The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  “Her people will take care of her,” Milo said, unruffled by the flash of her temper. “The best thing we can do is stay out of their way, not butt in.”

  Gwen turned her back on the tiny shelter and its ugly secret. “I’ve seen enough,” she said tautly. “I’m going back to the wagons.” Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled up the bank to the main village, the image of the old woman refusing to leave her mind.

  She was almost out of the village when Milo caught up. He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Gwen … ,” he started to say, but she whirled and jerked free, her jaw rigid with fury.

  “Do not paw at me, Mister Newton,” she advised. “I shall have you horsewhipped the next time you do.”

  Milo stepped back, but there was no fear in his brown eyes; they sparked dangerously, and his voice roughened in a way she’d never heard before. “Miss Haywood, I will kill the son-of-a-bitch who tries to horsewhip me. Man or woman, I don’t care how pretty she is or how much money her daddy has.”

  “Then we understand one another perfectly, don’t we?” Gwen replied haughtily, although, in truth, Milo’s threat had undermined her self-confidence. She kept forgetting how dangerous the world was outside of her father’s house.

  “I sorely doubt it,” he replied. “Even after what you just saw, I doubt if you understand anything.”

  Gwen’s cheeks reddened. “What I just saw. Mister Newton, was a hideous example of frontier reality, grotesque and appalling, and you may be assured that I shall never again view our nation’s aborigines as anything resembling Cooper’s stately Mohican. They are heathens, sir, and deserve to be treated as such.”

  Milo shook his head in disgust. “Twenty minutes ago they were noble and proud. Now they’re repulsive?”

  “Repulsive is an entirely apt description,” she replied coldly.

  “Is that what you intend to tell your friends in Philadelphia?”

  “It is my intention to enlighten them, yes. I have experience out here. They don’t.”

  “Yeah, you’re a regular Kit Carson, aren’t you?”

  Gwen’s voice rose a notch, as did her chin. “I will not tolerate that tone, Mister Newton. I’d suggest you moderate it.”

  Milo’s smile stretched thinly. “All right, how’s this?” he said calmly. “You’re a damn’ fool, Miss Haywood. You don’t have any more experience out here than a cat does navigating a ship. You got one warped view of an Indian village and now you think you’ve got the whole problem figured out. Trouble is, you’re so naïve you haven’t even seen the problem.”

  “Right now,” Gwen replied in a brittle voice, “my problem is a hired man who has forgotten his place.”

  “No,” Milo countered. “Your problem is that I’ve finally figured out my place, and it isn’t where you want it to be. Ever since I first met you, I thought I wanted to be with you. I guess in looking back, that makes me as big a fool as you are.”

  Gwen’s eyes flashed hotly. “Your presumptuousness is intolerable, Mister Newton.…” Her words trailed off and her lips parted in surprise. Milo Newton had turned his back on her and was walking away. “You bastard,” she hissed, but she didn’t call after him or demand that he return. For a moment, she hated them all—vile, despicable characters, no cleaner or smarter than the beasts they drove. No better than the Hang Arounds, she thought savagely, as tears welled in her eyes once more.

  Her fingers were clenched tightly as she made her way toward the mule train, but she slowed and frowned when she saw Thad Collins backing out the far door of the mud wagon. Gwen quickened her pace to intercept the bodyguard. Milo Newton might consider himself above her authority, but dear Thaddeus would soon learn who paid his wages, and whose vehicle he was to guard with his life but never enter. She’d barely covered ten yards when she jerked to a stop, realizing that Collins wasn’t alone.

  Max Kendrick’s place was the first building on the left, just inside Fort Hall’s main gate. Kendrick was leaning against the trade counter when Buck walked in.

  “Howdy, Buck,” he said easily. “What’ll you have?”

  Buck shook his head. He’d stopped just inside the door to stare at the contract teamsters gathered around a table at the back of the room. A bottle of whiskey sat between them; an empty bottle sat on the floor beside Lyle Mead’s boots. “Past time, boys!” Buck called. “Finish what you’ve got poured and get back to camp.”

  Kroll, Mead, and O’Rourke returned Buck’s gaze insolently. Only Garth Lang looked uncomfortable ignoring the wagon master’s command, although he made no effort to get up.

