Bloodthirsty

by William W. Johnstone

  The man lurched away, trying to separate himself from Buckhorn. He staggered sideways, blood streaming from his smashed mouth as he hunched over to protect his battered ribs. Taking advantage of the opening, Buckhorn threw a high left cross to the side of the sapper’s throat. The punch knocked the man back, slamming him hard against the deck railing. His knees sagged.

  Buckhorn overestimated the damage he’d done. He stayed close, cocking his right fist, meaning to bring it up from knee level and deliver another smashing uppercut, but when his fist started to rise, the man on the rail pushed forward to meet him. At the same time, he chopped down savagely with the sap. The weapon scored only a glancing blow on Buckhorn’s forearm. It didn’t break bone, yet landed solidly enough to stop the momentum of the intended punch and sent streaks of fiery hot numbness all the way up to Buckhorn’s shoulder.

  Buckhorn backpedaled, grabbing the injured arm with his left hand. He clamped it tight, rubbing frantically, trying to get some feeling to return as his opponent took a moment to recover.

  “You’ve got him now, Henri,” Angelique shouted, encouraging the sapper. “Hurry up and finish him. But be careful. He’s quick and dangerous!”

  “Not to mention a great conversationalist,” Buckhorn muttered through clenched teeth. “Did you forget that part, darling?”

  The gleaming blade of a short but wickedly pointed punch dagger appeared in Angelique’s delicate hand. Her luscious lips peeled back in an ugly way. “Come near enough for the embrace you were so hungry for, you pathetic fool, and the bite of my fang will sever your vocal cords so no one has to be subjected to your dull babbling ever again!”

  “Tempting as the offer is,” Buckhorn replied, “your pet ape Henri got in the request for this dance first. Be plumb rude of me to all of a sudden give him the cold shoulder in favor of you.”

  “The thing that will very soon be cold,” growled Henri in a faint French accent coming through puffs of labored breathing, “will be your dead flesh once I have broken you in two.”

  “That’s gonna be mighty hard to do after I split you from Adam’s apple to belly button and your hands are busy trying to keep your guts from boiling out all over the deck.” As he said this, Buckhorn crouched ever so slightly, just long enough for his hand to streak down and pull the bowie knife from its boot sheath under the cuff of his trousers. He could have gone for the gun under his coat but, since no other guns were in play, the bowie seemed adequate and more appropriate.

  He held the weapon out in front of him in a practiced knife fighter’s pose, gripping it in his still-tingling right hand. His eyes gleamed almost as bright as the reflections playing up and down the ten-inch blade and the harder he squeezed the handle, the more the tingling abated, as if his hand and arm were drawing recuperative strength from the bowie.

  Henri’s eyes grew wide with alarm as he watched the knife.

  “Do not hesitate. We can still take him, Henri!” Angelique urged her man. “Engage him but for a second and I will strike from my side, opening his carotid artery with a lightning thrust of my own blade.”

  “She talks a good story, big boy,” Buckhorn said, taunting. “You willing to bet your life on her doing what she says she can do? Because I guarantee you, I can do what I say.”

  Buckhorn’s taunting and the urging of the girl propelled Henri into reckless action. He lunged forward, wielding the sap skillfully, slashing down at Buckhorn’s knife hand, aiming to break his wrist and disarm him.

  The attack came so fast Buckhorn scarcely had time to jerk his hand out of the way.

  Instead of letting the empty swing unbalance him, Henri was prepared and held his momentum in check. Not only that, he instantly course corrected and brought the sap upward in a follow-up sweep, a wide-reaching backhand aimed at Buckhorn’s head.

  Buckhorn pulled his head and shoulders away, again at the last second, in order to avoid getting his skull caved in. Though Henri had once again maintained his balance, the extended swing of his arm had—just for an instant—left the whole front of him totally exposed.

  An instant was all Buckhorn needed. He snapped forward and hurled himself straight into Henri’s bulky body. As their chests thudded momentarily together and then bounced apart, Buckhorn sank his bowie deep into Henri’s gut, just above his belt buckle, and began ripping the razor-edged blade upward.

