The Devil's Paintbox (31 page)

“Oh, dear boy, don't become all … all grim, and moody and—starey at the coals! All you big strong men and not one of you can take a little ribbing. ‘I'm done with all longings,’ “ she mimicked.

“I wouldn't think you had to drum up business,” he snapped in a flash of anger. “Fights get everyone riled up and ready to rut; I would have thought that would be enough on my part.”

“Now you're being mean.”

He could hear the hurt in her voice. He blushed, for it was true.

“It's all right to have longings,” she went on. “After all, you're not dead!”

“Well, I should be! Better me than—than—” He stopped. “Sorry. My head aches and I'm tired. I have to go.” He picked up his jacket and started to walk away. “I didn't mean any insult to you.”

“Aiden.” Bandy caught his arm. “Wait. Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you don't want to feel? Why you would rather have your head bashed open?”

A group of men walked by and she fell silent until they had passed.

“You couldn't have saved your sister,” Bandy whispered. “You know that.”

“No, but—” His voice was shaking. He hadn't talked about Maddy with anyone since she'd died.

“But nothing!” Bandy pressed. “The river is like a tornado—you can't hold against it!”

“I should have taken her out,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could hold them back. “I should have got her back east somehow right after the fire. I should have thought up some way. Instead I thought up reasons not to. I told myself it was outlaws and blizzards, but really it was just me being afraid. Any way I pictured it, either she would die or someone would take her from me. I didn't want to be the only one left. I was ready for us both dying, but not her being gone and me the only one left. I was selfish.”

“Love is always selfish,” Bandy said softly.

“Love is supposed to be the opposite of selfish,” Aiden protested. “Like you would run into a pack of wolves to save someone you love.”

“Exactly. Because feeding yourself to the wolves is easier than to go on living without the one you love. Listen to me now, Aiden Lynch.” She squeezed his hand. “I don't know what I know about love. But I do know you did not fail your sister for lack of it.”

hristmas came, and some of the men received letters and packages. There was roast beef for dinner and extra whiskey. It snowed on New Year's Day, only a few inches, but the scheduled fight was postponed a few days so the men could slide trees closer to the stream banks. When they finally gathered, everyone was in extra-high spirits.

“Well, Prairie Boy.” Powhee's white smile gleamed. “I hope your pockets are strong, for we're going home rich tomorrow!”

“All right with me.” Aiden watched the men stamping and shivering around the circle. He had won two fights already, though one opponent had been an old alcoholic miner so staggering and frail that Aiden had had to work hard not to hurt him.

“Who do I fight for these riches, then?” he asked. “The Chief?” He looked at the stocky man laughing with some other men across the ring. He was a big-money fighter, a half-Indian French Canadian who lived in the backwoods upstream somewhere. It was rumored that he had two or three wives and showed up for fights whenever he had a falling-out with one and needed cash for a peace present. He was a strong and challenging opponent, but he lacked imagination, and after losing to him twice, Aiden had figured him out and defeated him dramatically in their last bout, the upset earning him a fortune of twenty-five dollars.

“No, you're ruined with the Chief now. Everyone knows you'll beat him. I have much better for you—there!” Powhee nodded toward the bunkhouse, where the door flung open.

“Damn, no!” Aiden's heart sank. Framed in the doorway was the Bull, a pure monster of a man. His head barely missed the lintel, and his arms would have scraped the doorframe had he not turned a little as he walked through.

“Bull! Bull!” the men started cheering. The nickname was fitting, for besides being as big and strong as a bull, the man had all the explosive power of the animal. The first time he'd fought the Bull, Aiden had been on his back before the echo of the starting gong had stopped.

“Christ almighty, Powhee!” Aiden protested. “The ground is frozen! It'll be a damn hard landing!”

“You're a good fighter now, Prairie Boy. You might stand a full round.”

“Sure—if you nail my boots to the ground.”

“I have a strategy.”

“What? Give him a hammer and saw and have him build my coffin?”

“Ha—it's good to joke in the face of disaster.” Powhee clapped his broad hand on Aiden's back. “Feint to the left,” he whispered, glancing around to be sure they were alone.

“I feinted last time.”

“He'll remember that. But you tried to take him down last time. This time you're just going to hold on.”

“To what?”

“To him! Like a slug, you know?” Powhee made a wet sucking sound and slapped his palms together. “That's the strategy! One round and we're both rich.”

“How about two rounds—we could be millionaires!”

“Feint left.”

“My left or his left?”

Powhee waved impatiently. “That way.”

“Right.”

“No, left! I have learned that his left eye is almost blind.”

“Why didn't you tell me earlier? I could have been prepared.”

