by Tonia Brown
The two were perfect contrasts: one tall and lean, the other short and round. They shared only two characteristics. The first was their Pack persuasion, each just as hairy and doggish as the others Dodger had seen. And, no surprise, they were also armed.
The tall one on the right waved a rifle at Dodger and said, “Put your hands in the air.”
Dodger did as asked. “I’m unarmed. As you can see.”
“Shut up!” the short one on the left yelled. “You’ll do as he says if you know what’s good for you.”
“Stuart,” the tall one barked. “Make sure he’s not got a gun.”
“Yes, sir.” The short man holstered his pistol, warning, “Keep those hands up.”
“He got anything on him?” the tall one asked.
“Naw, sir,” Stuart said. “I think he’s clean.”
“Where’s Lelanea?” Dodger asked while the short man checked him for weapons.
“Who?” the tall man asked.
“He means the funny-smelling lady,” Stuart said. “You don’t worry about your girlfriend. Butch is showing her a real good time. Ain’t he, Thad?”
“Does that train really make its own tracks?” Thad asked, his gaze wandering from his quarry to the wonderful train beyond.
“What do you think?” Dodger asked.
The tall man tightened his grip on the gun and his focus on Dodger. “I think you need to keep your hands up.”
After a quick pat-down, the pair seemed satisfied that Dodger was unarmed. They moved in behind him and commanded him to march.
“Get going,” Thad said, poking Dodger in the back with the rifle.
“Can I lower my hands?” Dodger asked.
“Do what you like. But any funny business and you’ll end up with a bullet in your brainpan.” He shoved the rifle against the base of Dodger’s skull to prove his point. “Got it?”
Dodger dropped his hands and said, “Consider it gotten.”
“Dan’s right about this one,” Stuart said. “He is a smartass.”
“Smartass or not,” Thad said, “he’s still got to face Butch.”
Stuart snorted. “I’d rather get shot in the head than face Butch.”
The march to the camp was accompanied by a series of jabs, both physical and verbal. The men took great delight in the fact that Dodger had to ‘face Butch’ for his dreadful deeds against the Pack. The rest of the time was spent poking him in the small of the back with the rifle, commanding him to walk faster.
When they entered the camp, Thad called out, “Troops! Front and center!”
At Thad’s command, every man dropped whatever he was up to, and the group fell into a semicircle around the opening of the largest tent. Dodger counted forty soldiers, at least. Forty doggish faces, ranging from long St. Bernard snouts to stout Pug mugs, all twisted in rage at the non-Pack in their presence. Forty men, all spitfire furious with him for killing their brothers. Forty armed and angry men, and Dodger with nothing but his fists. The march ended just outside the large tent, where the tall fellow left his short counterpart in charge of the prisoner and slipped inside.
Overhead, a handful of birds traced lazy circles in the sky, casting shifting shadows across the campground. Buzzards on the trail of trouble, riding high on the promise of death drifting through the air.
“Last chance,” Stuart said, prodding Dodger in the shoulder blades with his pistol. “I can just shoot you now and save you what’s coming.”
“No thanks,” Dodger said. “I think I’ll take my chances with your boss.”
“It won’t be pretty.”
Dodger turned to grin down at the man. “From the looks of the rest of you, I don’t expect he will be.”
“Your smart mouth won’t save you here.” The man set the hammers on his pistol as if ready to open fire.
“Put your piece away,” a deep voice commanded.
Standing in the open flap of the tent was the owner of the voice, and presumably the man in charge. Dodger had a clean foot on the man, but what the fellow lacked in height, he more than made up in bulk. Short but stout, the man was almost as wide as he was tall, with equally thick arms, legs, and a neck to match. His flannel shirt and denim trousers threatened to burst under the strain of so much muscle. A layer of grimy, short fur covered every exposed inch of him, including his face, which of course bore the typical doggish features of his Pack. When he stepped forward, he moved in a swagger that reminded Dodger of an oversized bulldog.
