Sathow's Sinners (16 page)

T
he door to the barbershop was pushed open with enough force to make the bell connected to it sound more like a cat that had gotten its tail caught beneath a rocker. Its window was still rattling in its pane when the man who'd shoved it stomped the few short steps required to cross the room and dropped himself down into the largest of the chairs.

“Hello, Mr. Pescaterro,” Jerry said. “The usual?”

“Can you toss in any extra services?” Dog Ear asked. “Like maybe have that pretty gal that sweeps yer floors give me a ride when yer done?”

Laughing nervously, Jerry said, “That's my niece—”

“Oh?”

“—and she doesn't work here regularly.”

Pescaterro folded his hands across his belly and leaned back in his chair. “Then just the usual, I guess.”

As Jerry took a moment to run his razor back and forth over a sharpening strip, Pescaterro looked over to the chair beside him where another customer lay quietly beneath several steaming towels wrapped over his face. “You ever seen that little squaw that sweeps the floors?” Pescaterro asked.

The customer shifted just enough to turn toward the sound of the other man's voice and then shook his head.

“Yeah, well yer missin' out,” Pescaterro said. His bulky frame was almost too much for the chair in which he sat. His arms were thick with layer upon layer of muscle and his wrists were scarred with bands of gnarled skin marking the spots where he'd fought several battles against the various shackles that had been placed upon him. Apart from a nose that had been broken more times than the devil's promises, his most prominent feature were the burn scars running down one half of his mouth and chin like hot candle wax that had been drizzled over his face.

“She's not a squaw,” Jerry said meekly.

“What did you just say?” Dog Ear snarled.

Holding his razor in a vaguely trembling hand, the barber told him, “My niece. She's part Spaniard.”

“Fine,” Pescaterro grunted. “I'd bend a Spanish bitch over and fuck her just as easily as I would a savage bitch. Now give me my goddamn shave.”

Jerry's eyes darted over to the other chair. “I'm running a special today.”

“What's that?”

“Hot towels for an extra ten cents. They soften the whiskers and are mighty relaxing.”

“I don't want anything over my face,” Pescaterro said.

Reaching for a wide metal box, Jerry pulled a lever that opened the lid to allow a gout of steam to rise from within. “Are you sure? It'll make you feel like a new man.”

Pescaterro shifted in his seat contentedly. “To hell with yer special and to hell with that squaw sweeper of yers.”

Jerry winced and eased the lid back down onto the box. “All right. Just thought I'd ask.” After that, he whipped up a mug full of lather using a brush with long, soft bristles and began applying it to Pescaterro's face. At the same time, Nate peeled away the towels that had been piled onto his face and eased himself toward the edge of his chair.

Nate's boots had barely touched the floor when Pescaterro glanced over in his direction. The instant Pescaterro spotted him, Nate placed his hand on the grip of his holstered Remington and said, “You should've taken the special, Dog Ear. Would have been a nice treat before heading back to jail.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Pescaterro grunted. “Some goddamn bounty hunter?”

“He's a lawman,” Jerry said. “The best thing for you is to—”

In a swift set of movements, Pescaterro grabbed hold of Jerry's white jacket, pulled him between the two barber chairs and then swung him at Nate as if he were wielding a blackjack.

Nate had been expecting some sort of attack, but not this one. When he was thumped by the hapless barber, Nate rolled over the top of his chair to drop awkwardly onto the floor behind it. Sure enough, Pescaterro followed up with something much deadlier than his first attempt and a gunshot exploded in the little shop.

“I been waiting for someone like you to come along!” Pescaterro roared before sending another pair of rounds into the chair. “After nailing that sheriff up north to that tree, I was gettin' mighty bored.”

Nate didn't know what Dog Ear was talking about, but assumed there was some poor lawman still rotting on a tree somewhere. “You got one chance to go quietly, Pescaterro,” Nate said from behind his cover. “This is it.”

“Yeah? How about you give me a second to consider that?”

A half second later, sounds of rending metal and screws being torn through the boards where they'd been mounted filled the air. Nate glanced around his chair to see Pescaterro's boots and the base of the larger chair just before it was ripped up from the floor. That chair was then lifted high and sent crashing down again.