Powhee shrugged. “The only preparation you could have done was make a will, and I know you have nothing to leave, so why ruin your whole day? Go on now. If you hang on, he can't throw you out of the ring. All we need is one round!”

Aiden walked grimly into the ring.
Be the slug,
he said to himself. As a totemic animal, it wasn't exactly inspiring.

“All bets in!” The tote men hurried to get their money. Betting for a Bull fight was especially complicated, as no one made a simple win-lose wager. The winner was a given; the money was on timing and style. A loser was a winner if he simply stayed a full minute in the ring; a whole round was unheard of.

“Jesus, lad, there's bets for if you just don't wet your pants!” Bony laughed. “Or how long until you cry!”

“Some cry before the gong!” Old Finn added.

“Gentlemen!” Mr. Powhee waved the two men into the ring and the crowd cheered. Aiden actually liked the Bull. Outside the ring he was good-natured and mild. He had been a merchant sailor before misfortune brought him to the camps, and after their first fight he'd gotten Aiden generously drunk and told him stories about China. He was four inches taller than Aiden and had forty more pounds of solid muscle and the strongest legs anyone had ever seen. His arms were like
roof beams, bigger around than some men's thighs. Nice as he might be in real life, in the ring he would turn a man inside out without a second thought.

Aiden braced. The gong sounded. The Bull charged. Aiden feinted. The Bull was indeed slowed—for half a second. Instead of a full-on body slam, he merely threw one mighty arm out and crashed it across Aiden's chest. Aiden was knocked back but flung both his arms over the Bull's arm and held on. The Bull whirled around so fast Aiden's feet dragged a circle in the dirt, as if he were a child being spun in a game.

Aiden used the momentum of the man's blow to swing his legs up. He wrapped them around the Bull's waist and clung with everything he had. He couldn't have been more sluglike unless he'd sucked on the man's face. The Bull smacked him hard between the shoulder blades. It was an open-handed smack, completely legal, but so hard Aiden wondered if his heart could actually burst.

“Don't make me hurt you!” the Bull growled.

I am the slug.
Aiden focused. A round was two minutes long. They were about thirty seconds into it now. The Bull had never needed to pin a man, so Aiden had no idea how he would go about it. He could just drop down and flatten Aiden beneath his body. Or he could kneel down and pin him with the one arm to which Aiden still clung like some wretched baby monkey. Aiden closed his eyes, hoped against hope and let go of the Bull's arm. Then he arched his back, still hanging on with his legs, reached back and grabbed the Bull's knee. He yanked hard and the man stumbled forward.

The crowd went crazy. There were thirty more seconds of frantic, muddy thrashing, but miraculously, the first-round
gong sounded with both men still inside the ring and Aiden not yet pinned. Aiden's every muscle trembled from the effort it had taken just to hold on. He loosened his grip and slipped off like a gob of mud. The Bull grinned, grabbed his hand and pulled him up. Aiden felt as if he had just flown around the world: exhausted but exhilarated.

“Nice job, Prairie Boy,” the Bull growled. “How do you want it now—down or out?”

Aiden spat out a mouthful of dirt and wiped his face on his sleeve.

“I don't fancy being crushed, thanks,” Aiden panted.

“Out it is, then.”

Aiden was not about to yield, but the choice was never his to make. The gong sounded the second round, and this time the Bull simply grabbed him by the arm, flipped him over, caught hold of his leg and yanked him into the air. Aiden thrashed, but the Bull didn't even flinch.

“You want to slap me some?” The Bull leaned over close enough for Aiden to smack him in the face, which Aiden did, with real anger and hard as he could, open-handed for the rules, but with the heel of his hand driving at the man's jaw. The Bull actually flinched, frowned and did not have to make a show of pain, for his eyes watered and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

“Damn little bastard, aren't you?” the Bull laughed. Then he tightened his grip, dangled Aiden like a lamb, walked over to the edge of the circle and dropped him gently out of the ring.

ou fight like an Indian.”

Aiden was startled by the voice in the darkness and strained to see beyond the shadows.

“Who's there?” His head was buzzing, and the noise of the crowd still swirled around the clearing. “Is someone there?”

“Just a friend, Wet Pony.”

Aiden's heart jolted and he took a step deeper into the darkness. Behind him, a log tumbled the fire into a flare of brightness, and he caught a glimpse of a ragged figure.

“Tupic? Is that you?”

Aiden went to him, surprised and glad, but stopped in shock as he saw him up close. The man in the shadows was indeed Tupic, but Aiden wasn't sure he would even have recognized him in passing. The once-muscular body was now thin. Where Tupic always stood boldly, this wraith seemed skittish, like a kicked dog. Tupic's hair was long and glossy; this man's was dull and crudely cut. He wore filthy clothes and boots too big for him.