Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (50 page)

Lucius rubbed his hands together to warm them.

The roses trembled as Evelyn moved. She was stealthy for her six years, but not stealthy enough. Lucius prepared himself for her emergence.

As soon as she popped out from the bushes, he was ready.

“Bang! Bang!” he cried once more.

This time, she clutched her hands to her heart, and feigned a dramatic fall. As she lay dying in the dirt, Lucius grinned.

It was about bloody time.

“Lucius, Lucius,” Evelyn croaked, “I’m dying, Lucius. You must save me.”

Lucius scoffed.

“I cannot save you,” he said. “You’re rotten. I would be committing a disservice to society.”

“No! You’re not a copper anymore. You’re a doctor.”

Lucius rolled his eyes. Evelyn was always changing the rules.

“I’m still a copper. And you’re dead.”

“You’re a doctor! And if you don’t rescue me, I will come back as a witch and curse you.”

“But shouldn’t you come back to haunt the copper who shot you?”

“No, because I am dying on your watch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I want to go inside. It’s freezing out here.”

The thunder clapped again. It was getting closer.

“And leave me out here?” Evelyn demanded to know. “Dying in the garden?”

Lucius sighed.

“How do you propose I rescue you, lass? I shot you through the heart.”

“You must kiss me.”

“Kiss you!”

“Yes.”

“And what good’ll kissing do?”

Now it was Evelyn’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Lucius, it must be done. It’s the only way.”

Lucius shook his head and began walking towards the house.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he told her.

As she was lying in the path, he stepped over her, but she caught his ankle and tripped him. On his way down, he skinned his knee upon a stone.

“Ow!” he hollered.

“I told you I would curse you,” she laughed. “To the dust with you, villain!”

Lucius righted himself by sitting up and examining his knee. His trousers were scuffed but not torn, and blood began to seep through the fabric.

At the sight of him bleeding, Evelyn stopped laughing.

“Oh, Lucius!” she cried. “What have I done?”

This was a happy turn of events, for Lucius was pleased to see genuine remorse on Evelyn’s face. The wound stung something fierce, and he might have shed a tear or two if he did not feel the sudden desire to appear tough.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s nothing.”

She was sitting up now too, and she shuffled about to get a better look at his knee.

“I did not mean to hurt you,” she said, and the idea that she had caused him pain brought tears to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Lucius saw the tears and reached out to pat her hand.

“I’m fine. Really.”

They sat in the dirt, their seats gone brown with earth, and the sky churning into darkness overhead. Evelyn’s face was flushed from play and emotion, and as Lucius sat opposite her, he thought of her strange request.

“Why did you ask me to kiss you?” he asked.

Evelyn shrugged.

“I just wanted to try it once.”

Lucius had seen a pair of servants kiss once. It seemed silly at the time, but now he was curious, too.

“If I kiss you, will you promise not to trip me anymore?” he wondered.

“Oh, Lucius, I really did not mean to-”

“You promise?”

She nodded solemnly.

“I promise.”

“All right. So what do we do?”

“I suppose we just touch lips.”

“Is that it?”

“I think so.”

“When?”

“Perhaps right now?”

Lucius was skeptical, but Evelyn looked so nice and soft at the moment, that he could not see how kissing her would hurt. Besides, she had already caused him to skin his knee. What more harm could she do?

He scooted towards her, and she closed her eyes. He bent forward, touched his lips to hers, and the warmth of his kiss sent goose flesh down her neck and arms. She shivered and pulled away, the smell of his breath still lingering in her nostrils.

For a moment, neither of them said a word. They merely breathed, in and out, and blinked at one another.

Then, a drop of rain descended in the space between them, and Lucius broke their gaze to look up at the sky.

He got to his feet and held out his hand.

“Come with me,” he told Evelyn, and together, they left the garden as the sky dropped a curtain of rain behind them.

* * *

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the field as the bells continued to chime.

Lucius stared ahead. For a moment, nothing happened. The earth itself stopped turning. Lucius did not even breathe. He did not
dare
to breathe.

