Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (88 page)

 
          
 
"I... I do." But, oh, God, I don't
want you to go. He reached up, touching the corner of her cheek with the tip of
his finger. She closed her eyes as he traced gentle fingers along her skin.

 
          
 
She took his hand, pressing it to her cheek.
"Ritshard, you must promise me, after I am gone, tell Green I will send
someone to him at the mouth of the river they call Big Horn. Will you do this
for me?"

 
          
 
Her touch stoked a hollow tickle under his
heart and he drew her to him. Her arms went around him and she buried her face
against his neck. How perfectly she fit against his body, as if molded for him
alone. Inhaling, he savored her aroma, sweet scent spiced by leather and
woodsmoke. He ran his hands down her slim back and let them settle in the curve
of her thin waist. He could feel her breasts pressing against his chest, and
closed his eyes to savor the sensations conjured within.

 
          
 
Memories haunted him of that day at the river:
her lithe body in the sun, and water like diamonds beading on her firm thighs.
Dark nipples on rounded breasts, her flat belly accenting the curve of hip and
the mystery hidden beneath glistening pubic hair. How proud she'd looked,
broad-shouldered,
midnight
hair shining blue in the sunlight.

 
          
 
She tightened her grip, surprising him with
her strength. Her body's heat burned into him, into his soul, and triggered a
hammering of his heart. He wanted her, the need building with each pulsing rush
of blood in his veins.

 
          
 
She felt him hardening and pushed away, slim
hands on his heaving chest She searched his eyes with hers, seeking desperately
. ..

 
          
 
"Dear Lord God, I... I can't,
Willow." He shook his head, panting, dropping his eyes so she wouldn't see
the shame, lust, and need all mixed together.

 
          
 
From the corner of his eye, he could see her
nod and turn away, walking toward her basket of chokecherries. He knotted his
muscles against the ache in his chest and let the fever ebb from his blood. I
must think of Laura, of the promise I made to her. If I can’t keep that simple
promise, how will I ever look myself in the eye again and still call myself a
man?

 
          
 
They walked back toward camp in silence,
casting furtive glances at each other. Everything seemed dreary and confused.
So much piled on him: Trudeau at the precipice of a killing;
Willow
leaving; and the horrible emptiness inside—
like rot hollowing out an old log.

 
          
 
Travis sat in the shadows with his back
against a rolled blanket and watched Richard and Willow. Both were seated
cross-legged, the fire separating them as surely as the invisible barrier they
had erected. Travis braced his left arm on his knee, hand hanging limp but for
snatching at an occasional mosquito. In his right, he cradled his pipe, puffing
absently now and then to keep the tobacco smoldering.

 
          
 
Dick and
Willow
had placed themselves to be as far from
each other as possible, but so they could watch each other in the least
obtrusive manner.

 
          
 
Never known two people as happy ter torment
each other as them two.

 
          
 
Once again, something had happened to upset
the delicate balance they'd achieved. From across the camp, Trudeau cursed and
jumped to his feet, fists balled, head bulled forward.

 
          
 
Just as quickly, Toussaint was up, his deep
voice calming.

 
          
 
"Gonna be trouble with that French
coon," Baptiste noted amiably as he appeared out of the darkness with a
tin cup in his hand. He squatted at Travis's side, eyes gleaming from under the
wide brim of his hat.

 
          
 
"Reckon." Travis caught the
tightening of Richard's expression as he watched Trudeau. A curl of disgust
bent Richard's lips. Wal, now there's part of it. Them coons has got each other
so stiff-legged they's about ter fall over. And sure as God made sunsets.
Willow
was in the middle of it.

 
          
 
"You want I should go knock some sense
inta his lights?" Baptiste indicated Trudeau with his cup "A feller
can catch a whole heap of sense with a good hard whack to the side of the
head."

 
          
 
Travis studied Richard from the corner of his
eye. "Let him be fer now."

 
          
 
Baptiste stuck his jaw out sideways, caught
the drift of Travis's thoughts, and grunted. "He'll get kilt."

 
          
 
"Yep. Reckon the fat's a-boiling fit ter
spatter."

 
          
 
Richard had clenched his fists, a hard-eyed
squint fastened on Trudeau.
Willow
had turned to watch, then regarded Richard with sober eyes.

 
          
 
Whatever was said by Toussaint, Trudeau hadn't
wanted any part of it, for he stalked away from the engages’ fire. He'd headed
for the edge of camp, then, as if on a notion, he changed directions to pass
the fringe of Richard's fire.

 
          
 
"Coming ter a head now," Travis
murmured to Baptiste. "Let her play out as she will."

 
          
 
Richard had hunched up, jaw set in his thin
face. Travis had seen that crazy shine in men's eyes before; the twitchy set of
the lips that betrayed a man pushed too far.
Willow
appeared unconcerned, but her fingers had
tightened around the handle of the war club.

