A Man Called Sunday (5 page)

Ben Clarke was intrigued by the rangy white scout, however, so he asked him to stay on. Still needing the money, Luke accepted, in spite of his disgust for the attack waged against the friendly Cheyenne camp. There wasn't a great deal for him to do while the army was encamped there, so he spent much of his time hunting, which saved him from having to survive on the army's cooking. Since his skills with his rifle, as well as with a bow, were unsurpassed, he always had deer and antelope to share with anyone who wanted it. His biggest challenge then was how to battle the boredom of the hard-luck post that was Fort Fetterman. Unlike many of the soldiers, he felt no attraction to the “hog ranch” located near the fort with its questionable assortment of
soiled doves
, but it was the only place a man could get a drink of whiskey. And every once in a while Luke enjoyed a couple of shots of rye whiskey. It was on one of those raw wintry nights when he decided he would spend a little of his money to indulge in something to warm his belly.

It was his first visit to the so-named hog ranch, so he paused at the door to look the crowded room over. His glance shifted from the bar, across the room, to the tables in the back where a few rough-looking women were surrounded by soldiers desperate for female companionship. Something caught his eye as his gaze skimmed by the tables, and he shifted it back again to recognize Bill Bogart and Sonny Pickens seated at a table in the corner. As was his usual manner, Bogart held court over a handful of soldiers and civilian scouts in his typical boisterous way. Thinking it the wiser thing to do, Luke started to turn around and leave his drinking to another time. On second thought, however, he decided he had a hankering for a drink of whiskey now, and there was no point in letting the possibility of a confrontation stand in his way. Bogart's attention seemed to be pretty well occupied by the questionable pair of women seated at his table, so Luke made his way quietly over to the bar.

“What'll it be?” the bartender asked.

“If you've got any decent rye, I'll take a shot of that,” Luke replied.

“Well, I've got some rye,” the bartender responded, “but if it was decent, it wouldn't be in a place like this, would it?”

“Reckon not,” Luke said, “but I'll try a shot of it, anyway.” He watched while the bartender took a shot glass from a tray of once-rinsed glasses and poured his drink. About to indulge, he stopped when the glass was inches away from his lips, interrupted by the booming voice from the back table.

“Hey! Can't no Injun buy liquor in here!” Bogart roared.

Luke hesitated for only a second before tossing his whiskey back, and returning the glass to the bar. “I'll have another one,” he pronounced calmly.

Startled by Bogart's outburst, the bartender took a closer look at the buckskin-clad scout as the barroom became suddenly quiet. “Hell, you ain't no Injun, are you?” When Luke made no response, the bartender spoke in Bogart's direction, “He ain't no Injun.”

“The hell he ain't,” Bogart insisted loudly, “and Cheyenne at that. He ain't got no business in here with white men.”

Confused at this point, the bartender stood poised with the whiskey bottle suspended over Luke's glass. “Pour it,” Luke said, his voice still calm, but spoken with quiet authority. He had still not looked in Bogart's direction, but he heard the scraping of the big man's chair as it was pushed back from the table. In spite of the warning he had given Bogart when the two of them had tangled before, he knew it was going to come to this eventually as long as they were both working as scouts. Undecided, the bartender seemed frozen with the bottle hovering over the empty glass, his eyes locked on the bull-like monster storming toward the bar. Luke reached out slowly to place his finger on the neck of the suspended bottle and pressed it gently down until the whiskey flowed out to fill his glass.

“You ain't gonna drink that in here!” Bogart fumed. All the anger and humiliation that had built up in his gut was bound now for release. He grabbed for Luke's arm.

Luke easily avoided the attempt to grab him. “You're right, I ain't,” he said, and tossed the whiskey in Bogart's face.

Sputtering and swearing, Bogart took a step back, frantically trying to wipe the stinging liquid from his eyes with his shirtsleeves. “Come on, you Injun-lovin' son of a bitch,” Bogart challenged. “I've got somethin' to settle with you, and we might as well get to it—man to man, fists or knives.”

“It ain't hardly a fair fight,” one of the soldiers in the crowd gathered around the bar exclaimed. “He ain't but about half your size, Bogart.”

