The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

by Norman Partridge

  The dark man draped his scorched duster over her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the big sleeves — one was little more than an ashy flap of material — and buttoned the front. Then she snatched up the carpetbag and started toward the wagon, charred coattails whispering against her ankles.

  The dark man walked at her side, the toy palace filled with gold tucked under one arm. Behind them the flames grew hotter, roaring now, and the sprightly music died away.

  Lie tossed the carpetbag in the back of the wagon.

  Gunfire exploded in the distance.

  Lie shivered, and the dark man laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, pointing at the moon above. “It’s only that damn coyote fella. His blood must be on the boil tonight.”

  Lie did not laugh, but she smiled.

  There was nothing left to do but take her dark man’s hand.

  And lead him from that place.

  (For Woody Strode and Robert Ryan)