English Lessons

by J. M. Hayes

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Mad Dog said. “That guy from three years ago.”

  “Yes,” Heather said. “Stay with the girl. Let me see what he wants.” Though, of course, she already knew. Because she’d been able to defend herself when he hadn’t expected it, he’d developed a fantasy about her. Decided she could become a worthy test for his skills.

  Well, she was good. Very good. Her father had taught her the self-defense techniques he’d learned in the military. Then, when her mother’s illness worsened, she’d managed to find a little core of peace in the spiritual aspects of martial arts, and the exhaustion of the workouts. But she knew her limits. He was an expert. If they fought the way the psycho wanted, she was dead meat. To beat him, she’d have to cheat. Out psych him. Do something unexpected.

  Heather holstered her SIG, leaving the strap unsnapped in case she had a chance to draw on him. She straightened her uniform and stepped to the front door. She took a deep breath, centered herself, and walked outside.

  “Hello,” she said from the porch. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  He smiled. “I told you I’d be back. I told you I was back in that letter I left for you this morning. Didn’t you believe me?”

  “Sure. But a girl can hope.”

  The psycho tossed his helmet aside and peeled off his leather jacket. “Hope springs eternal.”

  “Yes,” Heather said. “Yours, too, apparently. And not all your wishes come true.”

  The psycho smiled and nodded, as if to concede she’d scored a point there.

  “What do you want here?” Mad Dog called from the door behind her. “We let you live.”

  Heather didn’t take her eyes off the psycho. He nodded again, approvingly.

  “True,” the little man said. “But not a wise decision.”

  “He wants to kill me,” Heather said. “This little fruitcake thinks I’m superwoman. Thinks it’ll make him a bigger man if he takes me down.”

  “Why, yes, that pretty well sums it up,” the psycho said. “Though, if the insults are supposed to spoil my focus and make me angry, they won’t work. In any case, they’re beneath you.”

  “Going to be all kinds of cops here in a few minutes,” Mad Dog said. “You don’t have time for this.”

  “You contacted Matus, then,” the psycho said. “Good for you. I’ve arranged a delay for him. Nothing major, but enough. We won’t need long.”

  Heather thought he was right. She’d gone up against him before. His skill level was amazing. She thought about grabbing her SIG and just blowing him away. But she could feel the sights of those guns on her. The guy behind the Jeep still had his weapon centered on her chest.

  “You’ll never clear your holster.” It was as if he’d read her mind. “Besides, I just want you. I’ll leave Mad Dog and the girl unharmed if this doesn’t turn into a gunfight.”

  Well, she was better now. And she didn’t have the option of forfeiting.

  “What do you have in mind?” she said. “Marquis of Queensbury rules, I presume?”

  “You can’t do this,” Mad Dog protested, though whether he spoke to Heather or the psycho wasn’t clear.

  “Free style. Hands, feet, whatever, but no weapons,” he said, and shrugged. “And to the death of course.”

  “Of course.” She slipped her jacket off and unbuckled her holster. Dropped her gun to the ground where she just might be able to get back to it. “But if this is going to be a fair test of your manhood, why not send these soldier boys home? It should be just the two of us.”

  “They won’t interfere. They’re just here to make sure no one else interferes, either. They’ll leave when we’re done. They won’t harm Mad Dog or the girl. Or you, if you survive. You have my word.”

  “I’d rather have a beer,” she said.

  He smiled again. All her attempts to throw him off only seemed to confirm his opinion that she was the real deal. He obviously liked attitude. “You can have a beer afterwards, even if I have to pour it on your grave.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Heather said, sliding into a defensive stance. “I’m thirsty.”

  He matched her, then slipped to an offensive position. Karate, she thought. Or his own personal blend. She just tried to clear her mind of everything but him as she waited. She would either block him or she wouldn’t. And she’d kill him as quick and dirty as she could, if the opportunity arose.

  His eyes shifted to her side and she almost launched a strike. She held back at the last moment. He was just beyond her range and she suspected a trick. It wasn’t, though. A growl penetrated her consciousness. Something big and silver gray advanced to her side. She didn’t look down. She knew Hailey had joined her. Hailey had saved her the last time she met the psycho, but there hadn’t been a small army pointing automatic weapons at them then.