  Buckhorn silenced Henri’s scream with another head butt. Continuing to drive forward, he rammed Henri once more to the rail. Pulling his knife free at the last moment and giving a final shove with his free hand, he sent the carved-open sapper up and over! And down into the black nighttime water of the Mississippi.

  But that wasn’t the end of it.

  True to her word, Angelique proved willing to play a more direct part in the attack. With a screech of “You murderous bastard!” she launched herself at Buckhorn like a she-devil. Leaping full onto his back, she wrapped her shapely legs about his middle and hooked one surprisingly strong arm under his chin. With the hand clutching the punch dagger, she began fiercely slashing and stabbing.

  Caught off guard though he was, Buckhorn managed to thrash and jerk his upper body from side to side even as he staggered somewhat under her slight weight. Once, twice the dagger sank into flesh, but his frantic gyrations were enough to throw off her aim, causing the glittering blade to bite into his shoulder rather than the side of his throat.

  Finally, with a desperate shrug, he dislodged the wildcat from his back and sent her sprawling onto the deck. She sprang instantly back to her feet. With her once beautiful face distorted with rage, she rushed him again with undiminished fury.

  Buckhorn blocked her dagger thrust, his forearm slamming upward and outward against hers, knocking it wide. Then he swung his arm in a left-to-right backhand that crashed the side of the fist holding the bowie against her jaw.

  The powerful blow spun her around and pitched her facedown to the deck. An odd bleating sound came from her. Buckhorn took a step toward her but stopped short as she pushed herself to her feet and turned toward him.

  The dagger she had been holding was buried in her throat.

  Her eyes bugged wide with disbelief and pain. In the space of a single blink, the luster was suddenly gone from her eyes, replaced by a flat dullness. She was dead even as her body started to crumple.

  Buckhorn grabbed her before she could collapse all the way. He held her upright for a long moment but was unable to meet her dull, unseeing gaze. She had brought her death on herself, but it still bothered him.

  For most of his life, such a turn of events wouldn’t have caused him to blink. He would have figured she had it coming for trying to rob and murder him.

  In recent months he had changed, trying to live more like a normal human being instead of a cold-blooded hired gun. That meant having some sympathy for other folks, even when they were to blame for their own problems.

  On the other hand, since he’d killed Henri in self-defense and Angelique’s death had been an accident . . . and since he had a potentially lucrative job offer waiting for him and didn’t want to get tied up with the law . . . he lifted her higher, whirled her in a half turn, and flung her corpse out beyond the railing and listened to it splash into a watery grave.

  No point in going overboard—so to speak—with the business of being a decent human being.

  * * *

  In his cabin, Buckhorn stripped off his blood-spattered clothes, scrubbed his hands like he was trying to rub the skin off, then refilled the washbasin with cold, fresh water and scooped repeated handfuls to his face.

  He dried off, donned some clean pants, and sat on the edge of the bed to tend to the dagger punctures to his shoulder. Inasmuch as it was the shoulder to his gun arm, he had more than a little concern for the degree of injury done.

  Far more important than the minimal bleeding was whether serious damage had been done. He quickly cleaned off the blood, bandaged the shoulder, and donned a clean shirt. As far as he could tell there was no seriou
s muscle or joint damage. He’d no doubt have some stiffness of movement for a while, but as long as it didn’t last more than a few days he should be all right.

  The whole incident troubled him some, yet given the same set of circumstances all over again, he couldn’t see himself doing any different. A hardness, a savageness, had been deeply ingrained in him a long time ago. When somebody harmed or threatened him, he retaliated with a fierce finality that put the matter forever to rest. It was a way of survival and it meant not having to look over his shoulder for ghosts of unresolved conflicts seeking retribution.

  Angelique and Henri had meant to kill him so he’d needed to stop them. It was really as simple as that. The fact that Angelique was a lovely female was unfortunate, but that was all.

