Savage Thunder

Chapter Twenty-five

Standing at the long bar, Colt finished off the whiskey in his glass and slowly poured another from the bottle he'd yanked away from the barkeep earlier. This being the third saloon he'd entered since he left the hotel that morning, by rights he should be drunk already. But he wasn't. His gut was too full of anger to let the whisky do its stuff.

Looking for a fight also tended to keep a man so-ber, and he couldn't deny he'd been looking. When the first two saloons had turned up nothing worse than dirty looks, he'd tried this one — and hit the jackpot.

Only it wasn't the jackpot he wanted. He'd needed a punching bag for his anger, not an invite to let some lead fly. It was just his luck that the only one to object to his presence with any degree of vocal belligerence was a young man who considered himself a fast draw. Whether he was or not, Colt had little doubt he could take him. It was the quiet ones you needed to worry about, not the show-offs.

It'd be over with already if the barkeep hadn't in-sisted, with a shotgun to make his point, that they take themselves outside to settle their differences. Colt claimed he'd finish his drink first. Riley, as his friends called him, was magnanimous once his challenge was accepted, and went outside to wait.

The kid was a so-called professional. Still wet behind the ears, but already a gun for hire. He worked for a local mine owner who'd been having some trou-ble with claim-jumpers. In the six months since he'd come to town, he'd already killed two men, pistol-whipped a few more, and forced all others to give him a wide berth. Story was, the mine owner didn't know how to get rid of him now that he was no longer needed.

Colt surmised that much from the bits and pieces of hushed conversation going on behind him. He also heard a number of disparaging remarks about himself, but nothing he hadn't heard before. He'd been called every foul, dirty name there was, so he had to be in a damned ornery mood to take exception to insults that were second nature to the white man when an Indian was around.

It was what he'd been looking for today, those in-sults. His mood was certainly ornery enough. But folks this far south didn't know what to make of him. They took him for a half-breed, but they'd never seen one so tall, or mean-looking, or with a Colt Peace-maker riding his hip. Things like that tended to make a man think twice before opening his mouth — unless he was a young kid with delusions of omnipotence who'd let a few lucky draws go to his head.

Colt had kept his antagonist waiting about ten min-utes now, which was why the customers remaining in the saloon were gradually becoming less wary of him. Riley's shouted "What're ya waitin' on, breed? Or has that red skin o' your turned yeller?" had drawn a few snickers from the room, but outright guffaws from the kid's two sidekicks, a couple of cowboys who had been egging him on from the beginning, and both had followed him outside.

Colt's eyes met those of the barkeep's. The man was slowly wiping a glass with a dirty rag. There was contempt in his red-rimmed eyes, mixed with a good deal of sneering pleasure, making his sentiments only too clear. He figured the taunt was true, that Colt would likely be begging for the direction of the back door as soon as he got up the nerve. He figured a half-breed wouldn't have the guts to face a man down, that it wouldn't be his style. Backstabbing and ambushing were all a breed was good for.

So let him think it. What the hell did Colt care what a barkeep thought, or any of them for that mat-ter?

They were all waiting to see him gunned down, hoping to see it. The loudmouthed Riley might be feared and despised in this town, but today he would be applauded if he managed to take down a presump-tuous breed.

Colt drained his glass again, then, to match actions to feelings, tossed it to the barkeep. Unprepared, the man dropped the one he'd been cleaning to catch it. Satisfied to hear the glass break and the man snarl, Colt shoved away from the bar and headed toward the entrance. Chairs toppled over in the customers'

haste to follow him, but feet came to a skidding halt when he paused just beyond the swinging doors to locate his quarry.

Shade had enticed Riley across the street, where he was lounging against a hitching rail with his two friends. The covered boardwalks on both sides of the street were already filling with eager spectators drawn by Riley's earlier taunt.

The young man had to be nudged to notice Colt's arrival, and he grinned before straightening, making some comment that brought chuckles from his friends. He then walked toward the center of the wide street, slow confidence in his stride.

A muscle jerked in Colt's jaw as he ground his teeth in disgust. He wondered if the good townsfolk would call for a lynching if he happened to kill their resident asshole. Probably. Fair fight or not, white folks didn't like seeing a half-breed defeat one of their own.

At the moment, he didn't particularly care, but he had no intention of killing the kid when this wasn't the kind of fight he'd been courting. Someone else could have that distinction. Of course, if the show-off died accidentally by getting in the way of one of his bullets.

