“Pa!” Zach squealed, and gave Nate a ferocious hug. “You are back! I thought I was dreaming. Are you back for good?”
“I’m back for good,” Nate promised. “Although there are a few things I have to do over the next couple of days, so I’ll be gone for just a little while now and then.”
“What do you have to do?” Zach asked.
“I plan to make the people who hurt your mother wish they were never born.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Yancy was in a foul mood as he hiked along the narrow path that cut through the center of the woods between the stable and the cabins housing the blacks. In his right hand he held a whip, in his left a club. On both sides reared tall trees that blocked off much of the early morning sunlight and he walked in deep shadows. There was a crisp, invigorating nip to the air that he hardly noticed and little appreciated.
Inwardly, Yancy simmered. His day had gotten off to a rotten start when Jacques Debussy called him in and reprimanded him severely for his part in the deception Rhey and that damn woman had played on Nate King. And here he thought he had been doing the right thing. Rhey, after all, was Jacques’s brother, and Jacques had told him to do whatever he could to make Rhey’s stay pleasant. So when Rhey had asked for help he had naturally volunteered.
Those two fools!
Now that Jacques had told him everything and made him aware of the gravity of the situation, he more fully understood how Rhey and the bitch had jeopardized the entire operation. Unless King could be found and eliminated, they were all in danger of being arrested, tried, and imprisoned. And all because of those two!
He should have known, though. Rhey had always been the black sheep of the family, and he obviously hadn’t changed. Even when Jacques and Rhey were young, it had always been Jacques who was the sensible one, who attended to the family enterprises and worked at increasing the family wealth. Rhey, on the other hand, had no head for business. His sole knack was for spending money, not making it. Small wonder that their father left the property to Jacques and a pittance to Rhey. And it had come as no surprise when Rhey spent all of his on women, wine, and gambling in a span of mere months. Ever since, Rhey had lived by his wits and his luck. Twice Rhey married wealthy women and squandered their riches recklessly. One of the women shot herself, the other became a hopeless drunkard. Then Rhey went to New York for a high-stakes card game and somehow met Adeline Van Buren. Once again his mysterious charm served him in good stead, and he wound up taking her as his third wife. Of course he spent her money.
And now, thanks to those two idiots and their devious scheme to steal King’s inheritance, Jacques Debussy was in danger, the man Yancy had served faithfully for decades, the man he respected more than any other, the man who had given him a small house of his own and who paid him handsomely to manage the estate and act as overseer of the blacks.
Thinking of the dumb Africans only incensed him further. Ever since that buck nigger had been beaten to death and that woman had died, the rest of the latest shipment had been restless and surprisingly uncooperative—surprisingly because whips and clubs usually sufficed to bring the blacks into line. In five minutes he would be at the cabins. Then he would teach them to obey. They would learn, or else!
Yancy rounded a curve, immersed in thought, his head bowed, his knuckles white from clenching the whip and the club so hard his hands hurt. He took several strides, then suddenly realized there was someone on the path in front of him and glanced up, expecting it would be one of the guards. Recognition shocked him to his core and he drew up short in consternation. “You!” he blurted out.
“Hello, Yancy,” Nate said.
Startled, Yancy took a half step backwards. There was another man with King, a grizzled mountain man in buckskins who stood to one side with a Hawken pointed at Yancy’s midriff. And on the other side of the path sat a huge black dog, almost a bear, its tongue hanging out as it panted quietly. “How did you get onto the estate?”
“It was easy,” Nate responded. “We’ve fought the Blackfeet and the Utes. Compared to them your guards are incompetent dolts.”
“One yell from me and those incompetent dolts will fill you and your friend here full of lead,” Yancy promised.
The white-haired mountain man chuckled. “One yell from you will be your last, friend. And we’ll make our escape the same way we snuck in. So go ahead and yell. My trigger finger is itching and I need to scratch it.”
Yancy couldn’t understand how both of these men could be so unconcerned. Didn’t they realize they wouldn’t get out alive? “What is it you want? Why are you here?”
