by Keri Hudson
But Devon Caine was not just any man.
They made it halfway across the street before Frenchy stepped out of the old saloon, Mamma by his side. Rim-Job and Tits stepped out of the saloon with him, others appearing from the church and the old livery, eyes fixed on Devon as they closed in.
Devon stopped and turned to survey the men gathering in a circle, Mamma and the other women fading back to let the inevitable unfold and be a safe distance from it.
Frenchy said, “I see you’ve been getting cozy with one of my bitches.”
Devon spat out a contemptuous huff and shook his head. “Some people, I tell ya, they just don’t know how to act.”
“Maybe you’d like to school me some?”
Sasha couldn’t miss the glances the other men shared. Ginger’s attention seemed fixed on Sasha, much as she tried to avoid his lovelorn gaze. She’d hurt him by sleeping with Devon, Sasha knew that. What form his insult would take, she didn’t have to guess.
“That any way for a brother to treat a brother?”
“I’m not your brother.”
“Thought you were thinking about joining the Crushers. We could use a man like you.”
Devon turned to share a glance with Sasha, and she knew that her warnings about Frenchy had been well heeded. Frenchy had no intention of letting Devon into the Crushers. It was a ruse to get the handsome stranger to let his guard down so he could be taken out. That told Sasha that Frenchy had trepidations about attacking Devon that even he didn’t quite understand. But Frenchy had been in plenty of fights, enough to have honed his instincts. Those instincts seemed to be telling him something, even shouting it in his inner ear.
“I don’t join,” Devon said, and Sasha knew he’d said all that needed to be said.
“That’s too bad,” Frenchy said, glancing at the other men of the gang. They pulled out their hammers, slingshots, machetes.
“And I don’t scare easily,” Devon went on. “So let me tell you how it’s gonna be.”
“You… tell me?”
“That’s right,” Devon answered, cool and calm and collected. “See, I’m riding out of Hangman’s Gulch, and I’m taking Sasha here with me.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. And if you or any of these other punks think they can stop me, then they’re welcome to go ahead and try.”
Sasha’s eyes met her sister’s, and a chill ran up her spine. The cold glare in Mamma’s eyes felt like enough to make Sasha turn to stone right there and then. She could see the disappointment, she could read her sister’s resolve not to interfere. Years of resentment and conflict had finally boiled over, and Mamma had cut ties with her kid sister, abandoning her to her fate.
Frenchy seemed to give the matter some thought. “I see. No point offering to sell her, I s’pose. We’ll just take whatever’s on ya before we drag you outside of town, leave you to the scavengers.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
“Please, Frenchy,” Sasha said. “Listen to him, just let us go.”
“Hey, Sass,” Frenchy spat back, “listen to me and mind yer damned business. Yer in trouble enough as it is; you wanna live, shut yer damn suck-hole.” To Devon, Frenchy went on, “Sorry, pal, but I just can’t allow that.”
“No?” Frenchy shook his head, and Devon added, “And why’s that?”
Frenchy seemed to give it some thought, but Sasha knew he’d already made his decisions and knew precisely why. “See, I got responsibilities here,” Frenchy said. “I gotta keep these people safe. But having one of my number out there loose, talkin’ maybe, that just ain’t safe.”
Devon just shrugged. “You sound to me like a man who’s afraid.”
“Afraid? I ain’t afraid o’ shit, pal! But I just don’t let anyone walk away with one o’ my bitches. That’d make me look weak, see? And I ain't weak.”
Devon stared him down. “I suppose we'll have to see about that.”
Frenchy chuckled as he took a fighting stance. It was a challenge Sasha knew Frenchy could not turn down. He had to prove himself to the others, and there was only one way to do it. He turned to his fellow Skull Crushers. “Y’all stand down. I want this motherfucker all to myself.” They nodded and stepped back, but Sasha knew they would rush in when Frenchy needed it. The command was more for Devon’s benefit, but Sasha knew her new man could not be intimidated.
She wasn’t even sure if he could be killed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Frenchy moved in on Devon, who assumed a similar combat stance. Sasha could only stand back like the others and watch, though she had no intention of intervening. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop anybody who decided to.
