Demon's Pass (8 page)

Because he was getting excited about the prospect in front of him, Parker was down by the wagons, looking them over carefully. That was when he saw one of the wagon yard employees packing the wheel hubs with grease. Or at least, the man was supposed to be packing the hubs with grease. In actual fact, he was doing no more than slapping a gob of grease on and leaving it there, doing nothing to work it into the hub itself. At a casual glance the wheels looked well packed, but the wheel was turning on a dry axle and it would take no more than a couple of days travel for the axle to be so worn that it would break.

“Mister, you aren't doing that right,” Parker said to the wagon yard employee.

The employee was a big man, at least three inches taller and, Parker believed, perhaps fifty pounds heavier than Clay, who was himself larger than average size. That the big man was also strong had been proven a few moments earlier when Parker saw him lift the corner of one of the wagons to remove the wheel from some mud. The big man looked over his shoulder at Parker. The expression on his face showed some irritation at Parker's words.

“What did you say, kid?”

“I said, you aren't doing that right. You've got to get that grease well down into the hub, or it does no good.”

“Uh, huh. You know all about this, do you?”

“Yes. I packed the wheels on my pa's wagon.”

The big man snorted. “Your pa's wagon, huh? Well, kid, this ain't your pa's wagon.”

“I know it isn't,” Parker said. He waited a beat, then added steadily, “It's my wagon.”

The worker stopped, then turned toward him. “What?”

“This wagon,” Parker replied. “It belongs to me. And the purchase contract says that it will be fit for travel. The way you are packing the wheel hubs, it ain't fit.”

“Get out of here, kid. Go bother someone else.” The worker turned back to the wheel.

“No, sir, I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here and watch you, to make sure you do that right,” Parker insisted.

The worker had just scooped out a paddleful of grease. This time though, instead of putting it around the wheel hub, he turned quickly and wiped it across Parker's shirt.

“Hey!” Parker shouted in surprise and anger.

The big man laughed. “Now, get out of here, kid, and let a man do his work.
Your
wagon,” he said, laughing again. “That's a good one.”

Parker walked over to a drum of coal oil, wet a cloth, and used it to clean the grease from the front of his shirt. That accomplished, he picked up a bullwhip and returned to the wagon. The worker, who didn't see Parker, was about ready to daub another paddle of grease onto the wheel when, all of a sudden, the end of the whip snapped out rattlesnake-quick, and snatched the paddle from his hand.

“What the hell?” the worker shouted. Turning around, he saw Parker standing there, holding the whip in his hand. “Boy, you better put that rawhide down, or I'm goin' to make you eat it!”

By now the commotion had brought a few others to the scene and they were shocked by what they saw. On one end of the wagon there stood a young, not-quite-sixteen-year-old boy, poised, in control, and showing not one ounce of fear. At the other end of the wagon was a large, angry man the town knew as Arnold Fenton. What Parker had no way of knowing, but what the townspeople knew only too well, was that Fenton was a bully who enjoyed forcing fights. Just last week he had beaten a man so severely that he had required a doctor's care for over a month.

“If you aren't going to do the job right,” Parker said, “then quit wasting the grease and get someone out here who knows what he is doing.”

“I told you, stay out of this. This is a man's business, and it's none of yours.”

“And I told you that these wagons are mine,” Parker said. “Or at least, half mine. That makes it my business.”

“Boy, you can go to hell for lying, you know. Or I kin send you there myself.” Fenton snarled. A few of Fenton's coworkers who had been drawn to the scene by the commotion laughed nervously. In truth, there wasn't one of them who wouldn't enjoy seeing Fenton get his comeuppance, but they couldn't afford to let him know that.

“My partner isn't lying,” Clay said, suddenly appearing on the scene. “He is half owner of these wagons. Now, what's going on here?”

“Take a close look at one of the wheels he's packed, Clay,” Parker said. “The way he's doing it, we won't make more'n forty miles before we break down.”

Clay walked back to one of the other wagons, the wheels of which had already been packed. He leaned down and examined the wheel closely, then stood up and looked back toward Fenton.