  “I reckon we’ll stay here a while,” Mitch replied lazily, refilling his glass. “We can catch up later.”

  Buck’s anger was already on a set trigger. Crossing the room in half a dozen long strides, he slapped the bottle from the big man’s hand. Grabbing the edge of the table, Buck tipped it into Kroll’s lap, forcing his chair over backward. Mead and Lang scrambled out of the way, spilling their own drinks in the process. Paddy O’Rourke jumped clear, then sidled out of the way, one hand resting on the large-framed revolver at his hip.

  Mitch threw the table off his lap and clambered to his feet. The front of his shirt was dark with spilled whiskey and his eyes blazed. “You’re gonna pay for that, McCready,” he growled, his thick, stubby fingers curling into fists. He stopped when Buck laughed.

  “Not here, Kroll,” Buck said. “Outside.”

  “Outside?” Mitch’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who you got waitin’ outside?”

  “Not a damn’ soul.”

  After a pause, a smile wormed across the burly muleskinner’s face. “You sayin’ you finally worked up enough backbone to fight me without a crew backing your play?”

  “Let’s get it done,” Buck said curtly. He spun on his heels and walked outside, moving instinctively to the center of the quadrangle. Mitch followed cautiously, his eyes darting left and right as he stepped out of the building.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Buck taunted across the empty space.

  “I ain’t been afraid of nobody since I beat hell outta my teacher when I was eleven years old,” Mitch retorted. “I crammed that damn’ ruler down his throat until he puked blood. I’m gonna do the same to you today with my fists.”

  Buck touched the bullwhip at his waist, his fingers playing lightly over the knot that held it to his belt. “I’ve got other plans for you today, Kroll.” His fingers twitched and the long snake fell free, the butt clutched firmly in his hand. He tossed the braid out behind him, letting it rest in the powdery dust. He was aware of other men appearing out of other buildings to watch the fight, but didn’t take his eyes off Kroll.

  “You’re crazy, McCready. I’ve handled a blacksnake since I was twelve years old.” Mitch moved away from the building, pulling his own long whip free. “I’m gonna skin you raw, bub.”

  Buck’s arm moved swiftly and the long blacksnake darted

  forward to crack like a pistol shot in front of Mitch’s chest. The big muleskinner flinched, and his cocky attitude wavered. Then he tossed his own braid out to the side, a hefty fourteen footer—a good two feet longer than Buck’s whip, equipped with a pair of lead-tipped poppers that looked twice as heavy. Trust Kroll to carry something a little stouter, a little more deadly than needed, Buck thought.

  Mitch’s smile returned. “You won’t be the first man to bleed on my whip,” he promised.

  “I’m going to beat you at your own game, Kroll, and, when I’m through, you’re going to go back to your wagons and get ready to roll. Today will be the last time I put up with your bullshit.”

  “That’s mighty big talk, bub, but you ain’t whupped me yet.”

  “Get it started,” Buck challenged tersely.

  Mitch leaned forward and Buck stepped aside to let Kroll’s poppers whistle past his elbow with enough force to shatter bone. It cracked loud enough to hurt his ears, then withdrew like a flickering snake’s tongue. Buck sucked in a ragged breath. He’d seen men fig
ht with whips before and knew how lethal a blacksnake could be in the right hands, but he’d never fought that kind of a battle himself. He thought he’d chosen the wisest course of action when he loosened his whip, reasoning that Mitch’s size made a bare-knuckle brawl little more than suicide, and that a knife or pistol would be too permanent. Besides, he was a muleskinner, confident in his own abilities with a whip. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “I once laid a balky mule’s hip open to the bone,” Mitch crowed, slithering his whip behind him with a practiced hand. “I’ve popped the corks outta whiskey bottles and snapped the blooms off cactus pads without disturbin’ a thorn.”

  “How are you with something that snaps back?” Buck asked.

  Kroll’s whip flashed forward, quick as a rattler’s strike. This time, Buck didn’t dodge fast enough. He felt the searing bite of the leather-wrapped poppers gouge into his lower thigh, just above his left knee, and for a moment a fluttering blackness closed around him. He almost fell but managed to stagger backward a couple of yards instead, keeping his feet despite the whirling sky overhead.

