“Fine, Luke,” Carmody said. “How’s the arm?”
He could see that Greenwood had been putting away a lot of whisky. The big man’s wide face was red and puffy. The fierce trooper’s mustache looked like it had been curried and combed.
“Just about as good as ever,” Luke answered. “A mite stiff but I guess it’ll do. Nice of you to ask, Carmody .”
Carmody didn’t know the four hard cases backing Greenwood’s play. They looked like they knew their business. Luke wouldn’t pick them for any other reason. They were spaced out wide along the length of the bar. Luke was in the middle.
Carmody didn’t move. “You’re calling it, Luke,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d consider the two of us settling this by ourselves?”
Greenwood knew what Carmody was calling him. It almost worked, then Luke started to laugh as a cover-up. “You ain’t about to get me that way, Carmody. All these boys are here for is to see you don’t try any of your back-shooting tricks.”
There was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd looking on.
“Don’t let this feller fool you,” Greenwood called out. “This here Carmody is the meanest bushwhacker ever come out of Texas. Some of you fellers knew Dad Johnson, a nice quiet feller never looked for no trouble. This dry-gulcher killed Dad Johnson like a dog. Shot him in the back. Did the same thing to young Jack Hooper. You think what you like, but I ain’t about to turn my back on a man like that.”
Greenwood grinned at Carmody.
“Mr. Drygulch Carmody tried to murder me with his God damned scattergun,” Greenwood declared righteously. “If I hadn’t been faster than them other fellers I’d be laying dead right now. Think I’m lying, do you? I’ll show you.”
“Cover him, boys,” he told the four gunmen.
Watching Carmody, Luke rolled up his sleeve. There were seven or eight buckshot wounds, scabbed over now and healing. Nobody in the crowd was prepared to argue. Greenwood rolled down his sleeve. Here’s where it starts, Carmody thought.
“Let’s not, boys,” Ike Rollins said from the door. He walked in, followed by his three sons. The sons looked like copies of the father; lanky, silent men dressed in black. They didn’t drink or smoke either. Each of them carried a sawed-off shotgun, held waist-high in their big hands. One of them covered Carmody. The other two pointed their buckshot cannons straight at Luke and his men.
“Who the hell are you?” Greenwood asked, with some of the piss and vinegar gone from his voice.
The preacher’s three gloomy sons didn’t move their shotguns an inch.
“Isaac Rollins is the name,” the Preacher said. “It could be the name is known to you. No matter if it ain’t. You’ll get to know me. You’d be Luke Greenwood. Seems you ain’t heard about the great new changes been taking place in the town of Grady. The wild old days are over, Luke—least they are inside the town limits.”
“That’s what you say,” Greenwood said.
The Preacher’s dry laugh rattled in his string throat. The faces of his three gaunt sons didn’t show anything. They had been through it all before.
“What I say is what goes, Luke,” Rollins said. “That’s the way I am, I guess—sort of strong on authority. I don’t say anything I don’t mean. And, Luke, I hate to say it twice.”
Greenwood had his mean reputation to think about. There was no disgrace in backing away from a man like Preacher Rollins. Carmody wondered how far Luke would go to save his tough reputation. He nearly went too far.
“Any man can talk big with three sawed-offs behind him,” Luke said.
Carmody thought Luke meant it more as a comment than as a challenge. The Preacher knew that too, but he chose to take the last meaning. The dry laugh sounded again. A lot of men had heard that laugh seconds before they died. Rollins didn’t move, didn’t get set, didn’t do anything.
“All right, Luke,” he said, mild as a real parson. “You start it.”
Luke came right back with, “Hell, Preacher, I ain’t got nothing agin you.”
“’Course you don’t,” Ike Rollins said. “And besides you got a bad arm. I listened a while at the door before I came in. Now, Luke, why don’t you and these boys here ride on out. And don’t you ever come back.”
Rollins turned to Carmody. “You too,” he said, “You go first.”
Carmody nodded and started for the door. Now everything was turned about and they’d be hunting him.
“Run, you son of a bitch,” Greenwood said to his back. “When we catch up with you, we’ll fix you Injun style.”
Carmody reached the swinging doors.
“Wait,” Ike Rollins said. “Hold up there.”
Carmody turned around. The Preacher was looking at Greenwood, not at him.
“Just can’t keep that mouth shut, can you, Luke?” Ike Rollins remarked. “Always ready to do something to somebody, ain’t you. You want to fix this feller up Injun style? My, now—what a desperado you are. You had your chance to ride out and now you don’t have it no more.”
“I what?” Luke said.
“I changed my mind is all,” the Preacher told him. “I do that sometimes. Let’s just say I got a gut full of you and your tough talk. You want Carmody? Well, there he stands.”
Luke got redder in the face. Ike Rollins said, “Lest you think Carmody has the edge, you having a stiff arm and all, why don’t you fellers mix it up any way you have a mind to. Both you boys got Bowies.”
Rollins turned to Carmody.
“That’s fine by me,” Carmody said. He unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it on the floor.
“You too, Luke,” the Preacher said.
Grinning like a madman, Luke unstrapped his gun and whipped out his knife. With the big blade in his hand, he seemed to come back to life. He tested the edge on his thumb as if he didn’t know it was sharp enough to shave with. His big Mexican spurs jingled as he stepped about, limbering up. The Bowie flashed as he stabbed at the air. Luke was putting on a show to make up for the setback he’d suffered a few minutes before.