 
          
 
Trudeau hesitated as he approached, started to
veer off, but couldn't resist, "You 'ave your rifle, mon ami? Is that what
you stick in your hot Snake bitch? The only thing you own hard enough to make
her moan?"

 
          
 
Richard's reaction even caught Travis by
surprise. He leapt like a coiled spring, taking Trudeau around the waist.
Richard bulled him back, pummeling with his fists. Instinctively, Trudeau
clenched, lifting Richard off the ground as he tightened his grip in an attempt
to snap the spine.

 
          
 
Richard kicked frantically and slammed an
elbow into Trudeau's head before poking a thumb into his eye.

 
          
 
Trudeau howled, planted his hands in Richard's
chest, and shoved him off. Richard tumbled backward as Trudeau rubbed at his
eye, roared, and leapt in an attempt to stomp Richard's chest in. From flat on
his back, Richard kicked Trudeau's legs out from under him.

 
          
 
With a newfound agility, Richard twisted away
from Trudeau's falling body. Both scrambled to their feet in a flurry of dust
to circle like bulks.

 
          
 
Engages had come at a run, and now their
shouts and whistles added to the din as they cheered Trudeau on.

 
          
 
Richard feinted and grabbed for one of
Trudeau's arms. The frantic fingers slipped as Trudeau planted a foot and
lashed out with a fist to graze the side of Richard's head. Before the kid
could recover, Trudeau was on him.

 
          
 
Travis put a hand on Baptiste's arm as the
black hunter started forward.

 
          
 
When Trudeau hammered Richard into the ground,
it drove the air from his lungs. Instinctively, Richard tucked his legs up—just
in time to block the knee that jabbed for his crotch. Trudeau arched, pulling
back a cocked fist. Richard took the opportunity and used the muscles of his
gut and neck to butt his head into Trudeau's face. The smacking impact brought
a howl from Trudeau.

 
          
 
The engages were dancing gleefully, swinging
their fists in mock combat, clapping and shouting.
Willow
had backed away, lips parted, a gleam in
her wide eyes as she clawed for the war club on her belt.

 
          
 
Trudeau was squealing his rage now, slamming
his fist into the side of Richard's head. The Yankee gave a gasp, and the pain
spurred something down inside him. His expression twisted, demonic, half mad
with panic and desperation.

 
          
 
Travis finally moved, stepping up behind
Willow
as she tore her war club from her belt and
started forward. "Leave 'em be," he warned, placing a hand on her
shoulder. "Dick's got ter fight her out, gal."

 
          
 
Willow
tensed, trembling, but lowered the Pawnee
club.

 
          
 
Travis looked down at the thrashing bodies to
see that Trudeau was clawing at Richard's face with hooked fingers.

 
          
 
Come on, coon. If'n he blinds ye, she's all
over.

 
          
 
Dick was flopping like a fish in the boatman's
grip, avoiding the gouging fingers. Sweat trickled, mixed with blood on Richard's
face. As the inexorable fingers closed, Richard snapped like a turtle for a
worm.

 
          
 
Trudeau shrieked, two of his fingers clamped
between Richard's teeth. The Yankee bit down savagely, shaking his head like a
terrier on a rat. At the same time, he got a hand back of Trudeau's head, and
did a little clawing of his own.

 
          
 
Insane with pain, Trudeau bucked like a fresh
colt, broke Richard's grip, and pounded a hard-boned left to the side of
Richard's head to loosen those terrible jaws.

 
          
 
Trudeau rolled free, scrambling away.

 
          
 
"Dick! Get up!" Travis bellowed as
Trudeau stumbled to his feet, careened off the surrounding boatmen, and leapt.
Richard saw, rolled to the side, and Trudeau's hard heels slipped off his ribs
instead of crushing them. As he sprawled, Richard curled and grabbed up one of
the rocks from the fire ring. He grunted with effort as he bounced it off the
side of Trudeau's head.

 
          
 
"God damn it!" Dave Green bellowed,
elbowing through the circle. "Stop this at once!"

 
          
 
"Let 'em go, Dave!" Travis shouted,
waving to get the booshway's attention. "They gotta finish it!"

 
          
 
Richard had used the moment to hammer the
half-stunned Trudeau in the head again, but the heat from the rock was too
much. He dropped it, balled a fist, and round-housed Trudeau in the face.
Travis heard the bones in the Frenchman's nose snap. Richard sprawled on
Trudeau's chest, hands clamping around the boatman's throat in a stranglehold.

 
          
 
Travis gauged the glaze in Trudeau's blinking
eyes, and stepped forward as Trudeau managed to get a grip on Richard's wrists.
To keep from being pulled free, Richard sank his teeth into Trudeau's ear. His
neck and back strained as he tried to rip it off Trudeau's head.

 
          
 
"Whoa, now, hoss," Travis soothed,
bending down. "Ye've got him, hear? Let him up, coon. Ye ain't ready ter
kill him. It ain't what I'd figger a feller from
Boston
wants told in all them fancy houses on
Beacon Hill
."