Devon’s going to have to handle this on his own, Sasha knew. Any other man would be dead no matter how things shake out.
The two men circled around each other, Rim-Job and the others calling out insults and support to both men.
“Get ready for a whoopin’,” Tits Lawrence chided Devon.
“You get him, Frenchy,” Ginger said, swinging his fists in front of him. “Kick his fucking ass!”
Others whooped and hollered, whistled and shouted. Even Mamma and the other girls joined in, and the caterwaul of their cajoling sounded more like coyotes closing in on a kill than the human beings they were supposed to be.
Human, she thought, only that? You’ll need to be more than human to beat my man!
Frenchy moved in on Devon, planting a quick punch to his gorgeous face. Devon’s head snapped back and Sasha felt as if her own face had been punched, imagined pain ringing in her skull.
The others cheered as Frenchy threw another punch, this one even louder than the other, contact so clean that the crack seemed to echo in the street. Just the thought of any damage to that amazing face made Sasha want to cry, though he could be mangled and bloodied and she’d still love him.
And she wasn’t expecting that, not at all.
Frenchy seemed empowered, bolder as he pushed forward, another two jabs leaping from his side. The first one struck, but the second was a miss. Devon threw a hard punch into Frenchy’s belly, the Crushers’ leader bending forward, almost folding around Devon’s fist. Another hard punch to Frenchy’s upper back, a lone fist smashing down from above, put Frenchy onto the ground, face in the dirt.
Frenchy rolled and pushed himself up, quickly finding his footing and facing Devon again. He crouched low, his mouth in a mean snarl as he circled Devon again, looking for a vulnerable spot.
Devon’s form was perfect, and Sasha could see the frustration in Frenchy’s eyes. Finally Frenchy charged, a clenched roar in his throat as he rammed his shoulder into Devon’s gut and rushed to send him toppling backward.
But Devon spun to send Frenchy flying to the side. Frenchy fell into the ring of Crushers surrounding the two combatants. They caught him and helped him back to his feet, but Frenchy pushed them away and charged Devon again.
Devon threw a punch into Frenchy’s face which sent his head snapping to the side, a blow so hard that it stifled his charge, feet slipping out from beneath him. Frenchy stayed on his feet, but just barely. Another punch sent Frenchy staggering backward, once more among his friends.
“Get that son of a whore!”
Ginger and the others swarmed Devon from every angle, giving him no time or direction to escape.
Devon threw a right cross at Rim-Job, sending him flying back. A sidekick to his other side caught Ginger in the gut and sent him flying back, feet lifted up off the ground before the rest of him replaced them there.
Devon head-butted another, Black Friday, and Sasha could almost feel her own skull crack. Friday was stunned but still on his feet.
And by then the others were too close. One Crusher grabbed Devon’s left arm, another his right. Devon kicked one in the knee, sending the man buckling and letting go of his arm. Devon used it to throw another vicious punch at the other Crusher holding him. It was a good hit, but the man held tight and
by then Ginger had jumped Devon from behind. Ginger wrapped his arms around Devon’s neck and bit down onto his ear, inspiring a clenched growl. Blood spilled down the side of his neck and Ginger held tight, Devon reaching around to try to pull his redheaded attacker off him.
Others closed in and piled on until they managed to pull Devon down to the ground. Eight Skull Crushers gathered around him, punching and kicking, laughing and screaming and spitting. Devon had disappeared from Sasha’s sight, lost in a frenzy of hatred and vengeance, unbridled violence pouring out onto him in amounts great enough to drown almost anyone.
“Devon,” Sasha called out, earning a wordless rebuke from her sister, glaring at her from the other side of the street. Devon released a low scream, barely audible above the kicking, punching, stomping. The scream got louder and even lower, and the men suddenly stopped their aggressing and stepped back.
Sasha could still not see Devon, but by the reactions of the Skull Crushers, she knew what was happening in the center of that vicious circle.
Ginger said, “Oh shit,” and turned to run. But Devon’s massive paw swiped across Ginger's feet, sending him flipping to the side and crashing to the ground.