“Somebody give me a drink,” Luke yelled. He grabbed one of the bottles off the bar and upended it. There was close to half a bottle of whisky. Luke didn’t stop until he finished it. He tossed the empty bottle behind the bar and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that held the knife.
The whisky got to him fast. “Hee-haw!” he roared like an Arkansas wild man. The Preacher and his three sons moved back out of the way, clearing the floor.
Carmody moved away from the stairs, holding the big knife out straight, edge down.
Luke was all fired up. “You may be a champeen with a gun, Preacher, but there ain’t nobody can use a knife like Luke Greenwood. I’m a-going to deball this dry-gulcher and wear his knackers on my watch fob.”
Luke wasn’t all mouth and for a big man he moved fast. He tried for an underhand slash at Carmody’s wrist. It came so close that Carmody’s cuff button fell to the floor. He moved away on the balls of his feet as Luke came back with an overhand slash. He blocked the slash and the two heavy blades clanged loudly in the silent room. He lunged at Luke’s belly, the blade out straight like a bayonet. The point pricked Luke’s sucked-in gut. Before Carmody could pull his arm back, Luke’s blade flashed down. If Luke had moved a little faster he could have cut Carmody’s arm to the bone. The blade slashed across the top of his arm, drawing blood. Carmody jumped back, working his fingers on the blade of the knife. No muscles were cut, but the blood was pumping out fast. He could feel it running down his arm.
Luke bored in again, bringing the knife around in wide circular motions. Carmody backed around him. He flipped the knife to his left hand, moving back and around as the big man came after him. His right hand was greasy with warm blood. He wiped it off on his shirt and flipped the knife back. Holding the blade high so the blood ran the other way, he went after Luke. He drove in hard. He feinted for Luke’s face, then tried to get him under the arm.
Luke didn’t try to block the false thrust. He blocked the underarm slash easily and turned Carmody back. Luke crouched and slashed at Carmody’s belly. Carmody dropped his blade to block it. The big blades clanged and Luke sent Carmody reeling back with a straight-arm left in the face. Luke roared with crazy laughter. He was feeling fine.
Carmody shook his head. Luke was still laughing when Carmody came at him again. Suddenly Luke twisted his thick body and slashed at Carmody’s leg with the sharp-pointed Mexican spurs. The big man looked like a huge fighting cock. The filed points caught Carmody below the kneecap and he stumbled and fell. He slashed at Luke’s boot as the big man tried to kick him in the face. The blade sliced through the leather and Luke yelled. He kicked again with the other foot. Carmody got hit in the chest and there wasn’t time to use the knife. The wound was still bleeding, and the arm itself felt stiff and numb. Luke jumped hard on his legs, trying to break the bones. Carmody slashed and stabbed at Luke’s stomping boots. Luke roared and kept stomping. Blood was pouring through the slashed boots when Luke went after Carmody’s face with his spurs. Carmody felt his face rip open from cheekbone to chin.
Carmody dropped the knife and grabbed Luke’s ankle with both hands and twisted. The big man roared with pain and went staggering back, but he didn’t lose his balance. Luke was next to crazy now. He roared and cursed and started back, swinging the Bowie like a saber. Carmody grabbed his knife off the floor with his left hand and rolled out of the way. Luke jumped again and nearly landed on him. Carmody staggered to his feet and had to fight to keep from falling. The pain in his spur-slashed face was god-awful and his right arm felt like a board. He felt weak.
Luke’s boots squelched with blood. He backed off a bit to get his breath. Carmody fought to stay on his feet. He could hear his breath whistling through his hard-clenched teeth. Luke was losing blood too, but he was the knife fighter in this crowd. He stomped around yelling and boasting about what he was going to do to Carmody.
“That was a warm-up before,” he roared. “Now watch a champeen knife man go to work.”
He started to walk toward Carmody. Carmody didn’t move. The knife was in his left hand. It was the last chance he had, and if he missed …
Slowly, he raised the knife for a left-handed throw. Luke roared, “Well, lookit this.” He began to bob around like a prizefighter. Luke was all of fifteen feet away, moving about easily. Carmody got set, then changed his mind. He did that three times. Luke got wilder than ever. “Come on, you right-handed son of a bitch—throw it.”
Carmody pretended to stagger. It was easy, the way he felt. Luke stopped moving, Carmody straightened up and threw the knife as hard as he could. It flashed across fifteen feet of space and Luke Greenwood screamed and clutched at the shaft sticking out of his belly. He screamed and pulled with both hands. The knife came out with a sucking sound, and Luke grinned like a mad wolf. Holding the bloody knife and grinning, he took a step toward Carmody. He took another step, swayed, tried to take another step. His face hit the floor with a crash.
Somebody handed Carmody a bottle and he drank. He heard Ike Rollins telling the four hard cases to get out of town. The Preacher’s sons followed them out. Rollins came over to Carmody and took him by the good arm. The Preacher looked as if he had lost interest in the whole business.
“Come on, Carmody,” he said. “We got to get you fixed up so you can travel. Don’t worry about your saddlebags. I got them right here. Don’t ever come back to this town, Carmody, or I’ll kill you on sight.”
The way he felt, Carmody didn’t give a damn about Ike Rollins or anybody else.
“Not if I see you first,” he said.