Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell (34 page)

Though her arm ached and her body throbbed with injuries sustained over the past few days, she smiled as she ran. The scent of Jasper Davis no longer filled her with unreasoning terror. She knew that somehow, justice—the wolf version of justice—would be served. She smiled, baring her teeth, happy to be on the hunt.

Back at the campfire, Max tried to explain the situation to Patrick, who shook his head in disbelief. “Armed only with a lariat, a bow and arrow, and a knife, she brought down a grizzly,” Max told Patrick.

Helen did her best to comfort Audrey. “I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Helen said. “I saw her fight a cougar that was attacking Cassidy. She’s amazing.”

At last, worn-out from worry and emotion, Audrey made her bed beneath one of the oak trees. Miss Paxon and Helen spread their blankets nearby. Max and Cassidy found a spot a discreet distance away, giving the ladies their privacy.

Patrick Murphy made his bed by the fire. For a time, he could hear the women murmuring as they prepared their beds. Then they fell silent. He pulled off his boots, made a pillow out of his coat, and pulled a wool blanket up under his chin. He was staring up at the stars, listening to frogs sing in the meadow by the creek when he heard soft footsteps.

“Mr. Murphy,” Helen whispered.

Startled, he turned to look at her. “Miss Harris?” he said. “I wanted to ask you a question,” she whispered.

“I see. And you waited until now to do it?”

She bit her lip and sat down on a boulder near his head. “Well, I couldn’t ask earlier. You see, it’s about Max. You knew Max in Chicago, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. Max and I go way back.”

She wet her lips. “I wonder… was Max some kind of criminal?” Patrick laughed softly. “You could say that.”

“He’s such a gentle man,” Helen murmured. “I can’t imagine him as a desperado. What did he do?”

Patrick grinned. “He was an artist.”

“There’s nothing illegal about that.” Her soft voice was puzzled. “Is there?”

“That depends on what you decide to draw. If you draw landscapes or portraits, there’s nothing illegal about it. But if you draw banknotes, that’s a different story.”

In the light of the setting moon, he could see her frowning. “Why would anyone draw a banknote?”

Patrick’s smile grew broader. “Few portraits are worth as much as a portrait of a hundred-dollar banknote.”

“Counterfeiting,” Helen gasped.

Patrick nodded, still smiling. There, by the campfire, while crickets sang beneath the oaks and Sarah stalked a killer, Patrick filled Helen in on a bit of Chicago history. Counterfeiting had been and still was a flourishing business in the town. Each bank issued its own currency; there was no national currency. Since each bank had its own designs, people found it difficult to distinguish counterfeits among the many varieties of legitimate bills. “At one point, we figured that about a third of the bills circulating in Chicago were counterfeit,” he told her.

“What about Max?”

Patrick shrugged. “Well, it seems that he fell in love with a lady from a rich family in Boston. He wanted to get married, and so he decided to draw some money. A very small-time operator. He concentrated on large bills—hundreds for the most part—and did a lovely job on them. Passed bills very successfully for a few years.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, he was an artist. In fact, that’s what did him in. He couldn’t help but improve on the bills as he drew them. One bill had an eagle that looked like it was stuffed and mounted. On Max’s bill, the bird looked like it was ready to take flight. Tiny improvements. That’s what tipped us off. Otherwise, the bills were perfect.”

“You caught him?”

Patrick nodded again. “Caught him and shipped him off to jail. Didn’t see him again until I arrived in California. Since gold is the currency in these parts, I wasn’t worried about his artistic tendencies. He’s a likable cuss, and he seemed to be leading an honest life.”

Helen nodded. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Harris.”

She left then, padding off as quietly as she had come. Patrick smiled staring up at the stars. It was always interesting around Max, he thought. Then he closed his eyes.

“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.”

—Mark Twain

J
ASPER RODE THAT NIGHT
, spurring his tired horse up the ridge of hills that divided the South Fork from the Middle Fork of the Yuba River, following trails that were little better than rabbit tracks. Once, he heard wolves howling in the distance, and he spurred his horse harder.

