would remain simply an unbuilt dream. And she would never know what had happened to him. Just that he had never come looking for her. She would marry someone else, raise children with him, and as she grew older Dusty would become but a dim memory.
Dusty didn’t know if Josh fully accepted him as a brother, but he realized it no longer mattered. All that now seemed important was Josh safely escaping this canyon and returning to the family, to warn them. And that Josh would live. For that, Dusty would kill.
He needed to make the fight last as long as possible, so Josh could get a solid head start. And he would need to kill Kiowa, who was the best tracker among them. That would leave Falcone, Loggins, White-Eye and Stew to pursue Josh. Dusty no longer thought Falcone would have the stamina for such a thing, and would not spend much time, if any, on the pursuit. Loggins and Stew might attempt to follow Josh, but they were not expert trackers, and Josh was, so he would be able to cover his trail well.
That they would shoot Dusty was to be expected, once they realized Josh was gone. But Dusty didn’t care. What was important was Josh could rejoin his family. Josh was lucky. He had what Dusty had always longed for, and Dusty was determined not to see the family broken up.
Dusty drifted off to sleep with thoughts of the McCabe home, and the warmth that seemed to generate from the bond between them all. And what it might feel like to wake up every morning to a breakfast in that kitchen, and to have that house to return to every night.
THIRTY-NINE
Dusty was awakened with a boot to the ribs. The eastern sky was lightening, and the last of the stars overhead were fading.
“Sit up.” It was Loggins.
Dusty did as he was commanded, stretching his arms to either side to try and work out a knot that had developed between his shoulders from spending the night on an uneven patch of earth.
“The boss wants to see you.”
Dusty rose to his feet. Damn, he hoped this knot went away before the fight.
Josh was awake and looking at him. Dusty looked back, and in their silence, managed to say a lot. Dusty gave a slight nod of his head, which Josh returned, and then Dusty started for the cabin.
Loggins fell into place beside him. Loggins said, “I’ve got to tell you. Just between you and me, I hate Kiowa. He’s dangerous. He’s bad for the whole lot of us. He’s a loose cannon, and will get us all killed if someone don’t get rid of him. I’m rootin’ for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you really think you can take him? I mean, he’s the best with a knife I’ve ever seen. And he’s cruel. Likes to hear a man scream.”
They reached the cabin door, and Loggins said, “Go on in. The boss told me to wait out here.”
Dusty found Falcone sitting at his table, with a fresh bottle of whiskey standing before him. He had already poured himself a glass. Flossy was at the hearth, fixing a pot of coffee, and Temperance stood at a cupboard preparing a batter for what Dusty guessed would be hot cakes. Where she had found the eggs, he didn’t know. Maybe they had been taken from the nest of a wild bird. Now was not the time to put much thought into it.
“Would you like a drink?” Falcone asked. “A lot of men I’ve known would have a drink before battle, to take the edge off. Steady the hand.”
Dusty shook his head. “Sam Patterson told me to never take a drink when going into a situation that would require all your wits.”
Falcone nodded thoughtfully. “That might be wise advice.”
He motioned to a chair across the table from himself. “Sit. Please.”
Dusty slid the chair out and dropped into it.
Falcone looked to Flossy. “Go get it.”
Apparently she knew what he was talking about, because she left the coffee and pushed past the blanket into the bedroom she shared with Falcone, and returned carrying a knife with a shining double-edged blade. She handed it to Falcone, who cradled it by the handle with one hand and held it up so the blade caught the light of the fire.
“This was given to me by my father, the late Colonel Victor T. Falcone, the First. Given to me as a reward when I chose to follow in his footsteps.”
“I’ve heard over the years you were a teacher at a military school,” Dusty said. “Some say West Point.”
Falcone looked at Dusty, chuckled and shook his head. “I was a teacher, yes, but never at West Point. Never at a military school of any kind. I did attend West Point, though, with intentions of following the military tradition of my family. But I was expelled before my first year was completed. Drinking, brawling. Maybe I was never cut out for the military life. Or, maybe I was simply too young.
“Regardless, I found myself a disgrace in the eyes of the family. I moved south, attended school and eventually became a teacher in Missouri. When the war broke out, I joined the Confederate war effort, riding with Patterson and his raiders. I found a lifestyle that was much more rewarding than teaching, and more exciting. And so consuming that, when the war was over, I could not give it up and simply return to teaching little children the three R’s.”
Falcone handed the knife to Dusty. “I want you to use this today.”
Dusty held the knife, and saw letters etched into the steel of the blade. VTF. Victor T. Falcone. “I can’t use this, Vic. It was a gift from your father. It means so much to you.”
“That’s why I want you to use it. I want you to kill Kiowa. I want you to win this fight, because I did some thinking last night. I decided I don’t want to reach the end of my trail, yet, after all. Maybe I still have a little life remaining within me. But as you said, I need a good right-hand man. As I was to Patterson. I need you, Dusty. But only if you can prove you have what it takes, by killing Kiowa.”
Dusty held the knife by the hilt, and slashed at the air. “It is nicely balanced. A beautiful weapon.”