The silhouettes were still in place.

The clean man. Samuel. Brock’s second. Brock himself.

Had Lucius even fired? Hesitantly, he pulled the trigger once more.

Click.

Empty.

His one bullet was gone.

Slowly, he dipped his head to check himself, to see if he was wounded. And as his eyes fell, so did Brock’s silhouette.

Without a trace of blood, Lucius was the one left standing.

The other silhouettes moved. Samuel was with Brock in an instant, surveying the damage.

“Step away from me, nigger,” the wounded man coughed.

Samuel ignored him and called to Lucius, and for a moment, Lucius forgot his own name.

He simply stood and stared, until Samuel called him a second time.

Oh, right. Lucius. That was him.

He approached the silhouettes slowly, disbelievingly. In a trance, in a dream. He barely felt his legs moving beneath him.

As he neared the scene, he took in the damage he had caused.

Brock Donnigan on the ground. Brock Donnigan grimacing with pain. Brock Donnigan with a hole just below his abdomen and a pool of blood soaking through his shirt and trousers.

 His second was busily pulling papers from his pocket.

“Give them to him,” Brock growled.

The papers were transferred to Lucius.

All the while Lucius stared back at Brock.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A bribe.”

“For what?”

“My life.”

“I thought this was a duel to the death.”

“Hence the bribe.”

“And my tickets?”

“Everything is there, Mr. Flynn.”

Lucius looked down at his overstuffed pockets.

“This was all mine to begin with,” he said.

“You gave it up. And now I’m returning it. With interest.”

“How much interest?”

“Enough.”

“Well, that depends on your self-esteem now, doesn’t it? You’re buying your life. Enough for you may not be enough for me.”

Brock smirked through the pain.

“It may be more,” he said.

Lucius pursed his lips. The reality of the situation was becoming clear to him. He was the victor here. He, Lucius Flynn, had won.

The enormousness of his relief settled upon him and he laughed. It was a sudden, unexpected chortle that somehow missed his mouth and came out his nose, dislodging a bit of dust and snot. Distractedly, he rubbed his sleeve across his face, and caught sight of a bit of fresh blood that had stained it in passing.

He had scraped off a scab from the day before, from when Brock had smashed his face into the table.

This gave Lucius an idea.

He looked down at Brock Donnigan, saw him burrowed in the dust like Goliath, that great, arrogant cock, and saw the look on the bird’s face just before Pigmy pecked his eyes out.

Goliath would have died eventually, even if Pigmy had not struck him blind.  His wounds were fatal, just as Brock’s were surely fatal. But in a duel, someone was bound to get shot, just like in a cockfight when one rooster must fall.

The real insult, in Goliath’s case, was the final blow dealt by his opponent.

Lucius smirked. Dueling with faulty pistols left a lot up to chance. Brock had taken the hit, and now it was up to Lucius to decide what to do with him. No chance involved. This part of the duel was conducted completely according to taste and style. Lucius had no desire to cut off Brock’s head, or run him through the heart with a knife, or shoot him to pieces. Let his body deal with the consequences of his wound in whichever way it chose. Lucius was not about to tie him to a horse cart and parade him around the city. These were all things Brock Donnigan might do had their places been reversed. But the situation being what it was, Lucius found he simply wanted to repay the evils committed against him the day before.

Dollar for dollar, blow-to-the-face for blow-to-the-face.

As his pockets were full, his lost fortune was more than restored, and only one thing remained to be done.

As Lucius glared down at a coughing, sputtering, writhing Brock Donnigan, he thought of a series of smart comments.

Sleep tight.

I always keep my promises.

Guess my luck didn’t run out after all.

However, when Lucius opened his mouth to speak, he decided against all of them. After all, Brock Donnigan had a bullet in his gut. The man knew he had lost. All he lacked was a good kick in the face.

Lucius walked around his opponent’s body and reared back to deal his final assault.

This was going to feel so good.

Just then, the ground trembled as a deafening shot boomed through the atmosphere, startling Lucius into stillness.