Colt tipped his hat back until it dropped behind to hang from the neck strap. He'd once had one pushed forward into his eyes by the wind, at just the wrong moment. He'd be dead now if the other guy hadn't been such a lousy shot.

"Now what're ya waitin' on?" Riley called impa-tiently from his position in the middle of the street.

"You that anxious to die?"

Riley thought that was funny. So did his friends. So did a number of spectators.

"That ain't no bow an' arrow you're packin', breed, or ain't ya noticed?"

This time the kid bent over double, he laughed so hard at his own sally. There was backslapping and eye-wiping going on on both sides of the street as just about everyone present joined in his humor — except the Spaniard.

Colt noticed Alonzo as he moved out into the street, then the Scot standing with him. So some of her peo-ple were present. It made no difference. They were merely spectators like the rest. And yet his eyes sud-denly ^scanned the covered boardwalks — and found her, that bright beacon of red hair hard to miss as she ran toward Alonzo.

Shit! Now he was pissed, well and truly pissed! He wondered who he had to thank for her presence, and when she stopped by the Spaniard, he knew. The look he gave the swarthy man promised retribution, but Alonzo, reading that look correctly, merely shrugged.

Looking at the duchess was out of the question. Colt gave his attention back to Riley, his indifference gone, his anger on the edge of exploding. If she tried to interfere…

Jocelyn was about to do just that. She took in the situation at a glance, understood that the two men standing out there in the street were at any moment going to start shooting at each other, and she couldn't allow it to happen. She knew firsthand how skillful Colt was with his revolver, but what if his young op-ponent was as equally skilled? She couldn't take the chance.

But as she lifted her skirt to step down into the street, Alonzo caught her arm and whispered near her ear, "If you distract him now, he is dead. The mo-ment his eyes turn to you, and they will, the young Riley will take advantage and draw his weapon. Had you come sooner you might have stopped it, but now is too late."

"But…" She bit her lip in indecision, staring at Colt. How could she watch and do nothing, when he might be wounded or worse?

But it really was too late to interfere. Even as she looked toward Colt's opponent to assess his readi-ness, the young man was reaching for his gun.

It all happened so fast, it was no wonder the spec-tators were collectively drawing in gasps of awe.

Colt's gun was already in his hand and aimed at his opponent. The young man, his hand only just grip-ping his own weapon, still holstered, stared incredu-lously and didn't move so much as another inch.

He looked rather sick. He obviously wasn't sure what to do now, whether to concede the fight or to take his chances and still draw. It was the silence of Colt's gurs that made him so undecided.

Colt wasn't waiting for him to make up his mind. With slow, purposeful strides he closed the distance between them until the nozzle of his Peacemaker came to rest against Riley's trembling belly. Riley had bro-ken out in a sweat by then, afraid to look down for fear he would see the trigger being squeezed, afraid to look anywhere but into those hard blue eyes that had never wavered from his.

Colt smelled his fear, saw it, but he wasn't feeling very merciful at the moment. "We tried it your way, you loudmouthed son of a bitch," he hissed low, so only Riley would hear him. "Now you'll accommodate me."

With that Colt removed the gun from Riley's belly, arched it to the left, and brought it across Riley's face in a backhanded swing. The kid went stumbling to the side, and when he touched his hand to his cheek, it came away bloody. He didn't understand. He still didn't, even when Colt holstered his gun and stood there waiting, fingers flexing.

Riley's friends didn't understand either, but they weren't so doubtful about what to do. One reached for his gun. Simultaneously, Alonzo reached for his knife, and Robbie took a step forward. Neither man's assistance was necessary, however, or noted by Colt. He had been keeping Riley's friends in his sights, and out came his gun again, this time to fire.

The bullet struck metal. The cowboy dropped his revolver to the ground with a cry, his fingers numb.

The other one spread his arms wide and backed away, unwilling to take Colt on by himself.

Again Colt put his gun away and locked eyes with Riley, who hadn't dared to move even with Colt's attention momentarily directed elsewhere. "Come on, kid, I ain't got all day."

"Come — come on what?"

"You wanted a piece of me. Come and take it."

Riley took a step back instead, his eyes flaring with alarm. "You mean fight you? But you're bigger'n me!"

"My size didn't stop you from shoving insults down my throat, did it?"

"So I made a mistake, mister. Whyn't we forget it, huh?"

Colt slowly shook his head. "I'd rather beat the shit out of you."

Riley took another step back, his eyes like saucers now. "Would — would you shoot me in the back?"

Colt scowled at that fool question. "No."