“That's his tough luck,” Bogart replied. “He shoulda thought about that before he crossed me the first time. Now he's got to pay up.” Turning back to Luke, he demanded, “Fists or knives? Choose one or the other. If you don't, I'm gonna hammer you into the floor anyway, so you might as well get ready to take a whuppin'.”

Remaining deadly calm during the inflamed bully's ranting, Luke said, “Knives.”

The bartender, having regained his wits, spoke up then. “Take your trouble outside. I don't need my bar all tore up.”

“Outside! Take it outside,” one of the soldiers directed. A sergeant, he was accustomed to ordering the enlisted men around. Equally accustomed, the crowd of soldiers took up his cry and pressed in around the two combatants, pushing them toward the door, everyone eager to see the fight. The sergeant quickly took it upon himself to referee. “It's gonna be a fair fight, no guns, and each man with one knife.”

The two antagonists were literally swept out the front door by the crowd of onlookers to be deposited in the open yard of the hog ranch. “Get rid of the revolver, Bogart,” the sergeant ordered. “You, too,” he said to Luke. “Let somebody hold that rifle for you.” Grinning at Luke, Bogart drew a large bowie knife from the scabbard, unbuckled the gun belt he wore, and handed it to Sonny Pickens. Luke looked around him at the eager faces before entrusting his Henry rifle to a young private standing on the inside of the circle. “Back up some on that side,” the sergeant continued to direct. “Give 'em some room.”

Like a great cat patiently watching its prey, Luke stood on one side of the circle while Bogart shifted his bowie knife back and forth from one hand to the other in an effort to intimidate his adversary. Although prepared to react instantly, the tall, rangy scout appeared to be relaxed, almost casual in his manner. It was not unlike facing an angry bear, Luke decided, except he figured the bear would be smarter than the hulking brute that was now advancing toward him, waving his knife back and forth. Bogart paused for a few moments, waiting for Luke to make a move. When he did not, Bogart interpreted the scout's lack of aggression as fear. With a roar like a charging grizzly, he suddenly lurched forward with his knife thrusting like a sword. Luke easily avoided the attack, stepping quickly aside to deliver a sharp hatchetlike chop across Bogart's arm with his knife. Bogart roared again, this time in pain as Luke's blade opened a gash in his forearm. He stumbled quickly away to prevent further damage.

Circling warily now around the dead-calm man in buckskins, Bogart was suddenly struck with the realization that he should never have challenged Luke to a fight with knives. The sandy-haired scout was too quick, but it was too late to opt for fists, so he was going to have to go through with his boast. He glanced down at the blood already soaking the sleeve on his right arm, and it served to spark his anger once more. After circling Luke again, feigning thrusts with his knife, Bogart lunged when he thought Luke wasn't expecting it. He was wrong again, and paid for it with a slash across his belly, causing him to disengage from the combat as before, fully aware of the hooting and hollering of the spectators.

His face still completely devoid of expression, Luke watched the big man as he stepped away from him and stuck his hand inside his torn shirt to feel his wound. He could read the angry confusion in Bogart's eyes, but it was tempered now with caution as the surly brute was faced with the prospect of being cut to pieces. Luke was also aware of a change in the crowd watching the fight. There was a perceptive shift in the cheering and encouragement for the bigger man, for it seemed apparent that Bogart was far outclassed in the art of knife fighting. They no longer chastised him for picking a fight with a smaller man, but rooted openly for him to corner the elusive scout.

Buoyed up by the crowd's encouragement, Bogart advanced upon his opponent again, but this time he did not charge blindly, pausing instead to anticipate Luke's response. This time he was able to react when Luke stepped aside to avoid the expected charge and was successful in slashing Luke's shoulder. His triumph was short-lived, however, for he received a long slash along the side of his neck in retaliation. Wincing with the pain, he tried to grab Luke's knife arm only to land on his back when Luke ducked under his outstretched arm, thrust his shoulder into his stomach, and lifted the heavy man in the air to dump him on the ground. In an instant, Luke was on top of Bogart, his knife at the stunned man's throat. “This business between you and me is done,” he threatened, “or I'm fixin' to open up your throat right now.”

