“So this is the way it is going to be, is it?” Buckdun asked. “Well, you’ve given me a fair chase.”
He spoke casually, but his rifle moved fast. Jim Flint tipped up the muzzle of his own rifle, caught the barrel with his left hand and shot from the hip. Buckdun’s shot was a split second too late. He staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell to one knee.
Flint held his fire, but stood with his legs spread, rifle ready for a shot. “Well, you got me then,” Buckdun said. “I’d like a smoke … is it all right?”
“Have your smoke.”
Buckdun’s face gleamed momentarily in the glare of the match, the light showing the hard planes, then he bent his head, shielding the flare of the match with his body. When he turned the cigarette was between his lips.
He stood up and a spark dropped away behind him. “You have given me a rough time of it, Flint. Tell me, is it true you were the kid at The Crossing?”
Something in his tone was wrong, some sound, some faint suggestion of … another spark dropped away behind him, and another.
Flint felt a shock of panic. “Damn you! Buckdun — I”
The killer’s hand swung around in an arc, in it a black bulking bundle from which sparks were shooting.
The dynamite!
Flint fired, working the action as fast as he could move his hands. He saw Buckdun jerk with the impact of the heavy rifle at close range, saw the black bundle slip from his hand to the rock before him, saw him fall sprawling as the second bullet hit him, then leap to grab up the bundle of dynamite again. Buckdun sprang forward for an easier throw but there was a sharp crack of splintering rock and he vanished from sight.
Flint threw himself to the rock and as he did so there was a thunderous roar and a tremendous blast of flame, and then rocks were raining about him, and he lay still until the last few had fallen, and then he got shakily to his feet.
He walked forward, tapping the rock under foot with his rifle to make sure it was solid. When lightning flashed, he could see a pit littered with broken rock, and the sprawled body of Buckdun.
He heard them coming before they reached him. “Jim! Jim! Jim, is it you?”
“I’m all right, Nancy,” he said, “I’m all right.”
Chapter 20
AFTER THE rain the air was washed clean. The unpainted buildings of Alamitos still showed dampness, but the dust had been washed from the brick buildings and the adobes seemed freshened after the storm. The cottonwood leaves rustled pleasurably, and the few horses at the hitching rail were quick to lift their heads when the Kaybar rode into town.
As if by prearrangement they scattered themselves along the street and Nancy went at once to the Grand Hotel, escorted by Jim Flint
He wore a gray suit this morning, but the wide hat of a Western man. On the steps they paused.
“You’re sure you have to do this?”
“I have to do it.”
“All right” She looked him straight in the eye. “My father always told me there were things a man had to do. Just see that you do it well.”
He smiled suddenly, and she was amazed at how his face lit up. “Why, I’ll do that,” he said, “I surely will!”
Porter Baldwin had been standing in front of the Divide Saloon and Jim Flint turned and walked down the street toward him. The big man stood awaiting him, his huge body bulking heavy in his black broadcloth suit.
“He’s dead, Port.”
Baldwin took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it with displeasure. He tossed it into the street “Who’s dead?”
“Buckdun. He caught it last night down in the lava beds.”
Baldwin stared at him. “So? What’s that to me?”
“I just thought you’d like to know, Port. Now you are going to go down to the station and get on that train and leave town — and you’re never coming back.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. You can go willingly, or you can be loaded on like a side of beef. The choice is yours.”
“Noticed you favoring your leg. Something wrong?”
“There isn’t much time, Port.”
“I suppose if I don’t go,” Baldwin said, “you’ll use a gun on me?”
“Why, no, Port. From what I hear fists are your weapons. Knuckle and skull and no holds barred … am I right?”
“You’d not be fool enough to tackle me that way,” Port replied. He lifted his hands. “I’ve killed a man with these.”
“It’s a trouble I have, Port. I am a fool.” And Flint hit him.
The punch was quick, a darting left jab that slid between Baldwin’s half-lifted hands and hit him in the mouth.
Baldwin lifted a hand to his smashed lips and looked at the blood on his fingers. “I think I’ll take off my coat,” he said, “because to judge by that punch it will take me more than a minute.”
They removed their coats very calmly, then their ties and collars; they faced each other and Baldwin doubled his huge fists and took his stance. “Now, Jim Kettleman, I am going to kill you with my hands.”
“Put your money where your mouth is,” Flint replied. “I’ll bet you five thousand dollars I can whip you.”
“Now, I like a sporting man. I’ll cover that. And we have witnesses to the fact.”
A considerable crowd had gathered, and the two men circled warily within the circle they created. Flint was under no false impression of what lay before him. His leg was stiff and sore and he was not in the best of shape after the long struggle on the malpais.
Moreover, understanding the man he faced, he knew that only a beating with fists would mean defeat for Baldwin. Only that would send him back to New York. Alamitos had troubles enough without coping with Baldwin’s devious conniving, and the fact that he was still here was evidence enough that whatever he intended to do was not yet complete.
Flint circled briefly, then feinted a left to the body, and when Baldwin dropped a hand to block the punch, Flint hit him in the mouth, the feint and the punch one smooth, continued action. The punch jolted against Baldwin’s teeth.