Behind him followed a collection of matching bulldog-men. As far as Dodger could tell, the majority of the camp comprised an assortment of different breeds. From Labrador to Schnauzer, it didn’t seem to matter what kind of dog a man was crossed with, they worked and played as a single unit. But this group—this leader and his men—formed a tight-knit bunch of identical constitutions. Like a pack within a pack.
Just behind them strode Thad, a tall and lean mutt amongst a sea of brawny bulldogs.
The leader came to rest a few feet away from Dodger, staring down his broad nose at the full-blooded human. “You the one that killed my men?”
“I take it you’re Butch?” Dodger asked.
“Did you kill my men?”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Did you kill my men?”
“Where is she?”
“Did you kill my men?”
“Like a dog with a bone,” Dodger muttered.
The bulldog’s ears twitched at the words. “What did you just-”
“That’s him!” a familiar voice shouted over the leader. Big Dan, his red bandanna long gone, pushed past the line of men, staggering into the center of the semicircle to accuse Dodger face to face. “That’s the one that killed my crew.”
A collective growl rose from the company. Bulldog Butch lifted a thick hand, and the growling dropped a few notches, but didn’t cease. A wave of rage rolled over Dodger from all directions, but he held his ground, matching Dan glare for a glare, snarl for a snarl.
At length, Butch said, “You owe us for what you took. Dan’s crew were our best riders. We lost four men. You worth four men?”
“Three,” Dodger corrected him. “I shot three men in defense. Three men who opened fire on my train. Three men, not four.” Dodger tipped his head at Dan. “Your friend here killed Private Clemet Jackson in cold blood.”
Butch eyed Dan, who trembled like the tail of an excited rattler under the big man’s gaze.
“I … he … he’s lying!” Dan yelled.
“Then how does he know Clem’s rank and surname?” Butch asked.
“I don’t know.” Dan laughed nervously. “Lucky guess?”
Dodger could feel every eye turn to him. “I served with Clemet on the front.”
All eyes shifted back to Dan as the men awaited his response.
“He’s lying,” Dan said. “He must have heard us talking about it.”
Hushed whispers and surprised gasps circulated along the line of ex-soldiers. Dan winced, gritting his teeth with a hiss—the reaction of a man who realized he just made a terrible mistake.
“That so?” Butch asked. “Thaddeus? What’s Pack law say about that?”
The tall captor stepped forward and announced, “Under no circumstances shall a Pack member discuss his past life. No way. No how. Not even under threat of death. Or worse.”
A general grunt of agreement rose from the ranks.
Butch motioned to two of his clone-like subordinates. “Take him to the hole. Three days should help him forget about his past life.”
The two bulldogs stepped forward to escort a contrite Dan away from the scene, and in the confusion, Dodger snatched what might be his only opportunity to speak up.
“Why do you want to forget?” he asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Butch asked.
“Why do you want to forget your past lives? Why is it a crime to talk about the men you were? The men you still are?”
Butch squared his shoulders and set
his jaw. “Because we aren’t men no more. We are better than men. We are better than you. We’re Pack. And Pack is all that matters.”
“Who says?”
Turning to his line of men, Butch hollered, “You heard the man. He wants to know. Who says so?”
“You say, sir!” the crowd shouted in unison.
Butch soaked up the obedience for a moment before he added, “I say. And what I say goes.”
Which was just what Dodger expected. Whether dogs or men, they were still soldiers at heart. Butch filled their need for leadership in both cases by assuming the role of the Alpha male. An occurrence of typical animalistic follow-the-leader had never surfaced more naturally. Dodger only hoped there was some human spirit of independence left under all that tooth and claw and fur.
“But what if you could be men again?” Dodger asked. “What if someone could reverse what’s happened to you? What if he could fix you?”
“We don’t need fixin’,” Butch said. “We’re fine like we are. Aren’t we, men?”