“I came to see you,” Nate said.
“Me?”
Nate nodded. “I came to kill you.”
The blunt assertion shocked Yancy. He stared at the rifle in the crook of King’s arm, then licked his lips. “Me? What did I do?”
“You stalled Shakespeare and Tricky Dick Harrington the day Rhey and Adeline kidnapped me,” Nate said. His features hardened. “The day my wife was shot.”
“They shot her? I didn’t know that. Rhey just told me they were going to take you, was all.”
Nate turned and handed his rifle to Shakespeare. “Remember, if he wins you’re not to harm him.”
“I remember,” Shakespeare replied testily. “And I still think I should shoot the varmint no matter what the outcome.”
“No.”
Puzzled, Yancy looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about? If you win what?”
“The fight between you and me,” Nate said, facing him and moving slowly forward. “We’ll settle this man to man. Just the two of us.” He halted. “Unless, of course, you try to attract the attention of your men. Then my friend will put a ball right between your eyes.”
“Let me see if I understand this. You’re issuing a personal challenge and when I win I can just walk away?”
“If you win. That’s the deal.”
“Weapons?”
“You can use your club and whip. I’ll use my knife and tomahawk.”
Yancy looked at the pistols under King’s belt. “What about those flintlocks?”
For an answer Nate pulled out both guns and deposited them at Shakespeare’s feet. Stepping to the middle of the path he folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “I am ready when you are.”
“You’re a fool, do you know that?” Yancy taunted, and lifted his immensely powerful arms. “No one has ever beaten me, King. Not at wrestling or boxing or with any type of weapon. Why, half the men in St. Louis fear me and the rest fear the mention of my name. I’ve killed nine men in my time, not counting blacks.” He hefted the whip and the club. “You should forget this folly and leave now while you still have life in your limbs.”
“You’re not the only one who has a reputation,” Nate mentioned, unruffled by the boasts. “Among the Indian tribes of the Rockies and the plains I’m called Grizzly Killer because I’ve slain more grizzlies than any other white man.”
“Grizzlies are strong but they’re dumb brutes. Fighting a man is a whole different proposition.”
“I’ve fought my share,” Nate said, lowering his arms. “Now shall we begin or will you try to talk me to death?”
“You’re even a bigger fool than I thought,” Yancy said, shaking his head. “Since you’re insisting on a fair fight, I’ll be fair to you. I must kill you, you see, in order to prevent you from causing trouble for my employer, Jacques Debussy. But I will allow your friend to leave unmolested if you give your word that he will not tell the federal authorities about our slaver operation.”
“Shakespeare does as he wants. The only promise I can give you is that your death will be swift and as painless as possible.”
“You charitable bastard,” Yancy said in a deceptively sweet tone, and then struck with all the might in his right arm, flicking the whip back behind his head and forward again so that it arced toward Nate King’s face.
Had Nate been a shade slower he would have lost a
n eye. He ducked, or tried to, and the lash bit into his forehead instead, adding to the wounds previously inflicted there by the panther. Sliding to the right enabled him to evade a second swing, and as he straightened he drew both his butcher knife and his tomahawk simultaneously.
“You’re a fast devil,” Yancy snapped, and worked the whip with skilled precision, his arm ceaselessly in motion, never pausing for an instant so that he could keep King constantly at bay.
Nate winced when the lash tore into the flesh of his left arm, but he successfully prevented the whip from inflicting more serious injuries by the deft use of his tomahawk and his knife to block most of the blows. He tried several times to slice the whip in half, but each time Yancy jerked the lash back with a lightning move of the wrist.
Yancy was taking his time. He had whipped scores of blacks since becoming overseer, and he knew how to shred a man’s flesh piece by bloody piece until his victim was in acute torment and pleading to be spared. After all the trouble King had caused, he desired to do the same to this upstart mountain man who didn’t know enough not to meddle in the affairs of his betters. A confident grin curled his lips as he swung again and again.
