Abe remembered at that moment that the Trader had always been a man with a dangerously dark side to his character.
THE NIGHT PASSED uneventfully, ending in a dazzlingly fresh dawning.
Abe got up and wandered into the edge of the trees, squatting to relieve himself, using a handful of dew-damp leaves to wipe himself clean.
By the time he got back, Trader was up, busying himself in reviving the smoldering ashes of the fire.
“It’s good to see you, Abe,” he said, not looking up, not seeing the beam of delight on the mustached face of the little man. “Part of me still wishes I’d stayed unfound. That was the idea. But a part of me is pleased you tracked me. And it’ll be good to meet up with Ryan and John B. and the others.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Guiteau had shown them a handwritten list of the events that they’d be seeing during the afternoon.
“Baron’ll be happy if you go in for some of them,” he said. “More the better.” He spoke in a flat, measured way, but the implicit threat was very clear.
They all gathered around, Krysty reading it out loud to the others.
“Starts with some wrestling on the lawn out back. Then we go to the butts for archery, followed by rifle shooting and knife fighting demonstration with muffled blades.”
“They tie rags around them and smear paint on,” said the sec sergeant. “So you can see when a hit’s made.”
“Pistol shooting is last.” She glanced at Mildred. “Oh, no, there’s something at the end. Just called a ‘special final.’ What’s that, Guiteau?”
“Sort of a grudge fight, Krysty. Last thing of the afternoon is when the Baron Mandeville and Mistress Marie get to give out the rewards.”
“Prizes?” J.B. asked.
“You could say that.” He looked at the big pendulum clock at the end of the passage. “Let’s go, outlanders. How many of you going to compete?”
Ryan had managed to talk to the others during the lunch, agreeing they might as well put up the best show they could, as long as it didn’t involve any serious risk to any of them. From the list, nothing looked too hazardous.
“Michael for the close combat. J.B. in the long-blaster shooting. Me with the knives. And Mildred with the pistol.”
Harry Guiteau looked curiously at the black woman. “I heard you thought you was good. You know you’ll shoot against me. Well, couple of others as well, but they couldn’t hit themselves, even with the barrels up their asses.”
“You want a side bet, Sergeant?” Mildred asked.
“Wouldn’t take your jack, lady.”
Mildred stepped in closer, pushing her face at the grizzled veteran. “Wouldn’t be that you’re frightened of losing to a woman, would it?”
He took a half step away, holding his hands up, palms out, trying to calm her. “Hey, take it easy. It’s nothing personal. Back off.”
She nodded. “Doesn’t really need a side bet, does it, Guiteau? We both know what we’re shooting for.”
He looked like he was going to say something, then thought better of it and turned away.
“Dangerous bastard,” Ryan said. “I know most sec men don’t have the brains of an outhouse shovel. Guiteau’s good. Anyway, let’s go take part in the games. Michael, you’re going to be on first. Do your best but try not to chill anyone.”
It was intended as a joke, but the teenager didn’t even crack a smile.
“EACH FIGHT WILL BE ENDED by a submission, a knockout or a fall, both shoulders pinned to the grass for a count of three.” The sec man looked up at Mandeville. “Are you ready, Baron?”
“I think so. Will young Michael be prepared to take on the winner, or should I ask Guiteau to pick out a boy from the kitchens to tumble with?”
The teenager answered for himself. “I’ll take the winner. No trouble.”
“Good. Let them come on to it.”
The lawn lay out at the back of the ville, defended by a high stone wall, the river flowing just beyond it. Considering the general dryness of that part of Kansas in the summer, the grass was amazingly green and lush.