Savage Thunder

Chapter Nine

“I’ll get it," Billy called and bounded off the bed, where he had been stretched out watching Colt shave off the few errant whiskers that he was in too much of a hurry to pluck out, as was his custom.

But before Billy's hand touched the doorknob, he heard the distinctive sound of the hammer being pulled back on Colt's revolver and knew he had blun-dered once again. You just didn't open your door in a town where trouble was anticipated, not without finding out who was knocking first, or as Colt had done behind him, being prepared for any possibility. And Billy Clanton hadn't left town yet. Though it was unlikely he had tracked Billy down to this lodging house, it wasn't impossible.

He thought Colt would lash into him again as he had last night when Billy forgot to lock the door of the room they shared, but he was obviously in a better mood this morning. "Go ahead," was all he said after Billy hesitated at the door. "Just stay out of the line of fire.'.'

Billy swallowed once at that advice before unlock-ing the door and swinging it open wide, keeping himself behind it. When he had been on his own, he hadn't worried about such things, hadn't looked for danger around every corner. To do so was a lesson

Jessie had taught him, but one he had conveniently forgotten this trip west. It was a wonder he had survived to get this far.

But this was one time caution was apparently un-necessary. There were two men out in the hall, nei-ther of them young Clanton, and both immobilized by the clear view they had of Colt across the room with a gun trained on them, wearing nothing but his pants and his knee-high moccasins. That Colt immediately turned to slip the gun back in the holster hooked over the washstand made Billy wonder, until he too recognized those red jackets. The men still hadn't spoken, however, even though they were no longer Ipoking down the barrel of a Colt.45, but that was understandable. The gun might have startled them, but a glimpse of Colt's back when he turned to put it away had rendered them speechless.

It wouldn't do for Colt to know that, though. If anything could make him spitting mad, it was having his scars looked at with horror. Jessie said it had a lot to do with pride in that he didn't want anyone knowing about the kind of pain he had to have suf-fered to have a back that looked like his did. Whatever it was, Billy knew how defensive-mean he could get if he detected even the slightest empathy coming his way.

He'd rather be hated than pitied.

Billy stepped out from behind the door, forcing the two men to look at him instead of Colt. Dredging up his manners, he asked pleasantly, "Can we help you with something, gentlemen?"

The taller of the two was Billy's height but looked more Colt's age, with chestnut hair cropped short and eyes about the same shade. He was still disconcerted by what he'd seen when he answered with the ques-tion, "I say, you wouldn't happen to be Colt Thunder, would you?"

It was asked so hopefully Billy couldn't help grin-ning. "Afraid not."

The two redcoats glanced at each other, their dis-comfort palpable, but then the taller man said, "Didn't think so, but — well, never mind, then." He leaned to the side to get another glance at Colt before straightening and saying with more force, "We've a message for your mate, if he's Mr. Thunder."

Billy's grin widened. He couldn't resist repeating the way he knew Colt hated being addressed. "Mr.

Thunder, they're here for you."

"I heard, but I'm not interested."

Billy swung around, no longer amused, to see Colt shrugging into his shirt. Colt might not be interested, but Billy was damn curious, knowing full well who the message had to be from.

"Ah, come on, Colt, it's just a message. It wouldn't hurt you to at least hear it."

Colt came forward, his expression inscrutable, though Billy recognized the subtle signs of impatience when he saw them. Colt hadn't bothered to button his shirt, just tucking it into his pants. That both pants and shirt were black might account for the two Englishmen taking a wary step back when Colt filled the doorway, but it probably had more to do with his intimidating height and size.

"Let's hear it," he demanded curtly.

The taller fellow cleared his throat, still apparently the spokesman for the two. "Her Grace, the Duchess Dowager of Eaton, requests the honor of your—"

"The what?" Colt interrupted at the same time Billy swore, "Christ, an English duchess!"

Colt gave Billy a sharp look. "What the hell's a duchess?"

"You mean you don't. no, of course you wouldn't. how could you—?"

"Just spit it out, kid, before you choke on it."

Billy flushed, but he was too excited to be subdued. "A duchess is a member of the English nobility, the wife of a duke. The nobility of England have different degrees of importance — barons, earls, and such. A comparison would be your minor chiefs and war lead-ers. But you can't get any more important than a duke or duchess, unless you're a member of the royal family."

Colt frowned, but directed the expression at the two messengers. "That right, what he says?"

"Close enough," the spokesman replied, deciding estate size and degree of influence weren't worth mentioning when all he wanted was to get out of there. "But as I was saying, Mr. Thunder, Her Grace requests the honor of your presence this noontime at the Mais — Maisy—"

"Maison Doree," his nondescript companion sup-plied in a whisper.

"Right you are, the Maison Dor6e Restaurant."

When the man finished, he smiled. Colt looked at Billy, who was grinning widely again. "She wants to meet you for lunch," he explained.

"No," Colt said simply and started to turn away.

"Wait, Mr. Thunder! In the event you declined the first invitation, I was instructed to extend another. Her Grace would be pleased to receive you in her suite at the Grand Hotel, at your convenience, of course."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not meeting the woman anywhere, at any time. Is that clear enough for you?"

Both men appeared shocked, but not by his refusal, as he found out when the spokesman said, "There are proper modes of address for a duchess, sir. You may refer to her as Her Grace, or Her Ladyship, or even Lady Fleming, but she is never referred to as 'the woman.' It just isn't done, sir."

