need with this bitch.'
'Let her go,' says Holt again. 'Just let her go and ride away and we'll ride away, too. No reports, no cops, no nothing. Just a little misunderstanding between men. You want money, I've got enough to make it worth your while. There's a thousand easy right here in my wallet.'
'Ah, shutup you old woman,' snaps Skinny.
Titisi vomits. Randell has taken a knee beside him and has hand on the big man's shoulder, but he stands back up and hops away a step as the puke jets into the gravel.
The man in the truck seems frozen.
Holt takes another desperate look toward Lane Fargo, who doesn't seem to have moved one inch. He hears Valerie whimper again, and turns to see her struggling with Skinny, then Skinny yanking her to face Holt, the wide shining blade of the knife up high now, where the throat meets the chin. Then Holt realizes that Valerie's tormentor isn't brandishing her for him at all, but for the stupefied young man in the pickup. 'Drive the fuck out of here! This is just a little family dispute. Get out, faggot!' yells Skinny. To Holt's absolute astonishment, the truck driver nods agreeably, shifts his truck into reverse and looks over his shoulder to back out. An irrational surge of hatred fills Holt as his last potential savior-Valerie's last potential savior-begins to ease his truck backward. In fact, the driver is so shaken he pops the clutch and stalls the engine.
What happens next occurs so quickly and chaotically that Vann Holt does little but watch.
CHAPTER 15
The driver's door of the stalled truck burst open and one of the dogs, a very large German shepherd, shot from the cab into the dust of the parking lot. Next came the cowardly Samaritan himself, still wearing the hat, his body cloaked in a long duster jacket. He landed deliberately, then walked around the front of his vehicle, as if going to lift the hood. Instead, he pulled from inside his coat a bright stainless steel revolver and very casually took a two handed shooter's stance, aiming the gun at Skinny and Valerie.
'These bullets are a lot faster than that blade,' he said. 'Let her go.'
Shotgun Biker swiveled his sawed-off away from Holt and toward the Hat Man, but Holt registered a far more urgent motion, something swift and brutal and decisive. The dog was a blur already, just teeth and mouth, airborne toward Shotgun Bike who hip-pivoted his weapon and blasted twice before the torn and shredded dog even hit the ground. The sharp burned smell of gunpowder filled the air and a red mist lowered in the breeze Then Hat Man fired. Holt spun to see Valerie falling one way and Skinny the other, knife mid-air and about eye level, the top of his shoulder ripped apart in a jagged explosion of vest denim t-shirt and blood. Shotgun Biker was fumbling with his spent double-barrel as Hat Man pistol-whipped him to his knees, grabbed the tumbled shotgun and hurled it onto the saloon roof. Holt swirled instinctively to Valerie, who was fleeing into the cafe; then he turned to see Lane Fargo. Fargo was still backed against the truck with his hands up, but Giant was on his bike again, backing it away with his feet, pistol still trained on helpless Fargo, who had squatted, knees bent and ready for whatever it was he wanted to do. Giant fired two rounds just past Lane's side, pocking the red Land Rover with flat, metallic bangs, sending Fargo back against the truck hard, his eyes fierce and wide. Hat Man spun to his left and took aim at the biker with the chain, who was frantically trying to kick his Harley back to life. For a second it looked as if he would belly-shoot the grunting biker, but instead Hat Man took four long strides to Skinny and jammed the barrel of the revolver into his face, forcing him to his knees. He kicked away the big bowie knife. The dog hadn't moved but the pool of blood around it seeped leisurely into the sand. Suddenly, Giant boomed across the lot on his bike, one hand on the throttle and his other-without a firearm now- lifted in a placating gesture at Hat Man. Hat Man aimed his revolver at the Giant, then back at Skinny. 'Enough, man-you got it,' growled Giant. Hat Man gave him a curt nod but kept the gun pointed at him, letting him pass by and stop next to Skinny, who, clutching his shoulder and climbing onto the back of Giant's Harley, cast Hat Man a look of purest hatred. 'You'll see me again, fancy faggot,' he hissed, glancing down at the dog. 'Enjoy dinner.' Then, in a booming symphony, the three hogs and their drivers and one pale, bleeding passenger bounced onto the highway and accelerated away with a low-pitched moan of horsepower, fury and defeat.
The man knelt over his dog, running a hand along its lifeless flank. He had set his hat on the ground, and placed his revolver in the crown.
Vann Holt ran past the Olie's waitress, standing on the wooden deck of the restaurant, then disappeared through the swinging doors.
Valerie stood just a few feet away, looking through a dusty window, with a huge kitchen knife in her hand. The color had drained from her face, which was splattered with Skinny's blood. To Holt, it looked like ink on snow. Her hair was drenched in sweat.
'Oh, God, honey,' said Holt, wrapping his big arms around her. 'Are you all right?'
'I'm okay, Daddy. I'm okay.' The knife hit the floor.
'Are you sure you're all right?'
'Who is he?'
'You're sure, absolutely sure you're not hurt?'
'The second I pushed that pig away, he shot him.'
'Let's go outside. Can you walk outside?'
'I told you I'm okay, Daddy. I just feel kind of… sticky.'
The cook emerged from the kitchen with a. 30/06 rifle and a wild look on his face. He was a fat man with a rim of gray hair around his face and head, florid cheeks, and a clean white apron
'What the hell?'
'It's over,' said Holt. 'Put the gun down.'
'I'll call the Sheriffs.'
'We already did-the CB,' Holt lied. It was a given for him that the police would confuse rather than clarify things.
'Ambulance?'
'Nobody's hurt.'
'She's not hurt? She's bleeding, you know.'
Holt gave the chef a withering look. All of his native authority, not to mention his frustration, fear and anger, came rushing back now, and he saw by the cook's eager nod that he had no intention of calling an ambulance.
He eased Valerie back into the bright October sunlight where he ordered the waitress, forcefully, to get some coffee ready for the sherrifs. Only now did he register the frantic yapping from the Land Rovers-three springers vaulted into excitement by the gunshots.
Titisi and Randell had gathered themselves to stare, somewhat bewildered, at the man and his dog.
Lane Fargo stood midway between the fallen hero and the restaurant, his pistol drawn. A consuming selfconsciousness emanated from him: his face was bright red, his eyes uncertain. He watched Holt and Valerie descend the steps to the parking lot unwilling to look either his boss or his boss's daughter in the eye as they approached.
'Mr. Holt, I think we could run them down in the Rovers.'
'No.'
'There's not much out there but clean highway.'
'No. Settle the dogs down, Lane. See if those bullet wrecked my gas tank.'
'I'm thinking we should get off stage before the cops come.'
'Check the dogs and trucks, Lane.'
'Yes, sir.'
Valerie left her father's side to approach the man still kneeling in the dust beside his dog.
'Can I help you put him in your truck?'
He didn't look at her. 'Sure. Thanks.'
'Thank you. Oh, Jesus in heaven-thank you.'
Holt approached, somehow larger now than he was a few moments earlier, and offered his hand to the kneeling man. 'My name is Vann Holt.'
