Without a second thought, Duke ran to the door, kicked it open then dashed into the room. A naked woman on the bed screamed as Duke rushed right by her to the broken window. He leaned through the shattered glass to look down to the ground below. If the man the bartender called Frank had jumped through the window, Duke should still be able to see him.
But Frank had not jumped out. The broken window was a ruse, and Frank was waiting in the corner. With a smile of triumph, he started toward Duke. At that moment Duke sensed someone coming up behind him. He spun around just in time to see a man charging toward him, holding his gun as a club. The man had a ferocious expression on his face, but as the prostitute downstairs had said, it was impossible to tell which of the two glaring eyes was looking at him.
Because Duke turned around in time, he was able to deflect some but not all of Frank’s blow. The gun butt missed his head, but it did hit him, with tremendous force, on the shoulder. The crushing blow sent jolts of pain into his neck, his shoulder, and down his arm to the tips of his fingers. The fingers grew numb and he lost his grip on his pistol. The gun slid out of his hand, and he heard it clatter to the floor.
Frank had the advantage of surprise and the momentum of the first blow. Duke went down under his onslaught. With Duke weaponless and flat on his back, Frank put his knee on Duke’s chest, then raised his pistol, intending to use it as a club for the killing blow.
Duke’s right hand was still numb, but he felt around on the floor with his left hand, trying to find his pistol. Unable to find the pistol, he managed to wrap his fingers around a long shard of glass from the broken windowpane. Reacting quickly, he brought his left hand up, then across, in a slashing motion. The razor-sharp glass shard sliced open Frank’s abdomen, dis emboweling him. Duke felt Frank’s blood and intestines running across his hand. Frank dropped his pistol and put both hands across his belly, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood and spill of intestine.
Duke pushed Frank off of him, then stood up and looked down at him.
“Who are you?” the dying man gasped. “Why did you come after me?”
“My name is Faglier. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Never heard of you.”
“What about True and Edna Faglier? What about Alice Faglier? Do you know who they are?”
“No,” Frank replied in a strained voice.
“You son of a bitch,” Duke said in a low, angry voice. “You murdered my mother, father, and sister, and you don’t even know their names.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out the scarf of many colors. “Do you remember this? I took it off your saddle.”
“Oh yes, now I know who you are talking about,” Frank said. He forced a smile. “You know what I think? You won’t want to hear this, but that little girl was actually enjoying it. Yes, sir, it was probably a good thing I shot her. She might have grown up to be a whore. You wouldn’t have wanted that, would you? A whore for a sister?”
Made angry by Frank’s taunting words, Duke picked his pistol up from the floor, pointed it at Frank’s head, then cocked it.
“I’m about to close both those bulging bat-eyes of yours for good,” Duke said.
“Yes,” Frank said. “Yes, shoot me, mister. Don’t let me lie here like this.”
The barrel of the pistol began shaking as Duke had a battle with himself.
“Shoot me! Shoot me, you bastard!” Frank gasped. “Or do you want to hear me tell you how it was with your sister? How she begged me for it?”
Duke held the pistol for a moment longer, then he found the strength to put it back in the holster. Spitting on Frank, he turned and left the room, even as Frank was screaming at him, begging him to come back and end it.
The bartender’s body was lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Although there had been only three customers when Duke arrived, there were at least a dozen there now. No one was holding a weapon, and no one was wearing a badge, but Duke pulled his pistol again, just to be on the safe side.
A couple of men were bent over the bartender.
“Is he dead?” Duke asked, walking over to the bar and pulling a towel off one of the rings. He wrapped the towel around his left hand, which was bleeding, for the shard of glass had cut both ways.
“Yes,” one of the men answered.
“I had no quarrel with him. But he left me no choice.”
“And Frank?” one of the others asked.
“The girl upstairs can tell you about him,” Duke said.
“The sheriff will be wantin’ to hold an inquest. You goin’ to stick around for that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You got witnesses down here that’ll testify the bartender shot first. And if the girl upstairs will back you on what happened up there, you got nothin’ to worry about.”
“I said I’m not staying,” Duke repeated. He made a waving motion with his pistol, indicating that everyone should move to one side. “Now, clear a path to the door for me. I’ve done enough killing for one day. I don’t want to kill anyone else, but I will if I have to.”
Warily, the men and Marilou moved to one side of the room as Duke started toward the door.
“Mister?” one of the men called.
Duke turned toward him.
“I think maybe you ought to know there’s three more of ’em.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Them two you just killed? Frank and Mingus Butrum? Well, they got three more brothers and they ain’t likely to take what just happened here lyin’ down.”
Chapter Three
“It was at a place called Bull Run,” Abner Murback was telling the others. “They say it is named after a creek they got there, but I figure it should be called Yankee Run, what with the way all them Union boys skedaddled.”
“You reckon this war’s goin’ to last long enough for us to get into it?” Johnny Parker asked.
“Nah, it’ll more’n likely be over in a couple of days,” Carl Adams said.
“I don’t think so,” Abner replied. “What I think Bull Run done is to show the world we’re serious about this. There’s no doubt in my mind but that there’s goin’ to be a full-out war now. And when it comes, I aim to be smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Ain’t goin’ to be much of a war,” Johnny Parker insisted. “Hell, if the Virginians can do that to Yankees, just think what we Texans could do.”
“Yeah, sure wish we had been there,” one of the others said.
Abner, Johnny, Carl, and several other young men were in the Oasis Saloon discussing the latest news on what was already being called, by the South, the “War of Northern Aggression,” and, by the North, the “War of Rebellion.”
“Let’s hear it for Texas and the South!” someone shouted, holding up his beer mug. His proposal was greeted by a deep-throated cheer.
“Do you think Bexar County will raise a regiment?” Abner asked.
“Why, we got to get into it now,” Carl answered. “We can’t let the folks back East win our freedom for us.”
“I agree,” Johnny said. “If we don’t get into this war, ain’t no Texan nowhere will be able to hold his head