The other men backed up, Frenchy standing near them, shocked to see a massive brown grizzly bear standing where Devon had been, shredded clothes and colors at his four feet.
“Oh my fucking Christ,” Frenchy said, but that was all he had time for.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Crushers each reacted with their own manner of terror. Some stood, paralyzed by fright; others turned to run away, trails of dust rising behind them.
Sasha could only stand and watch, her attention locked on the bloody fray. Devon swiped his great paw at one of the stunned Crushers, and Ass Jones burst in a splash of gore and guts, his body slow to realize what had happened before falling to the dirt.
Jackhammer stood watching, but made a break for it just before the bear turned on him. He ran screaming and made it several feet before the bear jumped him, mighty jaws clamping around the back of the man’s neck. Jackhammer screamed and reached back, hands feebly trying to find the bear’s eyes or ears or any vulnerable spot. Devon growled and shook his head, the man’s neck cracking loudly before his flailing arms fell lifeless to the dirt, head hanging low.
Devon dropped the dead Crusher and turned to find another victim. It didn’t take long.
Rim-Job raised his ball-peen hammer high above his head. “That’s it. I don't know what the hell you are, or what the fuck is going on here, but I’m gonna bash your brains in, Yogi!”
Rim-Job ran up on the bear, bringing that round, metal hammerhead down onto Devon’s skull. He roared with the loud clack of metal on bone. Devon turned and stood up on his hind legs, standing eight feet tall. He roared as he stepped toward Rim-Job, who seemed to know he'd gotten himself into something there was no getting out of.
But there was no going back, and Rim-Job seemed to know that too. So he charged again, that pitiful hammer raised high for another blow. Sasha knew how it would end, and she felt that Rim-Job knew it too.
Devon let Rim-Job charge, planting several fruitless blows of the hammer against Devon’s fat-laden, hairy hide. Rim-Job screamed out his anger as he hammered at Devon, louder and harder with every passing second.
Finally Devon seemed to have had enough. He roared and swiped his powerful paw at Rim-Job’s head. The ball of meat and bone flew from Rim-Job’s shoulders, his decapitated body staggering, death nerves driving it like a chicken in a similar condition. His legs finally folded, dropping Rim-Job’s body to lie with the others, his head a good twenty yards away.
Sasha stood watching, but a sudden force from behind took her by surprise. Sasha screamed, a hard limb wrapping around her throat and holding her tight. Sasha looked back to see Frenchy standing behind her, a twelve-inch hunting knife in his other hand.
Sasha tried to pull herself free, but Frenchy was driven to new strength and power with his increasingly desperate situation.
Frenchy shouted, “Hey, you hairy motherfucker!” The bear turned and growled, pausing to take in the situation before him. Sasha knew there was a reasoning, human mind behind all that muscle and fat and bone and ancient rage. And Sasha knew how keen that mind was. She could almost hear Devon thinking things through, choosing his next move—and that would be to hear Frenchy out.
“That’s right,” Frenchy said, “this what you want? This fat bitch your cup of tea, is she?” Devon growled and took a single step toward Frenchy and Sasha. “Stay right there, you ugly goat-fucker, or I’ll cut her throat and laugh while she bleeds out.” Devon stayed where he was, that low growl rumbling in his meaty throat.
Frenchy chuckled a bit. “So… you can understand me. All right, then, I guess there's something left of the man you are… or were... or whatever-the-fuck. I don't give a shit, tell you the truth. Now you killed a lot of my friends, just about ruined my club, and set this one off on a rebellion. I can get new friends, I still got my club, but I don’t take to rebellion, not one fucking bit!”
Devon roared, shaking his head and revealing his long, white fangs.
“Too bad, big boy,” Frenchy said. “Now turn around and get outta Hangman’s Gulch ‘fore I gut her like a fucking fish!”
“Frenchy, no!” Frenchy turned, Sasha shifting in his grip as they both spun around to see Mamma standing by Frenchy’s side. Her brows were arching up toward the center of her forehead, eyes pleading, lips quivering.