"Glad to hear it," Riley gulped out and took off down the street.

For a moment Colt simply stared at his fleeing back with a mixture of surprise and exasperation. He'd had men back down from gunfights before when he'd got-ten the draw on them, but they'd never turned tail and run when he'd offered them another out so save face, especially with so many witnesses present.

Witnesses usually made all the difference in the way a man re-acted, turning cowards into brave men, even if those brave men knew they'd end up being dead men.

He could have dropped a few bullets into the dust around those running feet, but since he doubted that would bring Riley back to face him, he didn't bother. He turned away in disgust instead, oblivious to the murmurings of many spectators who were experienc-ing a full gamut of reactions, from shocked amazement to bitter disappointment to jeering contempt for Riley's cowardice. But mostly they were wondering aloud who Colt was.

It was going to be a source of frustration for the storytellers of the town that they were doomed to never learn his name, for who in their right mind would dare to ask him outright after what they had just witnessed, and there was no one else willing to supply the answer. Jocelyn certainly wasn't, though she heard the question several times on her way back to the hotel. Nor would her people volunteer his name, accustomed as they were to keeping a low pro-file.

But overhearing a scorn-filled "He's a savage. What else is there to know?" in answer to the same ques-tion, brought Jocelyn up short.

Already upset from the scare she had just experienced, as well as frustrated that Colt had disappeared into the crowd before she could speak to him, she turned to the well-dressed young man whose remark managed to rub her on the raw.

"How dare you, sir!" she lit into him without pre-amble, to the surprise of both the man and his companion, as well as of Robbie and Alonzo, who were close behind her. "They went out into the street to kill each other. That neither is dead is the mark of a civilized man, not a savage."

Feeling a good deal better for having vented a small portion of her anger on the hapless stranger, even though it was Colt she really wanted to upbraid for his careless risk-taking, she marched on without the least notion of the agitation she left behind.

"Nice going, Miles, or hasn't it dawned on you yet that by that accent of hers, it's a safe bet to say you've just offended Lady Fleming herself?"

The sarcasm, delivered so scathingly, put Miles Dryden on the defensive. "Well, how was I to know?

The way the countess spoke of her, I was expecting a raving beauty." And then he groaned. "A redhead, and a skinny one at that! I'll never be able to go through with it."

Maura, clinging possessively to his arm, was mollified at hearing that. Personally, she thought the duchess was stunning, but for a moment she had forgotten that Miles wouldn't think so. She knew from experience that his preference in women ran to wellshaped blondes such as herself. The older countess was likely to give her more cause for worry than the younger duchess.

"You'll do just fine, sugar, 'cause it looks like this is the one we've been dreaming about. A real English duchess, traveling just for pleasure, and in such style. She's got to be rich as sin."

"So you said the last time," Miles grumbled.

Maura didn't care for that reminder. "The widow Ames never lied about all her children being dead. She just failed to mention there were seventeen grandchildren patiently waiting to pick her estate apart. So they bought you off with a worthless silver mine that got us stranded in this godforsaken place. At least they never questioned the old lady's death."

"But she was old. This one's young."

"We won't use poison this time to make you a widower again. An accident will do just as well."

"And I suppose I'll have to see to it?"

She was getting tired of his negative attitude. "I took care of your last two wives, sugar. I'd say it's your turn. Of course, if you'd rather find me a hus-band instead…"

"Bitch," he growled jealously, as she knew he would. "The day you even look at another man I'll break your pretty neck."

"Now, now, love, I was only teasing." She grinned up at him. "You know very well I've been faithful to you since the day we met. Besides, I could never do what you do so well. I have enough trouble just pre-tending to be your sister."

"That was your idea, not mine. This whole lousy scheme has been your idea. 'Marry a rich widow, sugar, and you can give up your gambling,' " he mimicked in a high falsetto.

Maura's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Your cheat-ing, you mean, which got us run out of one town after another. And you jumped on the idea, if I recall."

"That was before the first wife wasn't rich enough to suit you and you decided she had to die so we could try again. and again. and again."

"All right!" she snapped. "So all four of them turned out to be bad choices. But this time is going to be different, I just know it is."

"It's already different, Maura, or have you forgotten how young this widow is? I'll likely have to work twice as hard to win her over, and even then my suc-cess isn't a foregone conclusion. This could be a total waste of time and effort."

"Not quite, love. We still have that other option to fall back on if the lady doesn't succumb to your fatal charm. But my money is on you. After all, I know how irresistible you can be when you really try. You won me heart and soul, didn't you?"