"I don't believe what I'm hearing," Colt mumbled and did turn away this time. "Get rid of them, Billy."

Billy didn't know whom he was more disappointed in, Colt for his indifference to a genuine duchess — a gorgeous genuine duchess — or her man for his snob-bery. "That wasn't too smart, Mister…"

"Sir Dudley Leland, sir," the redcoat supplied im-portantly. "Second son of the Earl of—"

"Christ, man, you've missed the point, haven't you? You're in America now, and if you'll recall, we fought a war with your ancestors about a hundred years ago to get rid of class distinctions. Your titles might impress the society matrons back East, but they don't mean a thing to a Cheyenne warrior."

"Ah, right you are, sir. Apologies tended. But I've still one more message for your friend there." Billy glanced back to see Colt standing at the single window the room offered, looking down at the vacant lot next to Fly's Lodging House. There was nothing but an assay office beyond, no view to hold anyone's interest, so he knew Colt had heard Sir Dudley. He just wasn't going to acknowledge it.

"Maybe you better give me the message and I'll pass it on," Billy suggested.

Sir Dudley could see well enough that Colt had divorced himself from the conversation and so nod-ded.

He was also aware that Colt could hear him quite well, but he still addressed the message to Billy.

"Her Grace anticipated both invitations might be declined. That being the case, my final instructions are to inform Mr. Thunder that Her Grace has asked, as he suggested, and has received a full report on the prejudices associated with his bloodlines. She wishes him to know that those prejudices are not hers and mean nothing to her. She hopes Mr. Thunder will take that into account and reconsider one of her in-vitations."

That Colt didn't turn around after that mouthful was proof that he wasn't going to reconsider anything.

Billy noted, however, that he was now gripping the windowsill, that his whole body had gone taut.

"I think you have your answer, gentlemen," he said in a lowered tone. "You may inform the duch-ess—"

"Don't put words in my mouth, kid," came from behind Billy in a near snarl. "There's no reply. Now shut the damn door!"

Billy shrugged at the messengers, as if to imply Colt's lack of manners was not his own. But he did shut the door in their faces. And he calmly and si-lently started counting numbers, trying for fifty but getting no farther than ten before exploding, "That was the rudest, lowest, most outrageous behavior I've ever been sorry to witness. And deliberate too, I'll wager. But why, for Christ's sake? You know they're going to report back to her, and. and that's it, isn't it?"

"You talk too much," Colt said as he turned and reached for his gun belt.

Billy shook his head. "You know, I didn't under-stand it yesterday, and I sure as hell don't now. I got a good look at the lady and I felt like I'd been dropped through the boardwalk. She's beautiful—"

"And white," Colt cut in. He finished buckling the belt on and moved for his saddlebags at the foot of the bed.

Billy had gone very still, Colt's behavior suddenly making perfect sense. And he hated it. He had never been able to deal well with Colt's feelings of bitterness, feelings that went back to that painful time when he had almost died. Billy loved his brother, thought there was no man finer, more courageous, more loyal, and so it cut him to the quick when Colt belittled himself, taking the attitude of those ignorant, preju-diced whites who put him on a par with the scum of the earth.

"Did I miss something? I could have sworn I heard that the lady doesn't give a damn what kind of blood flows in your veins."

"She's feeling beholden, Billy," Colt replied in an even tone. "That's all there is to it."

"Is it? That's why you were so mean-tempered rude to her lackeys? You just don't want her gratitude?

And that's why she's so eager to meet you again, just to express that gratitude? Be serious, Colt—"

"I am. I'm letting you keep your teeth. Now take yourself down to the O.K. Livery and collect our horses. I'll meet you out on the street in fifteen min-utes. If we ride fast enough, we can make Benson for a late lunch."

Yeah, and kill our horses, Billy grouched to himself. Since it was almost noon already, and Benson was a good twenty miles north, that was probably just what they'd do. No, he was being unfair. Colt would never take a bad mood out on his horse. But he was damn determined to quit Tombstone and fast.

Before the duchess came up with some other way to see him?

Colt had already left the room to settle the bill, so Billy gathered up his things and went out the back way to do as he'd been told. The stable wasn't far. Camillus S. Fly had a photographic gallery at the back of his lodging house, and the O.K. Livery and Corral was behind that, right in the center of the square, accessible from any vacant lot along 3rd and 4th streets, or Fremont and Allen.

Billy was back on Fremont with time to spare, but without the horses, as Colt noticed when he stepped out of Fly's Lodging House. "Now don't look at me like that," Billy protested quickly. "My horse threw a shoe just as I was walking her out. It'll only take a couple hours—"

"A couple?"

"The smith's busy," Billy explained. "That was his estimate, not mine. So what do you say to an early lunch instead, and I'll challenge you to a few games of billiards over at Bob Hatch's on Allen Street."

"You're just asking for trouble, aren't you, kid?" Colt replied, but his expression wasn't half as dark as it had been earlier.

"I don't think we'll run into young Clanton, if that's what you mean." Billy grinned. "Fact is, I just heard his brother Dee was buffaloed by one of the Earp brothers this morning, then hauled before the judge and fined. It must have been Wyatt. They say he has a fondness for bending his gun barrel around hard heads. Billy has probably taken his brother back to their ranch by now. So where would you like to eat?

The Maison Doree?"

Colt's answer was a soft kick to Billy's backside.