Before Bogart had a chance to yield, a .44 revolver spoke and a bullet snapped by Luke's ear. With no time for him to think, his instincts took over and he dived off Bogart and rolled over and over to the feet of the startled young private holding his rifle. In the confusion of the moment, the crowd of spectators scrambled for safety as another bullet kicked up dirt beside Luke. Luke managed to grab his rifle before the private ran for his life. Turning toward the source of the gunshots, he discovered Sonny Pickens, pausing to take better aim for another shot. Without consciously thinking about it, Luke cocked and fired the bullet that hit Sonny in the heart a split second before Sonny could squeeze the trigger.

As startled as anyone, Bogart rolled over on his belly and prepared to get to his feet, but was stopped on one knee by the sight of his friend Sonny, sprawled flat on his back. Without thinking, he reached for the pistol that he no longer wore, realizing then that it lay on the ground beside Sonny's body. Fearing that he was next, he jerked his head around and met the deadly gaze of Luke Sunday and a Henry rifle aimed at him. “You kilt him,” Bogart blurted.

“Just as dead as hell,” Luke replied soberly. “Now I reckon it's up to you to decide if you're wantin' to go with him.”

“I ain't got no gun,” Bogart protested. He figured his only chance was to get his pistol and get off a shot before Luke expected it. “If it's gonna be a fair fight, you have to let me get my gun.”

“I'm tired of playin' your little games,” Luke said. “You either leave that pistol where it lies and walk away from here, or I'm gonna shoot you down where you stand.”

The drama playing out now was too much an attraction for the frightened spectators, and they gradually drifted cautiously closer with the prospect of witnessing a second killing. Finally one of them had the courage to speak. The sergeant who had sought to referee the knife fight said, “This wasn't meant to be no killin'.” He aimed his plea at the solemn scout holding the rifle on Bogart. “A few cuts and scratches, and maybe somebody gets slit good, then somebody calls, ‘Enough,' and it's over. It don't call for killin' anybody.”

Luke didn't take his eye off Bogart as he answered the sergeant. “He tried to kill me—twice—so I shot him. And I'm gonna shoot this one if he doesn't walk away and leave me alone.”

Turning back to Bogart then, the sergeant said, “You'd best do what the man says, Bogart. One killin's been enough.”

Fearing for his life moments before, Bogart now felt that the sergeant had saved his bacon, so there was a return of some of his bluster in an effort to save face before the spectators. “He ain't got no stomach for facing me with a gun in my hand,” he boasted.

“Don't be a damn fool,” the sergeant said. “He'll shoot you down, just like he said.”

“Yeah, Bogart,” one in the crowd said, “he'll shoot you down just like he did your friend.” The comment was repeated by several of the other soldiers. The fact that Pickens had tried to kill Luke first seemed to have been forgotten.

Relieved to have the opportunity to walk away with his life, Bogart said, “Well, I don't like it, but I ain't willin' to commit suicide if I ain't gonna get a fair chance.”

“That's using your head,” the sergeant replied. “You go on. We'll take care of your friend's body. I expect the officer of the day will be lookin' into this to see what must be done about it. He's bound to have heard the shots.”

“There'll be somethin' done about it,” Bogart spat in one final show of bravado. “I'll guarantee that.”

“I'll handle this,” the sergeant said as Bogart got to his feet and walked away. Then he turned to Luke and said, “I expect you'd best come with me.”

Luke slowly shook his head, then replied, “I expect not, Sergeant. I reckon I'll be on my way.” With his rifle cradled in his arms, ready to fire if anyone threatened to stop him, he walked through the ring of onlookers to the paint pony at the end of the hitching rail. Once in the saddle, he slid the Henry in his saddle sling and, urging his horse with his heels, loped off into the night.

* * *

“You lookin' for me?”

Startled by the sudden voice behind him, Ben Clarke couldn't help jumping. “Damn!” he exclaimed when he turned around to find the sandy-haired rifleman standing on the side of the deep gully. “You scared the hell outta me.” When his words were met with the usual stoic expression from the unemotional scout, he continued. “Yeah, I was lookin' for you where I thought you had a camp in the bluffs, but you were gone.”

“I moved it last night,” Luke said.