The men appeared to agree, but under their enthusiastic nods came soft whispers. Whispers asking each other if it was possible, if this stranger could be the answer to all of their prayers. Did this non-Pack speak the truth?
“Yes, it’s true,” Dodger said, addressing those around him. “I travel with a man who might be able to help you all. He is familiar with what afflicts you and might be able to cure you of it.”
Many smiled at the idea, including Thaddeus.
He stared at Dodger, marveling, hope brimming in his eyes. “Can he? Can he really make us whole again?”
“If not completely,” Dodger said, “then he will do what he can to ease your symptoms. You have my word.”
“Your word?” Butch asked with a snort. “What’s Pack law number one?”
“You can only trust Pack,” the crowd recited.
But Dodger kept pleading with Thaddeus. “You’ve seen the train that runs with no tracks. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about the man who owns it. The professor not only makes the impossible possible, he makes it real. I’ve seen him do it.” Dodger paused to glance down at his healed hand before he locked eyes with the hopeful man again. “I’ve seen it in action. He can help you. I know he-”
“Enough!” Butch shouted.
Thad lowered his eyes, and the line of hope was severed.
“They don’t want yours or any other man’s help,” Butch said.
“Why?” Dodger asked.
“Because I said so.” Butch snarled, showing off his mouthful of fangs. “And what I say goes. Understand?” The big dog left Dodger to chew on the phrase as he made his way back to his tent.
But Dodger had heard that phrase one too many times in his life. The very sound of those familiar words set his blood on fire. The dominant Alpha male sounded pretty much the same everywhere one went, whether in the Gap or out on the battlefield or even in the dark shadows of a foreign dignitary’s hotel room. When the order came to jump, you didn’t ask how high. You just jumped.
And when the order came to kill, you killed. No questions asked.
In Dodger’s experience, there was only one way to handle an Alpha male. “Then maybe someone else needs to say what goes.”
Butch halted in his egress, turning in a slow semicircle to stare at Dodger. “What did you say?”
“You heard me right the first time. Or are you as deaf as you are stupid?”
“Boy, your mouth’s writing promissory notes your ass can’t cash.”
“I said maybe someone else should call the shots here. Someone who will give these men a chance to decide for themselves.”
A great splintering noise came from the big man, as if he had set to snapping whole trees over his knee. It took a moment for Dodger to realize it was the sound of Butch cracking the knuckles of his big fists.
“You challengin’ me?” Butch asked.
Dodger threw out his chest, ready to beat it like an ape if needed. “Yes. Yes I am.”
At first Dodger thought the bulldog would just attack him right then and there. But no, Butch stared at Dodger for a few heartbeats, then proceeded to laugh as though it were the most amusing thing he had heard in a good while. And considering he was a dog-man hybrid living in the inhospitable area of Hermit’s Gap, having to rob stagecoaches for food and other resources just to stay alive, perhaps it was the funniest thing he had heard in a good while.
“You can’t challenge me,” Butch said between guffaws.
“Why not?” Dodger asked.
“Because you ain’t Pack.”
“No law about that,” Thad said.
This pronouncement sucked the bulldog’s laugh right from his lungs. In the echo of his humor, he turned an angry eye on Thad. “What you mean?”
“There’s no law about it. One doesn’t have to be Pack to challenge Pack leader.” After thinking a second about this, Thad added a quick, “Sir.”
Through clenched teeth, Butch argued, “I won’t fight him.”
“Why?” Dodger asked. “You scared I’ll whip ya?”
A cool moan—part admiration and part fear—rose from the surrounding men, and once again Dodger thought the bulldog would leap for his throat. But instead Butch surprised him, and probably everyone present, by grinning. His dark lips spread wide, framing his bloodthirsty canines.
“Fine,” Butch said. “You wanna challenge me? Then we’ll fight.”
“Good,” Dodger said. “Let’s do it.”