  “Want I should shoot the dog?” the man behind the Jeep asked.

  “This noble creature is a wolf,” the psycho said, “and of course not. Don’t shoot her under any circumstances. She’s part of this. I’ve been expecting her. But this time, I came prepared.” He bounced back a couple of paces. “Bill,” he called. “Now.”

  A man stood at the back of an old Ford pickup behind the Jeep. At the psycho’s command, he opened the door on the box in its bed. Two massive pit bulls launched themselves from the truck like a pair of wolf-seeking missiles.

  ***

  Mad Dog watched the pit bulls rush Hailey. One was brindle. The other, liver and white. They were big, full-chested animals with the breed’s traditional brick-like heads—all muscle and jaw. Eighty pounds each, at least.

  Hailey crouched a little. Her thick hair came up around her neck and along the length of her spine. She was closer to a hundred pounds, though she looked bigger now. But to Mad Dog, she didn’t look big enough to deal with this threat.

  The pits must have smelled her from inside the truck. They were already salivating, spittle streaming from their mouths as if they were rabid. They threw themselves across the yard, eerie in their silence. No barking, no growls, just death on a mission.

  Mad Dog watched Heather step toward the brindle’s path. The psycho danced toward her and she had to sidestep, interrupting whatever she’d intended to do in Hailey’s defense. Mad Dog came off the porch. Not that he had time to get to Hailey, let alone stave off either of the monsters.

  In the instant before they arrived, Hailey leapt into the air—straight up. The beasts collided in the empty space where Hailey had been. One stumbled, hit the ground jaw first. The other, frustrated, buried teeth in his partner’s shoulder. And then Hailey descended. She didn’t go for either pit’s throat. She caught the upright one by his hind leg. Slashed with saber-like fangs. Blood flew and the animal spun, suddenly awkward. The leg would no longer support him. He stumbled sideways, released his companion and pulled himself around to face Hailey. The liver and white recovered faster. And still had four good legs.

  The psycho went for Heather. She blocked a hand strike, countered with a kick that missed and took a glancing blow to her ribs. Mad Dog knew it had to hurt.

  Since the pits had spun about, Mad Dog was behind them. A couple of paces and there were some delicate targets he might kick. But the psycho was suddenly a whirlwind of punches, kicks, even a head butt. Heather fended them off, giving ground, seemingly just an instant too slow to counter every time. And growing slower. Mad Dog wondered if he should try to help her instead.

  Mad Dog thought Hailey should be putting more distance between herself and the pits. She seemed to want to stay where she could protect her people. Or maybe not. A squirming little clump of fur emerged from beneath the trailer. Silver gray and teddy-bear plump, tottering on paws it would take some doing to grow into. Mad Dog couldn’t believe it. A puppy? A wolf puppy? Hailey’s?

  Hailey sidestepped the li
ver and white and threw herself at the psycho. She didn’t reach him, but she caught his attention and interrupted the flow of his attack on Heather. Heather took advantage of it to land an open handed blow to his sternum. It staggered him and seemed to give her confidence.

  The brindle, too crippled to chase Hailey, noticed the puppy. The beast turned, went for it, moving faster than Mad Dog would have imagined a creature with only three legs could manage. Mad Dog kicked, caught the animal in the ribs, but hardly slowed it. Mad Dog started to throw himself onto the pit’s back to protect the pup’s tiny body. Something big and gray hit the brindle before it could reach its target. Not Hailey. She was still busy with the liver and white. A wolf, though, and a bigger one than Hailey.

  A Mexican Gray. It took the brindle in the throat. The two of them rolled to the ground. Mad Dog grabbed the pup and turned in time to see Heather go down. The psycho held his side but advanced on her.

  Sirens? Yes, Mad Dog heard sirens. The uniformed guy behind the Jeep must have heard them too. He shouted to his men to fall back. The ones on either side of the yard began backing away from the action. The one who’d gone behind the house suddenly sprinted around the corner. He didn’t have his gun anymore. A pair of German Shepherds followed him. One savaged a piece of cloth as it ran. Something camouflaged.

