CHAPTER 2
Buckhorn was so convinced the actual physical attack on him wouldn’t come until after they’d reached Angelique’s room, he damn near missed the attempt to brain him right where he stood.
The split-second warning came from a flickering reflection on the glass housing around a lantern fastened to a deck post rising just above Angelique’s pile of hair. It revealed a burly gent looming directly behind him with one arm raised and a bulging sap gripped in his fist.
It was all that saved him from getting his skull busted open like a peanut shell.
He reacted by thrusting Angelique away and letting his knees buckle in unison so he dropped suddenly, squatting down as low as he could. The sap slashed through the air above him at the exact level his head had been only a moment earlier.
The empty swing made a great whoosh and the man behind it grunted with the vicious effort he put into it. Swinging so fiercely and not connecting with anything pulled the would-be head crusher off balance and caused him to stagger as he attempted to regain it.
Buckhorn was determined to have a say about that. Staying in his squat long enough to twist around toward the man, he straightened his legs with a hard thrust, exploding upward faster than he’d dropped down.
As he shot to his full height, Buckhorn slammed the top of his head up and under the sapper’s chin. The man’s teeth clacked together loudly and he emitted a desperate gagging sound as his head snapped back. Adding to that, Buckhorn drilled an in-close right hook hard to the sapper’s unprotected ribs. The victim howled in added pain. Buckhorn liked the sound and feel of what he’d done so much that he immediately repeated it.
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 serious 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.