The chair's backrest slammed against the portion of Nate's chair meant to support his feet. He tried to roll away from the collision, but Nate hit a wall before getting far enough away to clear. Not only did the uprooted chair fall toward him, but the chair that Nate had been sitting in also began tilting his way. The quickest method for him to avoid being buried under all of that padded metal was to crawl toward the side of the shop where the barber kept his tools and other wares in a series of small drawers.

“That's what I like to see!” Pescaterro said. “Crawl for me, little piggie! I'll have you squealin' in no time!”

Nate started climbing to his feet out of reflex. Before he got one leg beneath him, he dropped back down again to press his chest flat against the floor. In the space of a heartbeat, a gunshot blasted through the shop to blast a piece from the cabinets where Nate would have been if he'd lifted his head any farther. Now that he'd gotten his bearings again, Nate lay on his side and drew the Remington. He sighted along the barrel for less than a second before squeezing his trigger. The pistol barked twice. One of those bullets sparked against what remained of the wide metal post where the larger chair had been moored and the other got Dog Ear hopping backward.

“Hooo-
wee!
” Pescaterro wailed. “Yer a nasty little bastard!”

Keeping his arm steady, Nate took careful aim and waited for another clear opportunity. As soon as he saw Pescaterro's feet shuffle into sight, he fired at them. Bits of leather tore from Dog Ear's boot, accompanied by a spray of blood. Pescaterro's only reaction was another wild howl. Instead of trying to find cover or get out of the barbershop altogether, the outlaw rushed around to the second chair to face Nate directly. If he felt any pain from getting hit, he wasn't about to show it.

Nate steeled himself with a deep breath and clambered to his feet. As soon as he could, he crouched down low and circled around the upended chair so there was still something solid between him and Pescaterro. Dog Ear's shots came in a series of rapid pops. One after another, each round came within inches of putting Nate down. One of them scraped across Nate's back like a set of molten claws and was immediately followed by the metallic slap of a hammer against the back of an empty casing.

Nate stood up while firing a shot of his own. It was a rushed attempt, only meant to buy him another second or two. If he were facing someone who cared about life or death, it might have done just that. Against Pescaterro, however, it was simply a wasted bullet.

Dog Ear's face was covered with a sloppy, ear-to-ear grin. Charging forward, he stretched out one arm while cocking the other back. His fingertips slapped against the Remington's still-warm barrel to push it to one side so he could swing the straight razor he'd grabbed with his other hand. Nate barely had enough time to lean back and turn his head to one side before his face was sheared off the front of his skull. The blade sliced through the air in front of him, sending a cold chill raking down his spine.

“Not in here!” Jerry protested loudly from somewhere outside of Nate's sight.

When Nate tried to aim the Remington, he realized he couldn't move that entire arm. Pescaterro had clamped a solid grip around it and was holding it at a prime distance for his next swing with the razor. Before he could be eviscerated, Nate kicked Dog Ear anywhere he could. His boot pounded against his shin and even stomped down on the outlaw's feet, which only put a slight wince onto Pescaterro's face.

“I should'a gone for the special, huh?” the outlaw grunted as he pulled Nate in closer and butted heads with him. “That's funny.”

Normally, Nate tried to avoid head butts simply because they only worked for animals with horns. For anyone else, it was generally a losing prospect no matter which end of it you were on. By the time Nate realized his arm had been released, Dog Ear's meaty hand had clamped around his throat.

“How long you been chasing me, bounty hunter?” Pescaterro asked as he pinned Nate against one of the large mirrors hanging on the wall. “Someone from that mining camp steer you my way?”

“It was . . . Keyes,” Nate said desperately. “He told . . .”

“Uh-uh,” Pescaterro grunted as he brought the razor down toward the side of Nate's head. “Keyes may be a lot of things, but he ain't no backstabber.”

“I swear! He—”

“Go on and keep screamin' if you like. I sure like it.”

Instead of trying to talk his way out of his current predicament, Nate brought his knee up into a series of powerful blows. The first few thumped against what felt like a wall made of smoked ham hocks. Pescaterro didn't seem to feel much pain from the shots he'd taken and those knees hurt him even less. He was at least jostled enough for the razor to move a few inches away from its intended target. The next time, Nate drove his knee straight into Pescaterro's groin.

