The boom of the blaster was muffled, the barrel of the weapon pressed hard into Maya’s stomach. The jolt of the .45 round threw her backward, hands clasped over the small entrance wound. Doc blinked in horror, seeing the hideous gaping chasm of blood and splintered bone at the center of her back.
“Oh, dear God, no…” he breathed. His eye was caught by the little blaster glinting in the mud, but he knew that Owsley would shoot him down before he could reach it. His fingers tightened compulsively on the hilt of the swordstick.
The sec man seemed hypnotized by the dying woman, watching her, wide-eyed, as she staggered backward, miraculously keeping her stumbling balance.
“Stupe bitch…” he stammered.
Maya turned her head, her eyes staring blankly toward Doc, as though peering down a long dark corridor. One hand reached toward him, then the lines went down and she dropped to her knees, sliding forward onto her face like a swimmer entering deep water.
“Devil,” Doc whispered, hands moving almost without his control. One hand gripped the ebony shaft of the cane, the other twisting the silver lion’s-head hilt, drawing the rapier blade in a silent, smooth action.
He was four short paces away from the stupefied sec man, who stood with his Hawes Montana Marshal revolver pointing at the dead woman.
“Stupe bitch,” he repeated quietly.
It was like he was paralyzed, squinting at Doc as the old man closed with him, dropping the sheath of the sword, the steel glinting in the watery sunlight.
“What…?”
There was another aftershock, which made the whole forest shift sideways, trees rustling, branches creaking and splitting. The sec man took a half step sideways, fighting for his balance.
Doc felt a fierce, burning exultation as he lunged at Owsley, the needle tip of the blade slicing into the man’s belly, two fingers above the belt buckle. Hot blood flowed over the slender steel, down over Doc’s hand, dripping to the dirt. A full ten inches penetrated Owsley’s stomach, and Doc gave his wrist a savage twist, lancing through muscle and intestines, opening up a great gash. Loops of blood-slick guts spilled out, splattering in the mud by the dead cat.
The blaster dropped from the nerveless fingers, and a thread of blood came worming out of Owsley’s gaping mouth. The eyes widened, and his fingers groped for the murderous steel. But Doc had already withdrawn the rapier, stepping away from the mortally wounded sec man.
“The debt is well paid,” he said to Owsley in a calm, conversational tone.
Though the man was dying, he was still able to move, tottering away into the edge of the forest, clutching at his stomach, trying to stuff the coils of muddied intestines back inside himself.
Doc ignored him, kneeling in the damp dirt by the side of the dead woman, feeling for her cold fingers.
SEVERAL OF THE BUILDINGS of the settlement were burning well, the wrath of God having finally being visited on the evil community.
As Ryan darted out of the front door, his arm linked with Krysty’s, he realized that the big house, Wolfe’s own home, was one of those that had caught fire. Flames billowed out of the rear living rooms, smeared with thick, oily smoke.
“Whole place’ll go,” he said.
“Serve it right. Serve them all right,” Krysty panted as they headed for the fringe of trees. “Only wish we could’ve chilled Wolfe himself.”
“No time.”
He could see J.B. and Mildred, about twenty yards ahead, following on the heels of Jak and Dean, the youths sprinting toward the forest. So far nobody seemed to have seen them.
Jak was already close to the nearest edge of the dank, dripping forest, where the powerful quake had brought down three of the biggest trees, the giant limbs tangling with one another into an impenetrable maze.
Ryan heard the crack of a rifle and saw a gout of dirt kick up within a yard of Mildred’s heels, but he couldn’t locate the shootist among the smoke and confusion.
The woman stopped in her tracks and turned, the barrel of her target blaster scenting the air like the tongue of a hunting snake.