Wild Country

kill.'

'They're Jer's men more'n his daddy's,' Concannon said.

'That's a fact,' added Mul Garner. 'My mistake. At least give me the Colt, Jer.” Jerome made that one small concession, dropping the nickel-plated sidearm onto a chair cushion.

In another time, Quantrill would have forced the issue then and there, in the room, which offered several advantages. But the parlor would have ended as a shambles. He waved the big man ahead of him. 'I'd hate to get shot coming out the door,' he said.

Jerome Garner marched out to the dimly lit porch, pulling thin leather gloves from a hip pocket. They gave him still another advantage. The two men outside turned expectantly. He let the main door swing open, held the frame of the exterior screen door until Quantrill was passing through, then kicked the frame hard.

Ted Quantrill would have been surprised if that door hadn't been used as a weapon. He moved sideways, with a sudden change of pace so that the wooden frame banged harmlessly shut, and let his shoulders slide along the stone wall.

Jerome was already hurtling forward to catch his victim staggering from the door, off-balance as he swung one pointed boot at groin height.

Quantrill was not there; the wall was. A working waddie has low broad heels for everyday wear, but Jerome was more rider than worker and fancied the tapered high boot heels that added two inches to a man's elevation. As one boot caromed off the limestone wall, he bent backward to catch his balance. In that position, wearing 'show-off boots, he could be literally spun on one narrow heel. Quantrill's caulked sole caught the big man behind his lifted thigh, began the spin Jerome himself had set in motion; kept it going with an elbow in his kidney.

Jerome Garner grunted, fell sidelong, and Quantrill elected not to follow him down. The truth is, Quantrill hoped to put Garner out of action with a kick to the solar plexus. Garner had made it clear that his only rule was 'win,' starting with a flung cigar, and he started out on his home turf with huge advantages in height, weight, and reach. In Quantrill's position, it was a disadvantage even knowing how to spell Marquis of Queensbury.

But Jerome anticipated that kick, rolled to the steps, saw that he was clear, and bounced up without a pause. Now he took a boxer's stance. Left-handed. Quantrill recalled that Garner had snaked the forty-five out of its holster with his right; as a wrong-hander himself, he knew the devastating effectiveness of an unexpected change-up. Yet Garner was not especially quick.

'You're no southpaw,' Quantrill said, breaking his usual rule about silence in a fight, and made himself smile. Garner's only reply was to shift into a comfortable right-handed stance, sticking his left out, but he did it without haste. That was what the smaller man had hoped.

Quantrill was in and under that left guard instantly, its wrist gripped in his own left hand, his knees bent, right shoulder down to belt level, his right foot planted between Garner's as he turned away, straightened his legs, and lifted on the man's belt. Garner's right fist caught him hard behind the ear, but the big man's feet were high in the air by this time.

Quantrill kept his hold, forming a pivot over which Garner flew, and helped his momentum by pushing off with both feet. Garner hit the porch flat on his back with a splintering crash, the smaller man flipping over with him, Quantrill's right hand sinking into his enemy's belly with most of his weight behind it. Most men would have been paralyzed by this blow to the solar plexus.

But Quantrill, trying to continue his roll, felt his hair grabbed in a big paw; was flung into the stone wall face first. He heard and felt the septum crunch; it was not the first time Quantrill's nose had been broken — but it was not a thing you got used to.

Without looking, Quantrill pushed away from the wall with both hands, dodging to one side. That is why Garner's kick, with both feet, only propelled him farther and spasmed his thigh muscle instead of breaking his leg. Quantrill went down on one knee, stuck the other leg out to quell the horrendous cramp, then watched Garner struggle to his feet, doubled over, mouth open as he fought to breathe. The big man needed another ten seconds before his diaphragm would draw air but mustered the energy for another rush, trying to drive Quantrill off the porch into the tangle of rose thickets. One hand still across his belly, Garner flung the other gloved fist in a sweeping backhand that might have shattered a man's jaw.