Dog Ear's eyes widened a bit and his lips curled into a reflexive snarl. That was the problem with trying to crack a man in the jewels. If he didn't drop right away, he'd just become a lot madder than when he'd started. Before Nate could try to follow up with another knee to the same spot, he was heaved to one side like a hay bale being tossed toward the back end of a barn. Nate's hip and leg knocked against something solid and the sound of shattering glass filled his ears. Suddenly, he knew where he was.

Too angered to form words, Pescaterro slashed with the razor. Nate twisted away while reaching out to grab whatever he could. As his hand closed around a tall jar, Nate felt a jab of pain in his face followed by the warm rush of blood. The razor had cut him and was so sharp that he'd barely noticed. He grabbed the hand that was still gripping his throat and dug his thumb as far as he could into Pescaterro's wrist.

“Slimy little fuck!” Dog Ear said through clenched teeth.

Nate swung his other hand around, smashing the jar against Dog Ear's shoulder.

“No!”
Jerry hollered as if the jar had been broken against the side of his grandmother's head.

The air reeked of rosewater. Judging by the barber's continued mourning for the loss of his jar, it was fairly expensive rosewater. All Nate cared about was that the jar had indeed broken. Jagged portions of glass bit into his fingers and palm, which did nothing to keep him from hanging on tightly so he could drive the broken jar into Pescaterro's shoulder.

“Son of a bastard!” the outlaw roared as Nate twisted the broken shard of glass into his fresh wound.

The instant the grip around Nate's throat loosened enough for him to draw a breath, Nate pulled away and jumped down from atop the counter where Pescaterro had tossed him. He tightened his grip on the broken jar while frantically looking for the pistol he'd dropped somewhere along the way.

He found it, but it was closer to Pescaterro's boot than his own.

Dog Ear straightened up to his full height, which put the top of his head within a scant couple inches of the ceiling. Reaching over one shoulder, he let out a throaty grunt which ended with a long exhale. “That's better,” he said while showing Nate the wide shard of glass he'd dug from his flesh.

Nate couldn't help looking at the jar in his hand. Sure enough, he'd broken off a sizeable portion while stabbing Pescaterro. Suddenly, the remaining piece of bloody glass in his hand didn't seem so formidable. Pescaterro's eyes glazed over as he gleefully rushed toward Nate with his arms opened wide. Even if he'd seen the gun lying on the floor so close to him, it was doubtful he'd take the time to pick it up. Dog Ear was known for killing men in many ways, but standing and shooting like a regular murderer wasn't one of them.

Panic was a rare thing for Nate Sathow. This, however, was one time when he could feel it nipping at his heels and climbing up his spine with its icy little fingers. Rather than give in to it, he grabbed the first thing he could from one of the nearby tables. His hopes rose when he realized he'd stumbled upon the spot where Jerry kept his more practical tools. As Pescaterro charged at him, Nate hopped aside and picked up a pair of long, narrow scissors. Pescaterro stopped short of slamming face-first into the wall and, before he could wheel around, Nate brought his fist down like a hammer.

The scissors dug deep into a meaty portion of Pescaterro's back near the shoulder. He'd been aiming for the fresh wound put there by the broken bottle and nearly hit his mark. Enraged, Pescaterro turned around while lashing out with a savage backfist. Not only did he thump Nate in the chest, but he did it so quickly that Nate dropped the scissors as he fell back.

“You're ruining my shop!” Jerry wailed from the corner in which he was huddled. “At least take this outside!”

Pescaterro turned toward the barber and said, “I know you set this up! You're dead as soon as I finish with this one here!”

Jerry shut his mouth and hunkered down in his corner.

When Pescaterro shifted his focus back to Nate, he got an eyeful of soapy water which was the next closest thing that Nate could grab. The outlaw howled as the soap stung his eyes. Balling up his fists, he stampeded in Nate's direction. At the last second, Nate dove aside so Pescaterro ran face-first into another set of low shelves. Nate stepped up to deliver a series of short, chopping punches to Dog Ear's ribs. His fists pounded into the same spot, tenderizing Pescaterro's side until the outlaw turned to take another swipe at him. Still partially blinded by the lather, he punched a hole into the barber's wall and sent his other fist crashing down onto a metal bin used to keep the day's special good and hot.