  The psycho stopped advancing on Heather as she bounced to her feet and resumed a defensive position. The psycho looked confused. He pointed at the German Shepherds.

  “Shoot them,” he said.

  The uniform at the Jeep had gotten behind its wheel. The engine roared to life. The uniform on Mad Dog’s left cried out. When Mad Dog looked his way, the man hot footed it for the Jeep, just behind the one from out back. The guy on Mad Dog’s left didn’t have his gun anymore, either. A huge Great Dane mix from down the road gnawed the gun’s stock. A pair of Malamutes from half a mile north suddenly appeared from the brush behind the last gunman. He swung his weapon toward them but a normally friendly lab materialized from the brush to the man’s right, teeth bared. The rumble from its chest sounding more like a promise than a threat. The man dropped his weapon and sprinted for the Jeep. Behind the Jeep, a boxer led a madly yelping Yorkie out of the trees. The liver and white pit backed away from Hailey. Its tail had been cropped, or it would have been tucked between its legs. The scrum between the second wolf and the brindle ended with the brindle crouched in fear. Trembling. Bleeding.

  The soldiers made it to the Jeep as it backed over the motorcycle and into the road. The psycho reluctantly joined them. The guy who’d brought the pits had long since sought the safety of the cab of his truck. Ford and Jeep maneuvered around each other, surrounded by more dogs than Mad Dog had dreamed lived in Three Points. The Jeep bounced off a mesquite, then spun earth from under all four tires as the driver headed back toward the Santa Fe. The Ford followed close behind. So did the ill-matched dog pack.

  “This isn’t over,” the psycho shouted.

  Maybe not, Mad Dog thought, but score this round for the good guys.

  Hailey approached Mad Dog, whined, took the pup gently in her mouth and set it on the ground where she and the big male wolf sniffed it from stem to stern to be sure it was all right.

  “I thought I was dead,” Heather said. “I thought we were all dead.”

  “Hey, it’s Christmas,” Mad Dog said. “We’re supposed to get miracles.”

  ***

  “Were those gunshots?” Doc Jones asked.

  “Yeah, an Uzi,” Koestel agreed.

  Doc started to ask Koestel how he could tell, but Mrs. Kraus spoke first. “There was an Uzi in those guns you gave back to Don Crabtree, wasn’t there?”

  “Yeah,” Koestel admitted. “But don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions. I got a couple of scouts out there. One of them’s got an Uzi, too.”

  Doc pulled his medical bag off the bottom shelf of his gurney. “I’d better get over to the Conrads right away.”

  “No,” Koestel said. “You’re set up here. Let’s wait. My boys’ll report in. And this is the sheriff’s office. We’ll get calls telling us what happened and whether you’re needed.”

  “Minutes might count.”

  Koestel pointed a gun in Doc’s direction and snapped off a command. “I said, no, Doc. You can’t help if those shots hit a human being. Thirty-two bullets in maybe five seconds…. You’ll stay here until we know what’s going on. Consider yourself drafted. You’re now our official medical corps and, as such, under my command.”

  Doc would have argued but the phone began ringing in the sheriff’s office. Ned Evans got the first line. Doc made it to the doorway as Mrs. Kraus got the second.

  “Where?” Ned asked. Mrs. Kraus echoed him.

  “This one just heard the shots,” Ned told his commander, who, like Doc, was hanging his head through the doorway, waiting for solid information.

  “Mine, too,” Mrs. Kraus said, as both lines rang again.

  The third and forth calls were just further reports of shots fired. But Evans exchanged whispered words with his next caller before announcing. “It was at Conrad’s. No one hurt, though, and Englishman has arrested Don Crabtree.”

  “Damn,” Commandant Koestel said. “That means Englishman’s got Don’s Uzi again.” Koestel’s cell chirped, interrupting any words he might have planned to share about how that made the sheriff a greater threat. Koestel stepped over into a corner where the continued ringing of the sheriff’s phones drowned out his conversation. He was pale when he turned back to the room.

