Now it was time to take down his favorite weapon. He turned from his desk in the study to the large safe in the east rear corner of the spacious room. He had won them two years ago in a crooked poker game in New Orleans. He’d been the crooked one. He knew he could drive Cal Hawkins to desperation—and did. Hawkins was left with nothing to bid other than his most prized possession—even more prized than his wife and children—the weapon he had taken off a Pawnee warrior chief two years earlier. Night Wolf had been one of the most feared warriors in the Oklahoma territory. Until, that is, Hawkins shot him in the shoulder and then cut his throat. The tribe had earlier honored their chief by giving him the gift of a handcrafted seven-shot Spencer carbine that had once belonged to an army captain, a handcrafted carbine sheath and a pair of gloves made of the same leather and beading as the sheath itself. Noah believed that since the carbine had once belonged to such a fierce warrior, it was bound to make him a keener and better hunter.
He stood holding it now with a reverence that was almost mystical. There was still enough little boy in him— in all men—to speculate on what it would have been like to be an Indian warrior in the days before the white man, when such warriors had free reign over the entire country. He could easily picture himself in a loincloth and war paint.
Then, reality returned and he realized what he’d actually be doing tonight.
Killing his own brother.
“It’s good to see you holding that rifle, sir. It suits you very well.”
Manuel was an ass-kisser, no doubt about that. But for once, Noah fell victim to Manuel’s flattery. Noah fancied that the rifle suited him very well indeed.
Incarceration, like death, has its own stench.
There is something about holding men and women against their will that saturates a room with its own odors. You can scrub and clean all you want but the smell remains.
When Burgade led Fargo and Aaron into the log cabin where the prisoners were kept, Fargo was struck by the apparent cleanliness of the place—and the odors that no amount of cleanliness could get rid of.
He was in handcuffs and leg irons.
And so were the two young women who stood before him.
Sun-bleached hair, long, tawny, supple bodies that spoke of strength and animal pleasure, the two girls could easily have been twins—the same azure blue eyes, the same elegantly tilted noses, the same large carnal mouths. And the same full, nipple-hardened breasts that pushed against the work shirts they wore with their jeans.
They appraised Fargo with open lust. These were very lonesome ladies.
“I’m Nancy Tolan,” the first woman said. “I’m the oldest by a year. I know we look alike when you first see us but my eyes have some green in them and see this?” She indicated a long white scar that trailed the right side of her jaw. “Stephanie doesn’t have a scar. At least not here.”
Stephanie laughed. “I’m younger by almost two years. You can tell me because I’m missing half of my little finger.” She held up her left hand. Her little finger, as she’d said, had been cleaved clear off. “The first night we were here, Mr. Burgade wanted to show us what a big, strong man he was. So he cut off my finger. I’m sure he’s proud of himself. We’re sure proud of
Burgade’s tolerance for mockery was low. He crossed to Stephanie and slugged her. Not slapped—slugged, the way he would slug another man in a bar fight.
The astounding thing was that Stephanie absorbed the punch. She might have been rocked back an inch or so on her heels but for the most part she took the punch without moving. Her eyes even showed some slight amusement. She didn’t want to give the bully Burgade any pleasure at all.
“Notice how we talk?” Nancy said. “That’s Mr. Burgade’s idea, too. He makes a monthly trip into New Orleans and spends his time in whorehouses there. He says the girls have a certain way of talking—they always sound like geishas in Japan—always friendly and in awe of the menfolk and eager to do whatever those menfolk want to.”
“You want what your sister got, Nancy?” Burgade said.
“I’d rather have that than have you try and rape me again.”
Stephanie giggled. “Thank God for alcohol. A lot of men can’t get up for the occasion, if you know what I mean.”
The women used the only weapon they had. Scorn. They constantly reminded Burgade that he wasn’t much of a man if he had to control women by shackling them. And they suggested—or at least their tone did—that someday they might get a chance to pay him back for all the physical pain and degradation he had inflicted on them.
“He’s afraid we’ll tell poor old Noah that he tried to rape Nancy,” Stephanie said. “Poor old Noah wants us kept for himself. He’d kill poor Mr. Burgade if he ever managed to get the job done, right poor old Mr. Burgade?”
So Nancy got what Stephanie had gotten—a balled fist colliding with the front of her lovely face. But like her sister, Stephanie wore the blow like a badge of honor, one more way of demonstrating to Burgade that he might have their bodies in shackles but that he’d never shackled their spirit.
“One of these days, Noah’s gonna get tired of you two,” Burgade said. “And then he’s gonna let me do what I want to you. And that’s when I’m gonna cut you both into little tiny pieces.”
Stephanie laughed. “You say the sweetest things, Mr. Burgade.”
He scowled at them, angry and impotent in the face of their cool contempt.
He then scowled at Fargo and Aaron. “Welcome to Skeleton Key, boys. I’m gonna split you up into teams, one fella, one girl, and then you can explore the island to get used to it.”
“What if we try to escape?” Fargo said.
“I’ll answer that one for you,” Nancy said. “The dogs are trained to kill anybody who approaches the water.”
“And Burgade here is the only one who knows the command to make them back down,” Fargo said.
“Exactly,” Burgade said.
With that, glaring at the women and clearly wishing he could smash them in the face again, he went out slamming the door behind him. Then you could hear him locking it.
“Pig,” Nancy said as the crash of the door sent echoes through the walls.
“Someday we’ll have
Nancy shook her lovely blond hair. “Maybe not, Sis. I think tonight’s the night old Noah kills us.”
Aaron laughed. “My brother would take great offense at being called ‘Old Noah’ all the time.”
“Well,” Nancy snapped, “if it offends you, Mr. Tillman, why don’t you get the hell out of here?”
“Go easy on him,” Fargo said. “Noah plans to kill him, too.”
“You’re old Noah’s brother?” Stephanie said.
“That’s right. And I’ve been a burden to him most of his life. Tonight he’s going to pay me back.”
The women went over and sat on their respective bunks. They moved as swiftly as the leg irons would permit.
“You do a good job with those irons,” Fargo said.
“Well, after all the time we’ve spent in them,” Nancy said, “we’re used to them.”
“This place is damned clean,” Fargo said, mincing around in his irons. “Can’t believe they’d spend so much time on it.”
“Believe it or not, old Noah sees that we’re fed well, exercised well, and live in pretty nice surrounds.” Stephanie reached under her pillow and pulled out the makings. “He wants us to be in good condition when he decides to stalk us through the woods and kill us. More sporting for him that way.” She nodded to the tobacco and papers she had. “Anybody want a smoke?”
Both men said yes.
They sat on the cot nearest the ladies.
“You make a mean smoke,” Fargo said. Nancy had tucked it in his mouth and lit it for him. The rest he had to do on his own, giving himself a quick lesson in how to smoke while manipulating a pair of tight handcuffs.
“So you know this island pretty well?” Fargo asked.
“Not as well as old Noah and Burgade do,” Nancy said.
“Anybody ever survived their hunt?”