“I’m getting tired of that,” Baldwin said, and he came in fast. Flint’s stiff leg slowed him, and he caught a wicked right to the side of the face that rocked him to his heels. He was driven back by the weight of Baldwin’s charging body, and the bigger man’s hammering fists landed to the head and body. Ducking his head against Baldwin’s shoulder, Flint caught the other man’s right wrist under his arm and, clasping Baldwin’s right elbow in his left hand, he spun the big man off balance and hit him in the belly.
Releasing him suddenly, Flint followed up with two hard blows to the head before Baldwin could get set. Then toe to toe they stood and slugged.
Baldwin’s wind was surprisingly good, and he knew what he was doing. He bulled Flint back into the hitch rail which splintered beneath him and they both fell to the ground. Baldwin smashed a right at Flint’s head, but Flint rolled out of the way and caught Baldwin’s sleeve at the shoulder and jerked. Coupled with the weight behind the punch, the jerk took Baldwin off balance. Flint bucked him off and scrambled to his feet.
Baldwin lunged at him from a runner’s starting position, driving Flint back and into the dust. Rushing in, Baldwin swung a kick at Flint’s head, but Flint threw his weight against Baldwin’s anchoring leg.
They fought bitterly, brutally, driving, punching, butting, without letup. Flint’s breath was coming in ragged gasps. For the first time, under the bigger man’s weight and the driving pace, he was realizing how much his illness had taken out of him. He was in no shape for a long fight.
He had to slow the bigger man down, and Baldwin handled himself well. Flint feinted a left and smashed Baldwin under the heart with a hard right. He took two stiff punches but belted Baldwin in the stomach again. Boxing more carefully, he landed two long lefts to the body.
Baldwin backed away and ripped the last shreds of his shirt from his body, flexing his big hands. Shrewdly, he could see that Flint favored one leg, and that hi
s condition was not too good. Bobbing his head to duck Flint’s left, he crowded close and knocked Flint to the ground.
Deliberately Baldwin fell, dropping his knee to strike Flint’s injured leg. Flint grunted, feeling pain knife through him, sure the leg was bleeding again, for it was cut deeply in one place, horribly bruised in another. Baldwin swung both fists to Flint’s head, and then rested his left hand on Flint’s chest and drew back his right for a final blow.
Flint struck swiftly at the left hand. Baldwin lost balance as his hand was knocked away. Flint rolled free and got up. He was bloody and battered, his breath coming in gasps, one eye monstrously swollen from a blow.
Baldwin struck him with a left, then measured him with another. Flint caught his sleeve, stepped in quickly, and threw Baldwin over his back with a flying mare. Baldwin hit the ground hard and Flint backed away.
His leg was stiffening, and there was a searing pain in his side. But he had his second wind and suddenly he felt good.
Baldwin got up. “I think you’re through,” he said, walking toward Flint, and Flint knew he looked it. Despite the sudden feeling that came with his second wind there was the knowledge that there could not be much left within him in the way of strength. He must win now.
Baldwin, too, had been hurt. But now he stepped in and swung, incredibly fast. Flint stepped in swiftly, slipping the punch, and smashed a right to the heart. It was a perfectly timed, perfectly executed punch, and Baldwin’s mouth dropped open in time to catch a sweeping left hook.
Baldwin’s knees buckled and he fell face forward, into the dust.
“Why, now,” Flint said, “I think that does it.”
Turning, he went to the water trough and started to bathe away the blood.
A scream brought him sharply around. Baldwin was coming at him with a three-foot length of the broken hitch rail and, as Flint turned, Baldwin swung viciously. Flint dove under the swing and knocked Baldwin back against the wall of the building with such force he heard cans fall from the shelves inside. Then Flint balled his fist and hit Baldwin. He hit him once, then again.
Picking Baldwin up bodily, he threw him, like a sack of grain, against the trough. He picked him up once more and shoved him back against the wall. “I don’t want to hit you again,” Flint said, “but you owe me five thousand dollars.”
Porter Baldwin stared at Flint, and it was in him to try again, but he had been fairly whipped and knew it. Moreover, Buckdun was dead and the game was played out.
“You must take my check,” he said, through swollen lips. “I’ve not that much in cash.”
“With your fists you’re an honest man, and I’ll take your check. You’ll be wanting to write it before train time.”
They went in the store and, while Baldwin fumbled with a pen in his swollen fist, Flint threw a dollar on the counter, took down a fresh shirt and put it on.
“There you are,” Baldwin pushed the check toward him. “It was surely won. I didn’t think the man lived who could tear down my meathouse.”
Lottie Kettleman was in the dining room when they walked in, and she said, “So you have beaten him, then? I knew you would.”
Jim reached into his pocket and took out a small jeweled medallion. “This is yours, Lottie. I found it in Buckdun’s pocket. I will be writing to Burroughs and he will arrange a divorce.”
“You’re staying here, then?”
Nancy Kerrigan moved up beside him and he said, “Why, yes. I’ll be staying here.” He turned to Nancy. “Flint is a hard name over much of the West, but I’d like you to share it with me.”
“It is the man who makes the name,” she said. “I am glad Flint is the name you will keep.”
He thought then of a cold and bitter dawning and a lonely boy who sat on the edge of a splintery boardwalk, huddled against the chill, and of a tall man in a sheepskin coat.
“I think I owe him that,” he said.
Flint Page 18