  “Jesus,” someone said in awe as blood darkened the fabric of Buck’s trousers.

  Pain coursed up Buck’s leg like a runaway team. His mouth watered and his nose ran and tears stung his eyes.

  Mitch laughed boisterously. “First time bit, McCready? I got a dozen of ’em scarrin’ my arms and legs. By the time you get as many as me, you won’t hardly notice a new one, but them first few is gonna feel like they’re tearin’ out bone.”

  Buck wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he asked hoarsely.

  The smile on Mitch’s face disappeared. “Why, no, sonny, I’ve got a lot worse than that.” He lunged forward, bringing his whip high around his head, then letting it swoop low. Buck raised his boot to deflect the poppers’ blow, but the snake wrapped around his ankle with a bulldog’s grip and yanked him off his feet. Buck slammed hard to the ground, the breath driven from his lungs. Dimly he heard someone laughing and knew it was Lyle Mead.

  Mitch let the whip go slack and Buck wiggled free. He pushed to his feet, lurching drunkenly until he got his balance. His left leg throbbed as if on fire and his hat lay in the dust behind him. Mitch was grinning broadly, sure of himself now, convinced of victory. “You ain’t doin’ so well, bub,” he observed.

  Struggling to drag air into his starving lungs, Buck rasped: “It ain’t over yet.”

  Mitch’s grin widened. “I’m thinkin’ all that’s left is for you to fall down. You look pretty damn’ close to it already.”

  Buck eased forward, making a casual swing that Mitch easily side-stepped. Laughing, Mitch brought his own whip back for another strike. Before he could launch it Buck flipped his black-snake up as if lifting it straight from the ground. The twin poppers cracked in front of Mitch’s nose like a pistol shot, and the smile vanished from the big man’s face.

  “You’ve drawn blood twice now,” Buck said huskily. “It won’t happen a third time.”

  “You ain’t got nothin’ to say about that.”

  Buck’s whip darted forward, cutting into the flesh of Kroll’s heavily-muscled gut. Mitch cried out in pain and surprise. Buck cracked his whip again, wrapping the tip around the muleskinner’s leg and taking a chunk out of his calf. Mitch’s whip curled awkwardly through the air like a slow-moving but extremely sharp knife. Buck dodged it to the right, then let his own whip strike once more, licking deep into Mitch’s shoulder.

  Kroll howled and stumbled. Buck crowded him, his snake lashing out twice more, popping the air on either side of Mitch’s head. Then he stepped back, out of reach. “Let it drop, Kroll,” Buck panted. “Give it up before one of us gets hurt.”

  “I’d rather rot in hell,” Mitch snarled, drawing his whip close.

  For the second time, Buck seemed to lift his snake off the ground as if it had a life of its own. It was a trick Mase had taught him, something few men ever conquered. His poppers cracked against Mitch’s right knee like tiny clubs and the big man screamed and fell, rolling onto his side as he clutched his injured leg with both hands.

  Lyle Mead stepped forward, whether to help Kroll or take up the big man’s battle, Buck couldn’t tell. Before Buck could figure out the lanky muleskinner’s intentions, Kendrick appeared with a double-barreled shotgun.

  “That’s enough!” the trader bellowed, and Mead jerked to a stop.

  Mitch climbed laboriously to his feet. He’d lost his hat, too, and his long, greasy hair clung to his forehead with perspiration. He looked pale, and blood was seeping from his nose into his mustache and beard. He glared at Buck. “That was slick, bub, but it ain’t gonna be slick enough.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Buck said, his chest heaving.

  “That ain’t likely.”

  “I said, that’s enough, and I meant it,” Kendrick said. He came forward, shoving Mead out of his way. “Next one of you sons-a-bitches lifts a whip in this compound gets a belly full of double-ought.”

  Buck let his arm go slack. Mead, O’Rourke, and Lang looked on blankly. Only Kroll’s expression changed, becoming more curious than angry, as if wondering what Buck’s next move would be.

  “God damn, if you two want to kill yourselves, go somewhere else to do it,” Kendrick added.

  “He’s right,” Buck said. “This has gone far enough.” He began reeling in his bullwhip, coiling it into its familiar roll.

  Warily Mitch pulled in his own whip.