“I do believe my partner is right,” Clay said. “You're going to have to do these all over.”

Fenton growled, then picked up the spanner wrench that would be needed to open the wheel hub. At first, he turned toward the hub as if he were going to comply, but then, instead of opening the hub, he let out a yell of defiance and lunged toward Clay. He lifted the heavy wrench high over his head, preparing to smash it down on Clay.

“Look out!” someone in the crowd shouted.

Clay froze to the spot, completely defenseless. The only way he could shield himself against the blow was to throw his arms up. That would protect his head, but it would also probably result in at least two broken arms.

Before Fenton could bring the wrench down, however, the bullwhip snapped out again, and with a pop as loud as that heard before, the spanner wrench was jerked cleanly from Fenton's hand.

“Why you!!!” Fenton shouted. He turned and started toward Parker. “I'm going to kill you, you little son of a bitch!”

Parker used the whip once again, this time wrapping it around Fenton's feet. Jerking the whip back, he caused Fenton to go down. Screaming in rage, Fenton regained his feet, but by now, Clay was upon him. He spun Fenton around and drove him back against the side of the wagon with a solid blow to the big man's jaw.

With a loud bellow, Fenton sprang back, swinging wildly. Clay was barely able to avoid his punch.

“Fight! Fight!” someone in the crowd shouted and instantly, the crowd doubled in size as nearly everyone in town ran down to the front of the wagon yard. They watched as the two combatants circled about, their fists doubled.

Parker noticed that Clay was holding his fists up in front of him, whereas Fenton was letting his hands dangle much lower, raising them only when the two got close. Fenton swung again, as wildly as before, and Clay countered with a swift left jab that caught Fenton flush in the face. Despite the power of the blow, Fenton just shook it off.

Surprisingly, Parker was able to observe the fight with an almost detached interest, curious as to how Clay would handle his foe. The youth knew it was a contest of quickness and agility against brute strength, and he hoped to learn by watching.

After easily evading another of Fenton's club-like swings, Clay counterpunched with a second quick jab. Again, it caught his opponent square on the jaw, and again Fenton shrugged it off. As the fight went on, it was apparent that Clay could hit Fenton almost at will, but since he was bobbing and weaving, he couldn't set himself for a telling blow, so his punch didn't faze Fenton at all.

Clay hit Fenton in the stomach several times, obviously hoping to find a soft spot, but to no avail. Giving that up, he started throwing punches toward Fenton's head, but they were just as ineffectual until a quick opening allowed him to slam a left hook squarely into Fenton's face. Parker saw Fenton's already flat nose go even flatter under Clay's fist. From that, Parker knew the man's nose had been broken. Fenton started bleeding profusely, and the blood ran across the big man's teeth. It was a gruesome sight, but Fenton continued to grin wickedly, seemingly unperturbed by his injury.

Clay kept trying to hit his nose again, but Fenton started protecting it. Fenton nonetheless continued to throw great arcing blows toward Clay, who managed to evade any real impact, catching them on his forearms and shoulders. Parker feared that if just one of them connected with his friend's head, Clay would be finished.

A moment later, Clay managed to get another sharp, bruising jab through to Fenton's nose, and for the first time, Fenton let out a bellow of pain. But it was clear that the triumph would be momentary, for the thunderous punches that had repeatedly assailed Clay's shoulders and forearms were beginning to wear him down. Then Fenton managed to land a straight, short right, and Clay fell to his hands and knees.

The crowd groaned, for, in numbers, they had found the courage to root for the one they really wanted to win. With a yell of victory, Fenton rushed over and tried to kick Clay, but at the last second Clay rolled to one side. He hopped up again before Fenton could recover for a second kick and, while the big man was still off balance, sent a brutal punch straight into Fenton's groin.

When Fenton instinctively dropped both hands to his groin, Clay slugged him in the Adam's apple. Fenton clutched his neck with both hands and sagged, gagging, to his knees. Clay hit him one final time right on the point of the chin, and Fenton fell facedown, unconscious.