Nate began to wonder if he had made a grave mistake. The whip’s long reach prevented him from getting any closer to the foreman. Every time he tired, Yancy would snap the whip and make him jump aside or be torn open. He must get in close, though, in order to prevail. His weapons were designed for close-in fighting; beyond arm’s length they were useless unless thrown, and he wasn’t ready to risk losing one just yet by having it batted down by Yancy’s club before it could strike a vital organ. So he stepped back and dodged and weaved in a wide circle around his enemy.
Gradually Yancy became concerned. He noticed with alarm that very few of his blows were landing and those that did had little effect. And despite his prodigious strength, his right arm was slowly but surely becoming fatigued. Swinging a heavy whip strained anyone. And despite all his experience, he had rarely wielded his whip for more than five minutes at one time. Normally, that was all it took to win or convince an arrogant black to fall into line. Not this time. Nate King danced effortlessly around him and he became increasingly frustrated by his failure.
Nate tried to cut the lash again, but missed. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Shakespeare was holding Samson by the collar, as they had previously agreed he should do. Otherwise the dog might pounce on the foreman and rip his throat open before either of them could prevent it. Suddenly something wrapped tightly around his right ankle, and he realized he had committed a grave blunder by allowing himself to be distracted at such a critical moment. The next instant his leg was roughly yanked out from under him and he crashed down onto his back.
“Meet your Maker!” Yancy bellowed triumphantly, and sprang with his wicked club upraised even as he kept the whip taut by pulling back on the handle so Nate wouldn’t be able to rise.
In desperation Nate lifted the tomahawk barely in time and deflected the club. The impact jarred his arm to the bone. Twisting and bending forward, he slashed his knife at Yancy’s ankles, and the foreman jerked his legs back to spare them. In a smooth continuation of the same movement, Nate angled the edge of the knife into the whip and chopped off the last three feet.
Yancy stumbled rearward. For such a broad man he was surprisingly light on his feet and he swiftly regained his balance. He glared at the severed whip, then at Nate. “I’ve underestimated you, King. You’re better than most. Perhaps the best I’ve ever tangled with.”
Without uttering a word, Nate charged, flailing away with the knife and the tomahawk.
Taken aback, Yancy darted to the right. Even without the lash the whip was still a deadly weapon and he worked it once more, aiming at King’s head.
Nate deliberately hunched his shoulders and took the brunt of the blow there rather than in the face even as he kept charging. He swung the tomahawk but was countered by the club, then pivoted and stabbed the knife up and in.
Shock etched Yancy’s blunt features as the keen blade parted his skin and scraped against a rib. Incredible agony exploded in his body and he almost cried out. Frantically he wrenched to the left and felt the blade slide out of his body, a sickening sensation that caused him to double over and gasp.
Pressing his advantage, Nate stepped in and slashed once more, aiming at the foreman’s thick neck. Had the knife connected it would have partially decapitated Yancy, but he, by ducking low, preserved his neck at the expense of his scalp. The tip of the blade tore his head from back to front and blood gushed forth.
Yancy’s anxiety was transformed into a blinding rage by the thought of being beaten by a simpleton trapper from the high mountains. Never had he been bested and never would he be! Venting a bestial cry, he dropped the useless whip and employed the club like a madman, delivering ferocious swipes that could cave in a human skull as if it were a mere eggshell.
Nate adroitly warded off the initial blows with his tomahawk, but inevitably a swing penetrated his guard and he felt a tremendous concussion on the side of his head that dropped him to his knees. Dimly he heard Yancy laugh, and glanced up to see the club being lifted for the killing blow. Almost as if his arm had a mind of its own, up went the tomahawk, straight into Yancy’s groin. Yancy’s eyes became white saucers and he froze, gurgling and sputtering. Gritting his teeth, Nate surged upright and swung the tomahawk one final time, ripping Yancy’s throat from one side to the other. A crimson spray struck him in the face and chin, and then the foreman’s eyes fluttered and he sank slowly to the ground as if lying down peacefully to sleep. For a minute Yancy’s limbs twitched and his body convulsed. Nate stared grimly at the corpse and let his body relax.