The moon was overhead when he reached the top of the ridge. He looked back down the trail and saw no sign of pursuit. That was good. He was making good time. It would take a few days for news of his troubles to reach the far northern towns, he figured. He’d have time to liquidate his assets in Downieville before he fled.

He had decided to head east. He could change his name and lose himself among the prospectors seeking silver near Carson City, a territory where civilization had not yet taken hold. He could do well there, he thought. Perhaps he would take up gambling again, refresh the skills that Gentleman Jack had taught him so long ago. He would prosper once again.

His arm ached where the girl had cut him. He was tired, dead tired. He was out of shape from too much drinking, from too much smoking, from living the good life of a prosperous man. He needed a few hours’ sleep, he thought, and the horse needed a rest. Then he’d be on his way. He tethered the horse and lay down with his rifle at his side, his pistol in his boot.

Jasper woke to moonlight and eyes. A gray wolf crouched not ten feet from his head, watching him with steady, golden eyes. His campfire had burned down to embers, but the half-moon cast its silver light across the clearing.

Slowly, Jasper reached for his pistol, but it was not tucked into his boot where he had left it. Still moving slowly, still keeping his eyes on the wolf, he sat up, reaching for the rifle at his side. It was not there. As he groped for the rifle, he found his hunting knife and grabbed hold of the handle, pulling it from the sheath.

As he moved, he caught sight of another wolf, smaller than the first, but staring at him with the same intensity. He shifted his gaze and realized that he was surrounded by wolves—an intent and silent circle of watching animals, their eyes gleaming in the moonlight. They were grinning, lips pulled back, tongues lolling past glittering teeth.

Beyond the clearing where Jasper had made his camp, the pines blocked the moonlight, casting dark shadows. Something pale moved in the shadows behind a big gray devil of a wolf with a grizzled muzzle. As Jasper stared, Sarah stepped from the shadows and stood beside the wolf. In her right hand, she held a knife.

Her left arm was bandaged—he’d winged her with that shot. So she was injured, just as he was. That was fair.

“I took the rifle,” she said. “I took the pistol.”

“Sarah,” Jasper said. He smiled, forgetting the wolves that surrounded him. Finally, the girl. So small, so insignificant, and so much trouble. If only he had found her when he killed her parents. He’d have slit her throat, scalped her, and left her with her precious mama, lying in the sun.

Wild Angel indeed. How angelic would she look when he tore off those trousers and spread her legs for his pleasure? He’d take her, then gut her like a rabbit.

He grinned at the thought. He had smiled when he crept up behind his father with the ax. He had smiled when he strangled Gentleman Jack.

“I thought you were too smart than to come to look for me,” he said. “But I reckon I was wrong. You’re just stupid enough. I killed your mama and I’m happy to kill you, too.”

“Don’t talk,” she said. Her gaze did not waver as she stepped past the wolves, into the clearing.

Jasper pulled his legs beneath him, crouching in his bedroll, then kicking the blankets aside. He was wearing only the trousers he had worn to bed.

In his time, Jasper had whittled an opponent or two down to size. In barroom brawls and minor disagreements, a miner was far more likely to pull a knife than a pistol. Though Jasper preferred the pistol, he harbored a certain affection for knife fighting. His long reach gave him an advantage. And a gunfight was over so quickly.

With a knife, it took time to kill a person—and Jasper enjoyed that. It gave his opponent time to realize what was happening, time to realize who was in charge, who held the power. He liked watching his opponent’s face when he made the first cut. Start small, slashing off a thumb, slicing the tendons of a wrist. Whittling with short upward strikes, careful not to catch the blade in a rib or some other inconveniently placed bone. Then, as the first wounds bled, he watched the fear grow in his opponent’s eyes. His favorite killing stroke was a wide, low, sweep across the belly, a fine way to disembowel his opponent. More than one miner who had the temerity to accuse him of cheating at cards had lost to that blow.

Sarah studied Jasper, looking for weakness. He stood with his knees a little bent, his feet well apart, right foot ahead of left. He held his knife in his right hand, blade angled upward, pointing in her direction.

He was smiling, but that did not bother her. She was smiling, too. His scent filled her nostrils, but she did not feel the terrible fear that had paralyzed her before. She felt as she had before the fight with Marek—alert, alive, her heart pounding with excitement, her senses alert to the smallest change that might give her an advantage.