In dismay, the others looked around. Brock peered out from tightly shut eyelids, having anticipated Lucius’ blow. But Lucius’ foot never fell. Instead, he staggered backwards as his eyes darted to the horizon.

Someone’s voice chased the echo of the blast.

“The cannons!”

At once, everyone looked to the west.

Out on the long empty sea, a distant ship was approaching.

Chapter Forty-One

There was no time to lose. Not even time enough to finish what Lucius had been about to do. Besides, he had his money. And Brock was still bleeding.

They should just call it a day.

“It seems I have other business to attend, gentlemen,” Lucius proclaimed, his eyes still on the sea. “Donnigan, I think this is where we say farewell.”

Brock spit into the grass.

“You’re not going to finish me, Flynn?”

Lucius took a quick glance at the gushing wound near Brock’s hip. Things didn’t look so good for the Australian, and Lucius did not have the patience for benevolent bedside manners.

“I think I might have already, Donnigan.”

Brock winced in reply, for he knew Lucius was probably right.

Lucius turned to Samuel.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Samuel responded with a single nod, and together the pair took off; running towards camp, leaving Brock Donnigan and every threat he had ever imposed, behind.

“I must warn you,” Samuel shouted over his shoulder at Lucius, “there will be a riot on the docks. You must get there as soon as you can.”

“And what about you?”

“I will stay behind with the women. You find out what’s going on down there and then you let me know.”

“Hell, you know I will, Samuel! We’re getting out of here once and for bloody good!”

Samuel laughed. He returned to camp while Lucius ran for the docks, and Lucius was halfway there when he heard a female voice calling after him.

“Mr. Flynn!” Adele cried. “May I accompany you?”

She had heard the cannons and seen Lucius running from the field towards port, alive and unwounded. She was overjoyed at the sight, and she knew if Stephen were alive, he would be heading in the same direction. Now it was up to her, as the head of her family, to see that the Whitfields had a proper chance of getting on that ship to California.

Lucius stopped and spun around. Adele had pursued him at a good clip, and she nearly pummeled into him.

Lucius took her flushed face in his hands and gave her a wet kiss upon the cheek. Only hours ago, he had not known whether or not he would ever see this woman again. He realized he should have returned to camp to invite her along, but amidst the adrenaline from the duel and the cannons, he was rather preoccupied.

“Of course!” he told her. “Forgive me for not coming to get you myself!”

She waved him off and together, they continued their journey towards the incoming ship.

“By all means,” she said, “I am merely grateful that you are alive!”

Lucius nodded.

“A triumph that’s rather anticlimactic in light of this unexpected frenzy, is it not?” he chided.

She flashed him a brilliant smile.

“In my heart of hearts,” she said, “I am most pleased.”

“As am I!”

They were shouting at one another as they joined a flood of other transients.

“I apologize for not returning to camp in celebration,” Lucius said. “The cannons sounded immediately following the duel. There was no time.”

“No need for apologies, Mr. Flynn. There will be time enough for celebration when we get on that ship.”

“So confident, are you?”

“Hopeful, rather!”

They reached the docks as the ship made its slow approach, growing in size and clarity. Men were already clamoring along the wooden planks and wading along the shallows just beyond the docks, eager to be as close as possible. Panama City’s port was similar to Chagres in that it was too shallow for ships to come near. They were forced to anchor further out to sea, while their goods and new arrivals were ferried to shore. The ferries themselves were tied to the docks, and their boatswains were struggling to push past the horde of transients in order to climb aboard and reach the ship once it lay anchor.

Lucius turned from left to right, seeking information from those around him, but the scene was loud and chaotic and no one seemed to have a clue what was going on. There was incessant shouting, grunting, and cursing, as the mob swelled, pushing and shoving against one another. Port laborers tried to be about their work while desperate travelers grabbed hold of their shirts and demanded to be given passage on the coming ship. Some even tried to shove payment into the worker’s trousers as bribes, but the papers were flung back into the transients’ faces, for the natives refused to grant favors. Since the beginning of this rush for gold, they had learned that mollifying one man was not worth the wrath of many.