“The Falcones have always been fighting men. We know our weapons. And we know our men. Now, go, and do what you have to do.”
Dusty stepped from the cabin and found Kiowa standing twenty yards from the doorway, bowie knife in hand. Kiowa had discarded his riding boots, and stood in calf-length rawhide moccasins.
He smiled, or at least gave the closest thing to a smile he could muster – his lips pulling back to reveal a row of black and broken teeth. “Are you ready to die, little muchacho?”
Loggins and Stew stood to one side, and with them was Josh. Falcone stepped from the cabin, with Flossy at his side. Dusty didn’t see Temperance with them. White-Eye was also missing – Dusty supposed he was standing guard out at the canyon rim. He hoped Josh would surmise this, too.
Dusty cast a glance to Josh. Their eyes met for the space of a heartbeat. Dusty hoped Josh would follow along with his plan and not do something heroic
.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this a long time,” Kiowa said.
Falcone stepped between them, and said, “Come forward, both of you.”
They each advanced until a distance of only ten feet separated them, with Falcone still between them.
“This fight will be held with knives, only,” Falcone said, much like a referee announcing the rules of conduct before a prize fight. Though, Dusty knew full well the prize in this fight would be life itself.
“There will be no other weapons allowed,” Falcone continued. “If this rule should be violated, the violator will be shot immediately. And this fight shall be to the death. Is this understood?”
Both Dusty and Kiowa nodded, though Kiowa didn’t take his gaze from Dusty.
“Very well,” Falcone stepped back. “Let the fight begin!”
Kiowa lunged at Dusty, swiping at him with his knife. Dusty leaped back, avoiding the tip of the blade by a full inch, then slashed out at Kiowa hard, nicking his wrist and drawing first blood.
Kiowa looked at him with surprise. “A lucky cut, little muchacho.”
Dusty shook his head. “I’m no longer a little muchacho - a little boy. I’ve grown up, Kiowa. You’re going to find me a lot harder to kill than you would have ten years ago.”
Kiowa’s smile faded, and a grim seriousness took its place as he saw Dusty for what he now had grown to be, not the frightened child he once had been.
Kiowa raised his knife, holding it out before him, and began to circle to Dusty’s right. Dusty assumed the same stance, his knife ready, and circled to his own left, countering Kiowa. He did not want to stand still and be caught flat-footed by a sudden attack.
Kiowa feigned a lunge with his knife, and Dusty jumped back. Then the circling resumed. Dusty suddenly lunged with his blade, and Kiowa sidestepped, slashed downward in an arc, and cut through Dusty’s buckskin sleeve.
Dusty kept his gaze focused on Kiowa’s eyes, watching for any intent that might betray itself before Kiowa could actually move.
Kiowa suddenly struck, charging forward with his knife raised high as if to strike downward into Dusty’s heart, but then at the last moment, dropped his strike and lunged at Dusty’s stomach. Dusty had raised his forearm to catch Kiowa’s wrist, but now the knife was thrusting in from a lower angle.
Dusty managed to drop his left forearm quickly enough to strike Kiowa’s wrist sideways and knock away the strike, but he was unable to keep his footing against Kiowa’s weight and the speed of his attack, finding himself being pushed backward. He hit the ground on his back, and Kiowa landed on him, straddling his chest. Dusty’s knife landed a couple feet away in the grass. Kiowa’s knife was raised for the strike.
Dusty brought his feet up, wrapped his ankles around Kiowa’s neck, and pulled him backward and away.
Both scrambled to their feet. Dusty grabbed his knife, and they stood facing each other. Dusty now took a moment to touch his left hand to the cut in the forearm of his right sleeve, and found his fingers were wet with blood.
As Dusty and Kiowa began circling each other again, Josh took a step backward. Falcone, Loggins, Flossy - none of them seemed to notice, as their attention was fixed so intensely on the battle.
Josh took a second step, this one larger than the first. All eyes were still on Dusty and Kiowa, as Kiowa lunged at Dusty again with his blade. Dusty stepped aside, and with the same motion, sliced at Kiowa, cutting a swatch across Kiowa’s forearm.
Josh turned and started walking. He had to fight down the urge to run, because any sudden motion might draw attention to him. The corner of the cabin was only ten yards away. He kept his strides strong and steady, at any moment expecting a shout from one of the outlaws as they realized he was attempting to escape. But the noise rising from them continued to be the cheering on of Dusty or Kiowa.
Josh stepped around the corner of the cabin, and from the sight of the others. No one called to him. He hadn’t been seen.
He drew a lungfull of air, then burst into a run down the grassy slope, and into the grove of trees. He felt the wind at his face as his strong legs pounded the earth, and stretched into a strong, loping stride. His hat lifted from his head and bounced lightly along the earth behind him, but he did not take the time to go back and retrieve it.
His goal was what appeared to be a thicker grove of trees beyond the water Temperance had been swimming in. He would hide his trail, then search for a way out of this canyon other than the pass he and Dusty had been brought in through. He had noticed White-Eye wasn’t among the audience for the fight, and figured he had been assigned guard duty. And that pass into the canyon, the only entrance a rider could use, was where the guards seemed to be always posted.