Her arm ached, but that did not matter. A small ache, a distraction, nothing more. Living among the wolves, she had learned to focus on the hunt, ignoring distractions that might break her concentration.

She caught a glimpse of a movement out of the corner of her eye—a tiny shift in the position of his back leg. She heard a faint sound—his foot moving on the ground—and a fraction of a second later, he lunged forward, his knife slashing through the air.

She was no longer there. At his first movement, she had sprung to one side, reaching out with her knife as she did so to stroke the back of his right wrist with the blade. Not a deep cut—she had to move quickly, no time to put much pressure behind it. Just a sting—and then she leapt away over the firepit, where the embers still burned. From the other side of the clearing, she watched him.

As he turned, she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes, hidden as quickly as it appeared. In the moonlight, his wound was turning black with blood seeping slowly from the cut. She caught the smell of it in the air and her smile grew wider, the grin of a hunter on the track of her prey.

She was small, a good foot shorter than Jasper. He had the advantage of reach. If she lingered within his range, he could slice her to bits—but she did not linger. She had the fighting reflexes of a wolf—fast, agile, striking without hesitation. By comparison, he was slow, clumsy.

At first, she let him attack, dancing away from each blow and countering with another slash to the wrist, a swipe at his leg, a flick of the knife at his trailing hand. Sometimes, she missed, but often she made contact, each time with a light touch, a small cut.

He swore at her as he fought. “Damn you—you fight like a mosquito. Tiny bites from a tiny girl. You think you can kill me with those? Think again.”

She was not listening. Words meant nothing. All her attention was on movement and position. She knew what he was going to do as soon as he did—from a twitch of the foot, a flicker of his eyes, a jerk of his head. Subtle indications—but glaringly obvious to one who had grown up in a wolf pack. The first cut, shallow though it was, distracted him. The cut on his right thigh—not very deep, but deep enough to hurt—caused him to favor one leg.

“I killed your mama. I killed your papa. I’ll kill you, too.” His smile was gone now. His lips were set in a grim line, no humor left in him.

Still, she waited for his attack, but she began to follow each counter with an attack of her own—a stab, a slash, an upward slice. Always she stayed out of reach, keeping her distance, playing it safe. She concentrated her attacks on existing wounds, slashing again and again at his wrist until he tossed the knife to his other hand. He was bleeding from a dozen cuts.

She fought like a wolf. The pack did not bring down a deer with a single bite. No, it was a long and brutal process. They tore at their prey, allowing no rest, attacking from all sides. She had the patience of a predator—there’s no hurry, once your prey is faltering. The air filled with the scent of blood; the fear was in his eyes constantly now.

He was waiting longer between attacks, conserving his strength. She watched him carefully, her eyes never wavering. He held his knife low, as if unable to raise it. She smiled at that. She had known wolves who feigned exhaustion in a fight, hoping their opponent would let his guard down. She would not fall for that.

He stepped backward then—half a step, half a stumble, and she knew from the flicker of his eyes that this was a fake designed to lure her in. For a moment, she Jet him think he had succeeded, stepping in. In her peripheral vision, she could see the blankets from his bedroll, his boots, the embers of the fire—all obstacles, all potential weapons. His eyes flicked downward and she danced back as he kicked one of his boots into her path, hoping to trip her, holding his knife ready to slash her belly when she did.

When he kicked the boot, he put all his weight on his right leg, which had been weakened by the wound to his thigh. She acted then—springing over the boot, kicking his leg out from under him, slashing his left arm to the bone in a blow that flung his arm to the side. He dropped to his knees, releasing his grip on the knife as she brought her elbow back, striking his temple a solid blow that rocked his head to the side.

She could kill him now. That was clear. In a fight between wolves, this was the moment in which the loser might surrender, submitting to the winner, acknowledging the other animal’s superiority.

In that moment, Jasper’s eyes met hers. “Mercy,” he said. It was a word she did not recognize, a word that Max had not taught her. But she did not need to know the word. His eyes were filled with hatred, and her hand, which gripped his injured arm, felt his muscles tense, ready to strike the moment he saw an opening. This man was not surrendering.