“Fight fair, you son of a bitch!” Jake spoke through his ruined mouth, the words mushy, pushing past torn lips.
“No such thing, Campo,” Ben told him. “Just a winner and a loser.”
Jake rushed Ben, scrambling to his feet. Ben stepped aside and the man ran headfirst into a tree, splitting his head wide open. Blood stained the man’s face, pouring from his badly mangled head.
Ben picked up a wrist-sized stick from the ground and brought it down hard on Campo’s back, the force of the blow driving the man to the ground.
“Seems like I ain’t been able to do nothing right the past few months,” Jake said. He suddenly rolled and came up with a knife in his hand.
Ben had never lost his savage, cold grin. He pulled his .45 from leather, cocked it, and began pulling the trigger. One in the chamber, six in the clip. He put all seven rounds in the big man’s chest, each round knocking the huge man backward. Jake Campo, outlaw, self-styled warlord, died with his bloody eyes wide open and staring.
“That’s three for Jordy,” Ben said.
Chapter 38
The warm spell broke on the third day, with winter locking Ben and Rani in. Before the new snows came, the pair had worked, dragging off the bodies of the dead outlaws and dumping them into a deep ravine, shoveling dirt and gravel over them.
Now, as the cold winds howled around the snug little cabin in the deep woods, and the snow piled up around them, they sat in front of a fire and played chess.
With Rani regularly beating Ben.
“I don’t know how you’re doing it,” Ben grumbled. “But you’re cheating. I just know you are.”
Rani laughed at him. “Checkmate,” she said.
“Crap!” Ben said.
“How did you learn to fight like you did, Ben?” she asked. “The way you fought Jake Campo.”
“There is no such thing as a fair fight, Rani. Not outside the ring. I’ve never believed in those so-called fair fights. One goes in to win. Period. The trick is knowing you’re right and sticking by your convictions.”
“Did you always fight like that, Ben. I mean, even when things were … normal?”
“Yes,” he said, putting away the board and getting a deck of cards. “Strip poker, maybe?” he grinned.
“You’re going to look awfully funny sitting there on the cold floor, stark naked.”
“You have a point.” He put away the cards.
“Were you a loner as a boy, Ben?”
Ben wore a reflective look for a moment. “Yes. I guess I was. I never followed the usual drummer. I think I marched to my own beat even when it was socially unacceptable. Looking back, I guess I really enjoyed being alone. I know I did. I tried not to bother anyone, and didn’t want anybody bothering me. Didn’t always work that way, though.”
She was curious about this man, this founder of the Tri-States, the man that so many chose to follow. “You had a normal childhood, though?”
Ben laughed at her serious expression. “Oh, sure. I played baseball and basketball. But I never took them very seriously. How does one take a game seriously? I spent most of my time working and chasing girls.”
“Were you successful?” she asked, a twinkle in her green eyes.
“Well, I spent more time working than catching the girls,” he admitted.
“But you caught your share of the girls?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Looking back, I’ll have to say I did. I wasn’t a jock, so that was a definite minus for me. But I had a happy, very normal childhood, I guess. I’ve never been a person who sought many material things, Rani. I’ve always been content with just enough to get by, and perhaps a tiny bit more. I never cared much for a lot of pomp. I was never a joiner. Never belonged to a country club; never cared much what people thought of me. Like I said, I guess I marched to the beat of another drummer.”
“Where have I heard that before?”’
“Henry David Thoreau,” Ben said, his memory working hard to recall the line. “I didn’t agree with all that Thoreau said, but I loved much of it.”
“Say it.”
“The line?”
“Yes.”
“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”
She looked at the man for a long moment. “I guess that fits you rather well, Ben.”
“I guess it does, Rani.”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
“Be sure, Rani.”
“I’m sure, Ben.”
“Yes. I guess I am, too.”
The days spun and drifted and wound into weeks, while the two in the cabin grew closer, mentally, emotionally, and physically. To them, it was as if the world gone mad around them did not exist. They built snowmen, had snowball fights, explored, and fell in love.
January drifted into February and February became March, but Ben and Rani really didn’t notice the passing months. March whispered into April, then began roaring with the last major winter storm of the season. As the storm abated, howling eastward to blow itself out, Rani lay in Ben’s arms before the fireplace. Both of them were nearly asleep.
Rani stirred and said, “It’ll be full spring soon, Ben.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hadn’t we better be thinking about pulling out pretty soon?”
Ben opened his eyes and looked around. “Did you hear anything?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. It was an … well, it wasn’t a natural sound for the woods.”
“You’re imagining things, old man.”
“I guess so. About pulling out. Where do you want to go?”
“You have to start making plans about setting up those outposts, right?”
Ben groaned and stretched. “Don’t remind me of that, please.”
“And you have to start thinking about your plans for the Russian and Hartline, right?”’
“Yes, dear.”
There was that noise again. Ben cut his eyes toward the door. He was sure the mutants knew they were in the deep woods, but so far none had shown any willingness to attack.
Was that a mutant out there? Ben wasn’t sure.
He listened. The noise-whatever it was-was not repeated.
Ben looked at his watch. Two o’clock in the afternoon. The winds had ceased, and the temperature was once more on the rise. He looked at Rani. She was looking at the closed cabin door.
“Something wrong?” Ben asked.
“Something’s out there, Ben,” she whispered. “And it isn’t an animal.”
Ben pulled on his boots and picked up his .45, jacking back the hammer. “I’ll go have a look around.”
The cabin door splintered open. Men filled the room. Ben cleared the room of the invaders, the booming of the .45 almost deafening in the closed space. Ben didn’t know these men; they weren’t outlaws, for they were dressed in military field clothes, and they were disciplined.
Ben felt the shock as a bullet struck him in the left shoulder, knocking him backward. He fell heavily and grabbed his Thompson. Holding it one-handed, he pulled the trigger.
The heavy weapon bucked and roared in his hand. The slugs knocked and tore great chunks of wood out of the walls and ceiling. It also cleared the doorway of uniformed men, splattering blood and brains and bits of bone all over the porch and small yard.