  His decision to quickly distance himself from the bloodied scene when he heard fast-approaching footsteps and rumbling voices of those who’d been drawn by the sounds of the fatal scuffle and its accompanying curses, howls, and shrieks hadn’t been a hard one to make. Luck had been with him. By ducking and dodging any encounters with other passengers or crew members who surely would have balked at his gore-streaked attire, he’d made it safely back to his cabin.

  A contingent of men led by the Hannibal Belle’s first mate came knocking on his door a while later, inquiring, as they were of all passengers, if he’d heard or seen anything that might be related to signs of violence found up on the observation deck. He put on a shocked and apologetic act of having nothing to offer.

  After they were gone, Buckhorn’s thoughts returned to the woman’s death. In his early years as a hired gun, he’d taken on jobs strictly for money. The often harsh duties he was required to perform were of little consequence to him. Growing up a half-breed, the abuse he’d endured from both sides of his bloodline had made him bitter and dispassionate, devoid of feelings for the misfortune of anyone placed in his path.

  But then he experienced a failed, tragic love affair and a brush with his own mortality. He’d emerged from those with a new perspective on things, most especially on the kind of man he was. He didn’t like what he saw. While he figured it was probably too late for redemption, he made up his mind to nevertheless try. Since gun work was the only trade he knew, he continued to pursue it but with a vow that he would not kill indiscriminately and would only hire out his gun to those who were on the right side of a situation.

  That brought him back to his conviction that Angelique and Henri had certainly been on the wrong side of the situation. He had no compunction at all about killing Henri. And while his head told him there was no difference between the sap artist and the beautiful young woman and her dagger, a knot somewhere deep in his gut wasn’t quite ready to unclench over that part.

  As he wrestled with those feelings, he worked his arm from side to side, now and then rolling the shoulder, testing the tightness already starting to form there. It wasn’t a big worry, not yet. It was to be expected. He made up his mind that the shoulder would loosen back up just fine ...

  And so would the knot in his gut.

  CHAPTER 3

  When the Hannibal Belle docked in New Orleans, Buckhorn was ready to have his riverboat experience over with. For starters, it felt mighty good to leave the cramped confines of the craft and set his feet on solid, dry land again. Secondly, he welcomed leaving behind the tension and lingering sense of suspicion that seemed to hover after the signs of violence were found on the observation deck and two passengers were discovered to have disappeared. And last but not least, it was just plain fine to at last be in New Orleans, the place he’d had a hankering to visit for such a very long time.

  Except for the smell of the river, the crowded, noisy activity around the dock wasn’t that much different from the trading hubs of other large cities where he’d been. Some of the goods being handled—huge bundles of cotton, tobacco, and the like—weren’t common to the frontier he hailed from. They held his interest for a time, but not all that long. Mostly, he wanted to get to the historic and colorful heart of the city.

  “Mr. Buckhorn? Joseph Buckhorn?” a voice at his elbow said.

  When Buckhorn looked around, he at first didn’t see anybody. When he dropped his line of sight, he found a short, scrawny Negro youth of about fourteen standing beside him. The lad was dressed in a faded blue work shirt, tan pants with yellow suspenders, and lace-up work shoes that, if they fit properly, meant the rest of him had quite a ways to go before he grew into his feet. The hair on his head was cropped to mere bristles and perched atop the resulting dome was a somewhat battered bowler hat similar in style to Buckhorn’s own.

  Buckhorn nodded. “That’s right. I’m Joe Buckhorn.”

  The boy held out a thin white envelope sealed with a dab of melted wax.

  “My name’s Lucien. Mr. Haydon sent me. He said for me to give you that envelope and then to take you and your things to the Hotel Laffite. He said the message inside would explain the rest.” Lucien pointed. “My carriage is right over there.”

  His eyes following the line of the pointing finger, Buckhorn saw a nicely dressed-out carriage hitched to a sleek black horse. The latter was tied to a post with an iron ring in it. He cut his gaze back to Lucien. “You handle that rig through these busy streets all by yourself, do you?”

  “Sure enough. Have been for quite a spell now.”

  “That’s mighty impressive,” Buckhorn complimented him.