To give Garner his due, he had never faced an opponent whose synapses were off the normal scale of human responses. Quantrill rolled onto his back, lashed out savagely with his good leg, and caught Garner at the upper end of his shinbone. It was a miss, for Quantrill was starting to think in terms of permanent disabling techniques and had aimed at his kneecap. It was not a miss that Garner could enjoy much. With his first gasping intake of breath in too long, the big man reeled, both arms wide to keep his balance. Quantrill came up squatting, leaped up to plant one foot for a disabling kick, and ducked as a clod of hard dirt whizzed past his face to spatter against limestone.

He would never know who threw the clod; only that Mul Garner stood in the doorway shouting, 'Next man who interferes can draw his wages!'

With a growling whine of desperation, the younger Garner used this tiny lapse of Quantrill's concentration, falling on him with a bear hug. Quantrill felt his feet leave the porch, butted upward against the big man's chin, and felt himself swung in a great arc as one would swing a child. When his feet struck the limestone wall he simply pushed away with all his strength. Nor did he quit butting under Garner's jaw.

Then they were toppling into the rose brambles, Garner taking most of the punishment. The stuff rustled and snapped like brittle cables, driving a thousand hard spikes through cloth into their flesh as they struggled. Neither could complete a telling blow with fists, for the thorns made any sudden movement a tug of war. But Quantrill had the advantage in that the top of his head was in position to repeatedly ram under the fine manly jaw of Jerome Garner, and he rang the Garner chimes until Jerome's mouth was bleeding worse than Quantrill's nose. But the Garner clan seemed to have more stamina than sense. Jerome kept struggling.

Long ago, Quantrill had been taught to figure ways to make anything — absolutely anything — into a weapon. Now, seeing a thick rope of rose stalk sag between his face and Garner's, he managed to grip it; thrust it against the big man's throat and jerked.

Jerome Garner howled like something trapped in a cave; drew another breath.

In that intake of breath Quantrill said, 'Give it up.'

Garner, in a crying rage: 'Fuckyouman,' but he was no longer slugging against Quantrill's skull.

Quantrill, pierced in a hundred places by thorns, felt as if attacked by hornets, though it hurt worse to grasp that inch-thick rose stalk. He knew Garner must be feeling the same agonies, but, 'Call it quits,' Quantrill said between clenched teeth, 'or I'll saw your god-damned head off.'

It was exactly the kind of wild exaggeration needed for a man of Jerome Garner's excesses. His hoarse sobs might have been two-thirds fury, but through them he said, 'I quit, then get off me yougoddamsumbitch, YOU HEAR?'

Quantrill released the thick stalk with some difficulty; it had driven thorns into his hand in a dozen places. Silently, letting young Garner make enough noise for the both of them, he half crawled, half tumbled onto packed dirt that had once been covered with grass. He pulled at Jerome's shirt, saw his friends hurrying near, and stepped back saying, 'Help yourself, the hell with it.'

Cam Concannon had moved to the steps to monitor the fight's last moments. Old Mul Garner still stood near the doorway without expression until Jerome began his litany as his waddies moved in.

'Little fucker's a trained killer, lookoutformyface!'

Mumbling: 'Let go my hair, Jer.'

'I know when I'm suckered into a fight. Just wait. Now pull, no don't, shitfire anyhow!'

Quantrill hobbled farther into the glow of the porch light, trying to extract thorns from his palms with his teeth.

From the old rancher on the porch: 'Cam, take the man wherever he needs to go. Rocksprings clinic, if need be. I'll pay, but I don't want to see him again. Ever.'

But by now Jerome was extracted from the rose thicket, and his tears were one hundred percent pustulating fury.

'Cocksuckin' deputy tried to plain kill me, gonna saw my head off! No knee-high pissant does that to me on my own land. Fill my hand, Billy Ray,' he said, hobbling as badly as Quantrill and spitting