  “You three get back to your wagons,” Buck ordered Mead, Lang, and O’Rourke. “Mitch and I will be along in another minute.”

  The three muleskinners returned his stare brazenly, and Buck began to wonder if this battle was truly finished. Then he barked—“Now, goddammit!”—and Garth Lang stepped out reluctantly.

  Mead and O’Rourke followed, although slowly, to show that they weren’t afraid.

  “You got more spine than I figured you for, McCready,” Kroll said.

  “This train is going through, Mitch. I don’t care if I have to fight you every step of the way to do it.”

  Kroll turned silent for a moment, as if deep in thought, then said: “You won’t have to.” Glancing at the fort’s gate where Lang, Mead, and O’Rourke had halted expectantly, he shouted: “Let’s get rollin’, boys! The boss wants us on the road … now!”

  When the three were gone, Mitch looked at Buck and nodded. “You’ll do,” he said quietly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Both men needed stitches to close the worst of their wounds. Buck’s most serious injury was the gouge Mitch had carved in his left leg, above the knee, although his left arm was also badly bruised. Time, he knew, would take care of the ugly mass of blues and purples that covered his bicep, but he would have to watch the wound on his leg for infection. None of Mitch’s wounds was as severe as the one on Buck’s leg, but the mule-skinner had more of them, scattered over his body like red-bodied leeches.

  Buck bit down hard on a strip of harness leather to keep from crying out when Peewee probed the white inner flesh of his leg with a needle and thread. Dulce hovered over Peewee’s shoulder, her face puckering with each new stitch. Although Peewee wanted to hold over for a day, an option Dulce heartily seconded. Buck refused.

  “We’ve lost enough time here,” he said, pushing to his feet. He limped over to where Milo was finishing up on Kroll. Mitch’s swamper, Bigfoot Payne, was watching nearby, wringing his hands and making little sounds of distress in his throat as Milo tied off his last stitch.

  “Say the word,” Mitch grated. Sweat poured off the big man’s forehead and his lips were peeled back as if in a silent snarl, but he hadn’t cried out once that Buck had heard.

  “Soon as you’re ready.”

  Mitch snapped his fingers and Bigfoot ceased his nervous whimpering. Speaking softly but firmly, he told his swamper to find their mules and get them hitched. “We’ll be ready soon as he gets ’em in harness,” he told Buck.
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br />   Milo rocked back on his heels, wiping his hands on a bloody rag. “He’s done. It ain’t a work of art, but he won’t leak all over his saddle.”

  “Get outta my way, flea-brain,” Kroll grumbled, pushing Milo aside and struggling to his feet.

  Buck grinned. “I notice those stitches didn’t do anything to improve his personality.”

  Milo laughed and Mitch mumbled something unintelligible, hanging onto the front wheel of his trailer like he wanted to puke. Buck motioned Milo aside. “Get the train ready to pull out,” he said. “I want this outfit on the road in thirty minutes.”

  Milo nodded and took off, and Buck went in search of his mule. It took more effort than he would have thought to get Zeke saddled. By the time he was mounted, the caravan was ready to roll. Buck lifted his voice to roll down the length of the caravan. “Streeetch out! Stretch ’em out!”

  They made another five miles before sunset, camping in a stand of cottonwoods along the Snake. Buck rode close to the river to dismount behind a screen of red-barked alders. His pain was worse now, and he had to hang onto his saddle horn until he was sure he could stand on his own. He kept to himself that night, letting Milo take care of any chore that wasn’t specifically his own. He was still hurting when he went to bed, but that was nothing compared to the way he felt the next morning. He couldn’t face breakfast, couldn’t even support a coffee cup with his bruised left arm.

  Although he was in the saddle by first light, his mind wasn’t on the trail and his brow was warm with fever. His temperature rose throughout the day, and, by nightfall he was gimping through his rounds as if in a daze. Sweat was running down his face when he went to bed that night, but he fell asleep almost instantly. Coming awake sometime later was like struggling up out of muddy water. He wasn’t even sure where he was until he spied the starlit sky through the trees and heard the Snake’s low murmur above the breeze. He tried to sit up, but someone pushed him back.

  “Ain’t no point fightin’ us,” Ray said quietly. “You’re too

  damn’ wrung out to win.”