“We will. Yes, we will.” Butch rumbled with a husky laugh as he cracked his huge knuckles again. “And I can’t wait to tear you apart piece by piece by piece by piece.”
Which left Dodger wondering just how many pieces a man could be torn into before he could be torn no more.
****
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Chapter Six
Calm before the Storm
In which Dodger makes ready.
When he resigned himself to the idea of challenging Butch for Pack dominance, Dodger wasn’t sure what to expect. No, that was a lie. He knew exactly what he’d asked for when he all but called Butch a coward in front of his own men. Despite this, Dodger hoped against hope—in that small way a doomed man often does—that the pair of them would see pistols at ten paces. A decent duel against the big man was a feat that Dodger might’ve been able to pull off.
But Dodger knew in his heart of hearts—again in that very same way doomed men often do—that there wasn’t going to be anything decent in what was about to transpire. A balls-out bare-knuckle brawl was the order of the day. Dodger had signed up for a beat-down, plain and simple, and the only thing he could do now was follow through.
Once Butch made his murderous intentions clear, a pair of the leader’s personal guard grabbed Dodger by an arm each, and led him away.
“Where’s Lelanea?” Dodger asked of his guard.
Of course there came no reply.
“Where’s the girl?” he asked.
“Butch is gonna kill you,” one of the men said.
“And we don’t talk to dead men,” the other said.
The pair started to laugh.
“What will you do if I win?” Dodger asked.
“You won’t,” one man said.
“Yeah, so give it up now,” the other said. “You should drop the challenge before he makes you regret it.”
“Where’s the girl?” Dodger asked again.
“Shut up, dead man.”
Dodger went limp between the pair, forcing the bulldogs to either stop with him or carry him. The pair of thugs never hesitated; they just dragged him along, his boots pulling narrow furrows in the dirt behind them. And they carted him like this all the way to a roped-off area in the center of camp. Either the Pack had been expecting a stranger to come along and challenge the Alpha male, or this sort of thing happened often enough that they kept a little place set aside to settle their differences.
The brawny men shoved him over the
rope and into the ring, where Dodger staggered a few steps before he got his footing again. The guards sneered at him with twin snarls for a moment, a growl rising from each meaty throat, before they lumbered off to seek their next command. Dodger wasn’t surprised that they didn’t stick around to make sure he didn’t cut and run, because there was nowhere for him to cut and run. The ring was just about dead center of camp, bordering the overhang of a crude mess tent, and surrounded by the entire troop of dog soldiers. The majority of them kept their distance, huddled in tight groups around the edges of the ring, whispering in hoarse voices about the event to come.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Thaddeus asked as he approached from the mess tent.
Dodger shrugged. “I don’t see how I can back out now.”
“You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Funny, the doc said the same thing before I met up with you back at the Sleipnir.”
Thad glanced over Dodger’s shoulder in the direction of the parked train, before he looked back to Dodger again. “I’m here to give you one last chance to withdraw your challenge. Pack law states that any dispute can and should be resolved without resorting-”
“I don’t care what your Pack law claims. I meant what I said back there. You men deserve more than this. You are more than this. And if I have to drag his Highness into the ring and beat his ass to prove it … well, then I guess that’s just what I have to do.”
“He will break you. You know that.”
“I suppose. But what else can I do?”
Thad considered Dodger with a cool stare. “Behind me there is an older man, silver furred. He has but one leg. A very large man. Do you see him? He’s seated just outside the mess tent to my left.”
Dodger took a quick peek in that direction, and yes, there was a very large fellow all hunched up beside the mess tent, sitting alone. And not just by himself, no, he was apart from the others, as if he had some kind of illness or was some kind of a social pariah. And yes, the man’s left leg was missing.
“Yeah,” Dodger said. “What about him?”
“Jack was our previous Pack leader. He was a good man. Kept our bellies full. Kept us safe. Until Butch challenged him a month or so ago, before he forced us out here to this Godforsaken rock.”