  “That was one of our scouts. Not only has the sheriff seized Crabtree’s guns, he’s got himself a bunch of armed men with him over on Plum Street.”

  “Feds?” Ned wondered.

  “Probably,” Koestel said. “But locals, too. Our own neighbors, turning against us.”

  “You’re kidding,” Evans said.

  “Time to stack your weapons and surrender the courthouse,” Doc said.

  Koestel shook his head. “Not hardly. This just turns it into a civil war. Friend against friend. Brother against brother. But that doesn’t matter. We will do what we have to do. We will not suffer the tyranny of a government that seeks to disarm its citizens.”

  “What government would that be? One sheriff who hasn’t been paid by Benteen County in months?” Doc asked.

  Koestel didn’t hear him. He’d turned to the window from which you could see the yellow flag with its “Don’t tread on me” serpent. Koestel snapped to attention. Saluted. Doc noticed a single tear slide down the would-be patriot’s face.

  Zealot, Doc thought. This would get ugly.

  ***

  The sheriff was amazed. Don Crabtree had emptied a clip from the Uzi and every single bullet appeared to have been stopped by the RV Roy Conrad kept parked next to his garage. No one hurt. Not even when Conrad and his boys came running out of the house to defend it, all of them armed to the teeth.

  If the sheriff were just an ordinary citizen, he would have ducked and called the sheriff’s office when he heard shots. Most residents of Buffalo Springs had come running to see what was going on, instead. Several had taken the time to arm themselves. Most hadn’t. A few said they’d called the sheriff’s office first. A couple mentioned that some man had taken their calls, not Mrs. Kraus.

  The rest of the Crabtree family joined the growing crowd early on. Edna and her daughter loudly blamed each other with accusations of, “I thought you were watching him.”

  Once they got beyond the recriminations, Edna asked the sheriff if she could take Don home for a change of clothes. His close encounter with the business end of the sheriff’s shotgun had caused a little accident. The man really should have emptied his bladder before he went gunning for a neighbor. Roy Conrad was quick to point that out. The shame of the situation in which he found himself turned Crabtree into a meek prisoner. />
  The sheriff refused Edna’s offer to take Don home. “He’s under arrest, Mrs. Crabtree. Assault with a deadly weapon. Criminal damage—it’ll cost thousands to repair that RV. Possession of a proscribed weapon. Maybe more. Depends on how many things the county attorney and I decide to charge him with.”

  Edna understood. “Can I at least get him some fresh clothes to wear while he spends the rest of Christmas in your jail?”

  The sheriff said she could, but that raised a problem. He didn’t have access to the jail.

  “Oh, Daddy, how could you do a crazy thing like this?” Crabtree’s daughter wailed. She still wore the sweatshirt the sheriff had seen through that window. At least she’d added a pair of jeans, though the sheriff would have wagered good money there was nothing under either but girl flesh. Under-aged girl flesh at that. He looked around and discovered Matt Yoder at the back of the crowd.

  “Matt,” the sheriff said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Oh, sure, Sheriff,” Yoder said. “I’ll be happy to press trespassing charges against him if you want.”

  The sheriff let his gaze shift from Yoder to the Crabtree girl and back again. “That’s not what I want to talk about,” English said. Yoder and the girl both blushed bright enough to see in spite of the gathering dusk. “But now’s not the time for that conversation. You ever finish your basement, Matt?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Larry Windor was a classmate of mine. We used to play ping pong in your basement when his folks lived here. I remember a bare concrete wall opposite the work bench. Just some pipes running along it. Stout enough I could maybe cuff my prisoner to one and leave him with you while I go take care of a problem at the courthouse.”

  “It’s still like that down there,” Yoder said. “Including the ping pong table.”

  Yoder, the sheriff noticed, had armed himself like most. But not with a fire arm. He had a heavy-duty sling shot in his back pocket. And lumps that might be smooth river stones. Add to that the old big-block Chevy by Yoder’s house and the sheriff thought he’d just solved the second crime against yard decorations and that Yoder and he would be having quite a detailed conversation soon. If the sheriff survived the day.