Josh was leaving the canyon, and he would return to the ranch to warn Pa and the others. But he would be back. Dusty was risking his life to give Josh a chance, and would probably lose his life in the process. Josh didn’t forget his debts. He would be back to resume the quest he and Dusty had set out on originally – to bring Vic Falcone and the other raiders to justice, or kill them in the process.
He emerged from the trees at the edge of the small pond, and found Temperance facing him. She wore a faded range shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. The front of the shirt was buttoned a little more conservatively than usual, and she wore levis that conformed to the roundness of her hips in a way Josh could not help noticing, despite the urgency of the situation. In one hand was a bowie knife which she held before her, the tip of the blade pointing toward him.
He looked silently at her. He didn’t want to hurt her, but didn’t want to lose time, either.
“I thought you were Loggins,” she said, and lowered the knife.
She had been crying, he realized. Her eyes were reddened, and a little puffy.
“Are you all right?” he found himself asking.
“I’m not going to let him touch me again. Not ever.”
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “While they’re all focusing on the fight. I’m getting out of here, but I’ll be back.”
She nodded.
“Will you tell them you saw me?”
She shook her head. “No. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Take me with you.”
Kiowa moved in on Dusty with a series of sudden swipes and thrusts, forcing Dusty backward. One thrust he parried with his knife, as though he were fencing, but the others he found himself continuously leaping away from.
His back collided with the wall of the cabin. This had been Kiowa’s plan, Dusty realized, to pin him against the wall and rob him of his mobility. Kiowa was taller, stronger, and Dusty’s only hope had been to out-maneuver him.
Dusty began a swipe at Kiowa’s face, but Kiowa caught Dusty’s right wrist with his left hand before the blade could find its target.
Kiowa raised his own knife for a strike, but Dusty reached with his own left, and grabbed Kiowa’s knife-hand by the wrist.
A contest of strength began.
Kiowa dug his feet into the sod and drove Dusty back, slamming him into the wall. Once. Twice.
He then drove the knuckles of Dusty’s knife-hand into one of the pine logs that made up the wall, and jarred the blade free of Dusty’s grip.
Dusty brought one knee quickly up toward Kiowa’s groin – not exactly clean fighting, Dusty thought, but when you’re fighting for your life, you toss most rules aside.
Kiowa instinctively twisted his hips at the motion of Dusty’s leg, so the knee missed and caught instead the inside of one thigh, not doing the damage Dusty intended, but the momentary distraction enabled Dusty to pull his right hand free of Kiowa’s grasp. Dusty then balled his fingers into a fist, and drove a right cross into Kiowa’s cheekbone.
Kiowa’s head rolled back with the force of the punch, and as it came forward, Dusty let loose again with his fist.
With Kiowa momentarily dazed from the two punches, Dusty grabbed the wrist of Kiowa’s knife hand with both of his
own, and brought Kiowa’s arm down across one knee. The knife fell from Kiowa’s grasp.
Kiowa shook away the cobwebs brought on by Dusty’s fists, and leaped at Dusty, wrapping his arms about Dusty’s ribcage and lifting him from his feet. Kiowa couldn’t match Dusty’s youthful speed with his fists, and was not about to waste energy even trying. He would instead use his superior strength to squeeze the life from him.
He slammed Dusty back and into the wall again, and Dusty’s skull bounced against a pine log, which started his head swimming.
Dusty felt the air being forced from his lungs by the pressure of Kiowa’s vise-like grip. Kiowa shook him from side to side to keep his opponent from regaining his bearings.
Dusty yanked Kiowa’s shoulder-length hair but it had no affect. He raised one fist and gave a couple short jabs to the side of Kiowa’s head, but the limited distance of the punches took away from their effectiveness.
Dusty then swung both hands wide to either side of Kiowa’s head, and then with all of the strength he could muster, he slapped Kiowa’s ears with his open palms.
That did the trick. Kiowa released his grip on Dusty, and brought both hands to his ears, howling with pain.
Dusty spread his feet wide, and sent a left jab into Kiowa’s face, then another, then a wide hook punch, rolling his torso into it, rocking Kiowa’s head back and opening a gash above one eye.
Kiowa staggered backward, then leaped – not toward Dusty, but to one side.
Dusty realized a moment too late what Kiowa’s goal was, as Kiowa’s fingers curled about the handle of Dusty’s knife where it lay in the grass.
Kiowa sprang to his feet and charged at Dusty, raising the knife for a strike.
The blade began a downward arc that would bring it to Dusty’s chest, but Dusty raised one forearm to make contact with Kiowa’s wrist and block the strike.
Kiowa gripped the knife with both hands, and began forcing the knife downward with all of his strength, grimacing with the effort.
A stream of blood was flowing from the cut above Kiowa’s eye, traveling down along his nose and dripping away. Rivulets of sweat made their way down Dusty’s face, and he felt it breaking out along his back beneath his buckskin shirt.
The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) Page 39