“Frenchy, stop! This ain't right! We can't fight this damned thing! Let her go, let him take Sasha and just leave us in peace.” She asked Sasha, “That’s what you want, ain’t it?” Sasha nodded, and Mamma went on to Frenchy, “We’ll start again, Frenchy! You said it yourself, we can get new friends, but at least we'll have each other. You know Sasha ain’t happy, why not just... let her go?”
Frenchy seemed to give it some thought, looking Mamma up and down. “You cowardly scarecrow! Get the hell away from me, y’damned ugly bitch!” Frenchy lashed out, swinging his arm at Mamma to send her staggering backward. Sasha looked over to see her older sister stepping back, a shocked expression on her face, forehead wrinkled, eyes staring off, mouth curling in a confused wriggle.
She reached up, blood pouring from a fresh slit in her neck. Mamma looked down at her bloodied hand, then reached up with the other hand to her split neck. She looked at Frenchy, reaching out with her two blood-covered hands.
“F-f-f-f-f-Frenchy?” She fell to the dirty ground, face down in a widening pool of her own blood.
Sasha felt Frenchy’s stunned grip loosening from around her neck. “Mamma? Oh shit, Mamma!” Sasha knew it was her only chance, and she used all her strength to pull hard at Frenchy's arm, still pinned to the front of her throat. She yanked the arm down and pushed away from him, just barely able to escape his grip.
Sasha ran with a shriek, the horror of her own peril and her sister’s death overwhelming her. All Sasha could do was run, legs pumping to put as much space between her and Frenchy as possible.
Sasha tripped on her own feet, clumsy with panic. Her hands braced her, scraping against the hard ground. She turned to see Frenchy standing without a hostage, no helpless woman to hide behind. And he'd already seen what Devon could do—there was no point at all in trying to fight the massive, enraged bear.
Frenchy turned and ran for it, that big, bloodied knife still in his hand.
Devon charged after him, Sasha unwilling to try and stop him. She knew there was no chance, and also that whatever Devon was going to do, it would be fair and just.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Devon’s blood rushed through his veins. His muscles were stretching with that easy grace he knew so well. The smell of Frenchy’s fear and body odor was impossible to resist. Devon stalked toward the wasted livery Frenchy had chosen as a hiding place. But there was no hiding, no escaping. It was just a matter of time; everything in Devon’s body and mind told him t
hat. He clacked his jaws, readying for a satisfying bite.
He approached the livery, knowing his prey would attempt an ambush. The man was just bold and desperate and stupid enough, and Devon stepped into the livery and looked around, expecting Frenchy to jump out swinging, perhaps the knife, perhaps some old tool left behind by whoever was there originally.
Devon huffed, sniffing the air. The man was close, Devon could feel it. He listened for Frenchy’s breathing, senses tuned to find the beating of his heart, the grinding of his rotting teeth.
He was near, and getting closer as Devon stepped into the big single room once used for the keeping and caring of horses. Old traces of equine urine clung to the air, a rat scurrying through the hay as if in fear for its own miserable little life.
But that wasn't the rat Devon was after.
The man's scream came from behind, and Devon turned to see Frenchy charging him, knife raised high. He brought the knife down hard, and pain exploded in Devon's back. The blade punched into his flesh, deep and cold and stiff.
Devon’s own roar filled his ears, sharp streams of metallic agony rocketing into his lungs, his belly, every part of his massive body.
Frenchy pulled the knife out, a cackling cry rattling out of his miserable throat. “If you can bleed, you can die!”
Frenchy brought that knife down again, more strength behind the jabbing motion to plunge the steel blade back into Devon’s fatty hide. Frenchy twisted the knife, pain shooting through Devon’s body.
The man has to be stopped, Devon thought. The man has to die… now!
A hard swipe of his tremendous arm sent Frenchy flying back, that deadly blade handle still in his fist. Frenchy collapsed to the hard dirt floor of the livery, another rat squealing in terror as it bid a hasty retreat. Frenchy held the knife out, as if the very sight of it would be enough to send Devon running.
Devon didn’t run.
There was no need, there was no rush, there was nothing to fear. Devon knew the man was finished. He sat up, back against the wall as Devon approached. He tried to stand, to bring that knife down again one last, desperate time. “Can’t stab you in the back, maybe I can cut yer throat!”