  The corners of Lucien’s mouth lifted in a brief smile, demonstrating that he liked the praise but didn’t want to show it too much. “You got luggage and such? I can get it loaded up for you.”

  Buckhorn tipped his head to indicate the single suitcase and worn old war bag he was carrying in his left hand, leaving his right free to access the Colt .45 riding openly on his hip. “Got everything right here.”

  “You travel mighty light,” Lucien remarked.

  “Well, these grips aren’t exactly light. But they’re all I got, nevertheless.”

  “Let me take ’em for you,” Lucien said, holding out his hands.

  “You sure? I wasn’t kidding when I said they’re kinda heavy.”

  “I can handle ’em. It’s what Mr. Haydon sent me for.”

  “Very well. If you insist.” Buckhorn set the two grips down and stood back so the boy had room to grab hold.

  He got them up, tottering a bit, then turned and marched smartly to the carriage. Buckhorn followed along, grinning faintly at Lucien’s determination.

  The war bag went up into the carriage’s storage bed without too much trouble. The suitcase was a bit more of a struggle and required the added lift of one knee before it got shoved in next to the war bag. Buckhorn held in check his urge to lend a hand because he understood Lucien wanted to prove he was up to the task.

  When the grips were loaded, Lucien turned, puffing a little. “You sure that’s everything?”

  Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Buckhorn said, “I got a horse and his gear, too, as soon as they start bringing the animals out of the cargo hold.” He paused and then grinned. “But I don’t reckon you’ll have to lift him.”

  Lucien matched his grin. “That’s good.”

  They didn’t have to wait long before the livestock was being offloaded and herded out. Sarge, Buckhorn’s tall dappled gray stallion, was among the earlier animals to show. All saddled and bridled, he was led by a lanky fellow with straw-colored hair and a slight limp.

  Buckhorn raised an arm and called out, “Scotty! Over here!”

  Scotty didn’t have any trouble spotting the source of the shout and veered in their direction, guiding the stallion gently through the throng of people scurrying impatiently in all different directions. Buckhorn and Lucien went to meet them halfway.

  “What a great-looking horse,” Lucien said as he reached up to rub Sarge’s velvety snout.

  “He’s got the looks and everything else going for him,” Scotty said. “He’s one of the best animals I ever looked after. It was a pure pleasure to have him on our boat and
for you to put him under my charge, Mr. Buckhorn.”

  “You looked after him real good, Scotty. I appreciate that. I see you got him all saddled for me and everything.”

  “I figured I’d save you the trouble.”

  “That was mighty thoughtful. Turns out I’ve got other transportation waiting for me”—Buckhorn jabbed a thumb at Lucien—“so I won’t be making use of that saddle right away . . . but it was still thoughtful of you.”

  Scotty made a dismissive gesture. “Aw, think nothing of it. It gave me the chance to spend some extra time with Sarge. That was worth it all on its own.”

  Above the din of the various activity spread across the dock, a harsh voice suddenly shouted at the three admirers gathered around Sarge. “Hey, you lollygaggers! Get the hell out of the way. That’s nothing but a damn horse. Ain’t you never seen one before?”

  Buckhorn turned his head and looked at the individual doing the hollering, a sizable specimen, heavy-gutted and powerful looking with massive shoulders and thick arms. He was clad in a dirty homespun shirt and bib overalls. A slouch hat sat on a pumpkin-sized head complete with mean, piggy eyes and scruffy whiskers. He was leading a handsome team of sleek, reddish mules. On the opposite side of the team was a second man cut from almost identical cloth, except at about three-quarter scale to the one doing the bellowing.

  Buckhorn squinted at the loud man. “You talking to me?”

  “You’re the jackass standing there smack in my path, ain’t you? You and the cripple and the colored, taking up dock space better suited to just about anybody or anything else. Now move it. Make way for your betters—meaning me and my mules!”

  “You’re just gonna have to wait, mister,” Buckhorn said through clenched teeth. “You can stand there until me and my friends have finished our talk. Or you can find room to go around.”