“You did it,” Shakespeare said softly at his elbow.
“Not quite,” Nate responded. “Not yet.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Devil Tavern had been built five years before by an Englishman who patterned it after a famous tavern by that name in his native country. The decor and furnishings were those that would be found in any British tavern or pub, and many a visiting Englishman had expressed delight and satisfaction at finding an oasis of genuine British culture in the midst of a wasteland of barbarians and barbaric customs. The prices, as a result of the expenses the owner bore in maintaining the proper atmosphere by relying on certain imported articles, were higher than those at most other taverns. As a consequence the Devil Tavern attracted customers who were more well-to-do than most of the patrons who frequented establishments of lesser repute.
At taverns throughout the country and in Europe it was quite common for social clubs to be formed, and the Devil Tavern was no exception. Some of its more affluent customers had organized the Apollo Club, one of the most exclusive in the entire city. Only the wealthiest could afford to join. The club boasted a membership of seventeen prominent men, and foremost among them was Jacques Debussy.
Tricky Dick Harrington provided Nate with the commonly known history of the tavern and the club while they waited, along with Shakespeare, at the mouth of an alley half a block north of the Devil Tavern. “They have a man posted at the door to keep out any rowdy types,” he concluded. “I’d never been in there until Doc Sawyer took Shakespeare and me in the other day.”
“And we wouldn’t have been permitted inside if not for Sawyer,” Shakespeare threw in. “He goes to the tavern often and the man at the door knew him.”
Nate, leaning on the corner of a general store, glanced at his mentor. “How did Sawyer persuade Mangel to tell him my whereabouts?”
“From what I can gather, those two never have been very friendly. Sawyer threatened to report Mangel if he didn’t cooperate,” Shakespeare said. “You owe Doc Sawyer a lot. He was the one who figured out Mangel must have been consulted about you and took it from there.”
“I’ll thank him again the next time he comes to see Winona,” Nate said, and stared at the entrance to the Devil Tavern.
“How much longer are we goi
ng to keep a watch?” Tricky Dick asked. He squinted up at the afternoon sun. “We’ve been here pretty near four hours already.”
“You can leave whenever you want,” Nate told him. “I’m staying until Jacques Debussy shows up.”
“Sawyer claims he comes here daily,” Shakespeare said.
“Maybe Jacques has left the …” Tricky Dick began, and happened to gaze toward the tavern. “Look there!”
Nate had already spied the three people walking up the busy avenue. He placed a hand on a flintlock as Rhey Debussy, arm in arm with Adeline, strolled casually along beside another man who must have been Rhey’s brother. There was a family resemblance, although Jacques had gray hair, broader shoulders, and a neat mustache and beard. All three of them were dressed in the height of current fashion.
“Didn’t expect the others,” Shakespeare commented.
“Me either,” Nate said. “But it works out for the best this way. Now we don’t have to force Jacques to tell us where to find Rhey. And I can present my challenge in public among plenty of witnesses. Jacques will be surrounded by his friends so he won’t dare interfere.”
Tricky Dick cocked his head and regarded Nate critically. “I still think you’d be better off jumping Rhey some night with your knife. Why go to all this bother?”
“I want it done properly,” Nate answered. “And I don’t want any of his friends to track me down
later to get revenge. This way everyone will know the fight was fair.”
“But you’ve never done it before and Rhey has,” Shakespeare said. “He’ll have an edge.”
Nate watched the trio enter the tavern. “We’ll give them time to get comfortable, then we’ll go in.”
“You didn’t answer me,” Shakespeare said.
“You didn’t ask a question.”
“What if Rhey kills you?” Tricky Dick inquired.
“Then I’ll die knowing I did the right thing. A man who would let someone hurt his wife and not do anything about it is as yellow as they come and doesn’t deserve the woman’s love.” He took his hand off the flintlock and spoke vehemently. “Rhey Debussy will rue the day he harmed Winona.”
Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One) Page 24