The crowd was stunned by the sudden change of fortune and for a moment they were silent. Then they gave up a tremendous cheer.

“Did you kill the son of a bitch?” someone shouted.

“No,” Clay answered, shaking his head and catching his breath.

“Well, you'd better kill him, 'cause if you don't, he's goin' to try an' kill you when he comes to.”

“Yeah, why don't you step on the son of a bitch's neck and break it?” one of the others asked. “It'd save us all a lot of grief if he was dead. Don't nobody like the bastard, and you'd be doin' everyone a favor.”

“No,” Clay responded. “I have no intention of killing him.”

“Well, you might not kill him, but I sure aim to fire him,” a voice said from the crowd. Parker saw Charles Garland working his way through the crowd. Garland owned the wagon yard and had been the one who had sold the wagons to them. Garland looked over at Parker. “I'm told you caught Fenton short-packing the wheel hubs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I'm glad you caught him, son, 'cause that's not the way we do business. You don't have to worry none about your hubs. I'll get every one of them greased proper for you and, to apologize for what Fenton did, I'm going to throw in two extra buckets of grease for you to carry with each of the three wagons.”

“That's very generous of you, Mr. Garland,” Clay said.

Fenton, groaning, was just now getting to his feet. He looked around with eyes that seemed to have some difficulty in focusing.

“Fenton, you're fired. Get whatever gear you might have stored back up there in the shed, and get out,” Garland said.

“You firin' me over somethin' this fool kid said?” Fenton protested. “Hell, he don't know what he's talkin' about.”

“Is that so? Well, he certainly knows how to tell when someone's not doing their job properly.”

“Yeah, and the kid can handle a bullwhip pretty damn well too!” someone shouted, and everyone laughed.

By now, the sheriff was on the scene and he was admonishing the crowd to break it up and move on. As the townspeople started to disperse, Clay and Parker looked at each other for a long moment, then both laughed.

“You all right?” Parker finally asked.

“I'm fine, as long as I don't have to actually use my arms,” Clay teased. “How about you?”

“I'm fine,” Parker said. He laughed again. “And I had a real good seat for the show.”

Clay nodded. “Yeah, well, I'd as soon not had the starring role but, once it started, it was too late to get out of it.” Then, Clay abruptly changed the subject. “Oh, I almost forgot why I'm here. Come over to the stable and have a look at our mules. I just bought eighteen of them, and they are the best-looking creatures you ever saw.”

Chapter 6

 

“In twelve days you will be married to Two Ponies,” Moon Cow Woman said. “There is much to do before then.”

“What must be done?” Elizabeth asked.

“You must learn the ways of our people. And you must learn how to be a good wife. That way, you will not be beaten.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Beaten? You mean Cheyenne wives are beaten?”

“Only when they are unwomanly, and do not behave as wives should behave,” Moon Cow Woman said. “Then it is a husband's duty to beat his wife.”

Elizabeth thought of the gentleness she had seen in Two Ponies' face, and she wondered if she had misread him.

“Does Two Ponies beat his wives?”

“I myself have never been beaten,” Moon Cow Woman said. “But Willow Branch and Morning Flower have often been beaten. They are Arapaho, and they are sisters. They are Two Ponies' other wives. They are unhappy that you will be a new wife, for it threatens their rank with Two Ponies.”

“I'm sorry they are unhappy,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps I can make friends with them.”

“No,” Moon Cow Woman said easily. “They have taken a vow to be your enemy. You cannot become their friend.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “Surely if I try very hard, I can win them over.”

“Arapaho are known to lie with dogs when they wish pleasure and no man is present. Willow Branch and Morning Flower are not worthy to be your friends. Do not waste your time with them. They are my enemies as well.”

As Elizabeth and Moon Cow Woman walked through the village, Elizabeth looked around, curious to see what was to be her home. Since the council had broken up, things had returned to normal. Women were at work again, and the men had returned to their horses, or had retired to groups where they sat in circles, telling stories and talking. Children ran free, tolerated by their elders as they darted in and out of hogans and teepees without regard to who lived where, laughing and shouting as children do everywhere.