“How could it? Nothing was at stake but my life and I thought that was already gone.”
“You can start worrying then, because I think you’re going to live. Fact is, I’d say you were strong as a mule right now. Most likely all you needed was fresh air, rest, and freedom from all that hassle.” He stuffed his pipe. “Water might help, too. Lots of alkali in some of it. Anyway, I’d say you were a lot better than when you came here, judging by what you’ve said.”
He put the pipe in his teeth. “Nancy had me to see you after that beating, as you’ll recall. Fine girl … known her since she was a child.”
Flint was buttoning his shirt and suddenly his fingers stopped and he stared at the wall.
He was not going to die. He was going to live.
To live … and he was a married man.
“I should have met her a few years ago,” Flint said, “I’m a married man … a very sadly married man.”
“I’ve seen her. Quite a filly.”
Heavy boots sounded on the steps outside. Flint picked up his gun belt and stepped back into the deeper shadows. The other gun he held in his hand.
Outside the floor boards creaked and a shadow showed on the curtain. Doc McGinnis had seated himself and was at work on a ledger, as if alone. Flint waited, holding his breath and watching the door knob, expecting it to turn.
The boards creaked again, gravel scuffed, and then the gate creaked. Whoever it had been, he was gone.
“You know something, Doc? I think I was scared.”
“You’ve got something to lose, boy. Must be something to feel like you’ve been … like you were immune to everything. Knowing it was coming, you’d nothing to worry about.”
McGinnis sucked at his pipe. “Struck me Nancy set store by you, son. Are you sure that wife of yours don’t want you back?”
“She never wanted any man except as a setting, Doc. She wanted money, prestige, and the attention of men, but she didn’t want marriage. She tried to have me killed, and I believe she will try again.”
“There’s divorce. Folks frown on it, but I’d say it was the only answer for some. I’d like to see Nancy happy.”
“So would I.” Flint thrust the gun into his waistband “How much do I owe you, Doc?”
“Two dollars. There’s a back way out if you want to take it”
“I’m not that scared. I’ll go the way I came.”
There was a chill wind off the Continental Divide, but a mockingbird sang its endless songs in a cotton-wood tree. It was very late. Only a few lights showed: the Grand Hotel, the Divide Saloon, and the livery stable where he had left Big Red.
One light showed on the second floor of the Grand. That would be Lottie. She always hated to go to bed, and never wanted to get up.
He could see only the lighted window. Inside Lottie sat in a straight chair and across from her, in the rocker, was Buckdun.
He held his hat in his hand, his blond hair plastered tight against his long skull, his wind-honed face sharp under the light.
Lottie had never seen a man who looked so clearly what he was. The narrow face, the eyes that had no depth, the thin lips and the gash that was his mouth.
“Buckdun,” Lottie said, “I want you to do something for me.”
He was looking at her as if he had never seen a woman before. And he never had — not, at least, a woman like this.
Chapter 16
Flint’s boot heels sounded on the gravel, and there was no other sound. Several miles to the south the Kaybar riders headed for the Hole-in-the-Wall.
In the Divide Saloon, Red Dolan cleaned up after the fight. Wearily, he swept up the bloody sawdust, and carted the dead men out to the barn to be buried the next morning.
Seated on his bed in the darkness, Porter Baldwin smoked and waited for Strett and Saxon. But even as he waited for the news that would mean victory, and might mean wealth, he felt regret. Kettleman, or Flint, he was too good a man to go out from a gunshot in the night.
He was a fighter, and it would have been a real pleasure to whip him with fists. It had been a long time since Baldwin found anyone to stand up to him for more than a minute. To Port Baldwin there were few pleasures greater than a good fight, and Kettleman might have given it to him.
Yet, as nothing happened, he grew impatient. The trap must have failed. Baldwin smoked and waited, becoming increasingly irritable.
Flint reached the livery stable but paused at the corner of the building in deep shadow. There was a light over the huge door, and no one in sight, but inside it was a cavern of darkness, and he liked none of it.
He waited for several minutes, but heard no sound from within beyond an occasional snore from the hostler who slept in the small office at one side of the door. Finally, unable to rid himself of his apprehension, he turned and walked back to the rear of the building where the corrals were.
There, at the corral, he waited. The night was moonless, but his eyes could make out the corral bars, horses standing in the far corral, the gleam of water in a trough, and the bulk of a couple of huge freight wagons standing in the yard near the corral.
There was a back door to the livery stable also, and to this he made his way.
His feet made no sound here for the old corral was soft with dust, hay, old manure, and straw. Near the wall of the building he paused, listening again.
Far off, back in the trees near Doc McGinnis’ house, the mockingbird was still singing, but the distant sound seemed only to emphasize the stillness. In his mind he traced the steps he must take to where the red stallion waited, and it was almost halfway along toward the front door of the big barn.
The door near which he stood was as wide as that in front for the passage of hayracks and other large wagons, but it was in complete darkness. Flint waited a minute longer and then stepped inside the barn.
His feet made a soft rustle in spilled hay. He stood near the wall, waiting for a reaction, and there was none.
He could hear horses munching grain, and occasionally one stamped or blew. Otherwise the stillness was complete. There was the smell of fresh hay, of manure, and of leather. Living with danger had sharpened his senses, and he was uneasy without having justification for it.
He took two careful steps, then another. He was probably being a fool. There was no one here, and perhaps nobody wanted to kill him now. Yet Port Baldwin was still in town, and Lottie was here … and he had no reason to trust Lottie.
He took several quick, careful steps, then stopped. Suddenly, from within a few feet he heard a deep sigh.
Something brushed lightly at his shoulder and putting his hand up he touched a bit. It was removed from its bridle and hanging from a nail, and felt rusted and old. With careful fingers, to make no sound, he eased the bit from the nail, and judging the location from which the sigh had come, he drew back his hand and threw it waist high and hard, for he thought the man was sitting down.
The bit thudded against something and a voice demanded, “You tryin’ to be funny? What the hell is the idea?”
“Shut up, will you?” said a second voice.
“Well, stop throwin’ things! This ain’t no time for horsing around.”
There was a moment of silence and then the second voice said, “I didn’t throw anything.”
The silence was deeper.
Now they would be worried. They would be listening intently, staring all around. Crouching, careful to make no sound, Flint felt through the layers of hay and straw on the ground and got a handful of sand.
If he threw sand at the man he had struck with the bit, he might get it in the man’s eyes. If his eyes were averted and some sand struck him, he would quickly look around. It was simple as that.
Flint swung his hand wide, allowing some of the sand to escape between his thumb and forefinger. There was a sharply drawn breath and he threw the rest. He heard a gasp, and the rustle of clothing and he stepped around the stall.
One hand dropped swiftly, feeling for the target, and when his hand touched the crouching man’s shoulder, the gun barrel followed. He struck with a thud, and the man grunted and fell against the stall. Flint caught him by the collar and struck him again.