Wilderness Double Edition 22, page 25
As for Vasklin, he did not hide his surprise at seeing the man who had slain his brother. “You!” He darted a hand under his jacket, then smiled shiftily and drew it out again. “This is indeed a day of unusual events. Welcome, Duncan. Perhaps you would do me the honor of playing against me in a game of chance?”
“Pick your poison,” Duncan said.
Vasklin barked orders. Within seconds a table was cleared and two chairs placed across from one another. Sinking into one, he accepted a deck of cards. “What do you say to poker? You can deal if you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t.” Gasps attended Duncan as he walked over and claimed his seat. “Just as I never trusted your brother.”
Zach sidled nearer so he could catch everything they said, although not so near that Vasklin would notice him.
The insults were having an effect. Martin Vasklin was livid. “Have you forgotten where you are?” he snapped. “This is my club. You know what they say about bating a lion in its den.”
Duncan smiled. “Show me the lion.”
Vasklin was not amused. He handed the deck over, saying, “I would not want to rush this. These are moments to be savored. To be honest, I can’t quite think what to make of you.”
More of Vasklin’s toughs came out of the back. Others were moving to put themselves between Duncan and the front door. Still others filtered through the onlookers to be closer to their employer and ready to protect him.
Duncan calmly began shuffling. “Is five card stud to your liking?”
“It’s as good as any. What stakes are we betting for?”
“Bragging rights,” Duncan said.
“I was hoping for more.” Vasklin responded. “We have been leading up to this for a long time, you and I.”
“Oh?” Duncan said, expertly rifling the cards.
“You and your airs,” Vasklin said. “Always so honorable. So noble. Always making yourself out to be better than everyone else.”
“Only better than those who taint my profession. Those who cheat by any means they can. Those who have no honor.” Duncan stared pointedly at his enemy.
“I give you these final moments,” Vasklin said mockingly. “Your arrogance has earned you that much.”
“Think so?” Duncan finished shuffling and slapped the deck down between them. “Cut.”
Vasklin separated half the deck and put the bottom half on top of the top half. “Doesn’t it bother you that you live by a code no one else believes in? You always play fair. You always deal straight, never from the bottom of the deck. You never keep a card up your sleeve. You never use the tricks every gambler in New Orleans uses.”
“Not all of them,” Duncan said, taking the top card and sliding it face down across the table. “Some place a higher value on integrity than winning. It is why I am admitted to the finer gambling houses and you are not.”
“Kitty has never refused me entry to her place.”
“She gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. But the day you are caught cheating under her roof will be the day she bans you.” Duncan placed a card in front of him. “Name any other reputable house where you are welcome. The Royale? The Levee House? The gaming rooms at any of the best hotels?”
Vasklin colored slightly. “I’m not accepted because I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It’s as simple as that.”
“Your kind always use that as an excuse,” Duncan said. “You refuse to admit your own shortcomings but are always quick to point out shortcomings in others.”
“What do you know?” Vasklin’s sneer was laced with savage contempt. “You are no different than they.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Duncan said. “They would never soil themselves as I am about to.”
“It must be nice to be so sure of yourself,” Vasklin said. “To think you are above the common herd.”
Zack was wondering how much longer the sparring would go on. Fontaine, he noticed, was only a few feet from Duncan’s chair, his hand under his frock coat. And now Thorne was moving toward them but acting disinterested.
Vasklin saw Fontaine. “I see you have brought a friend along tonight.”
“Many friends,” Duncan said.
Vasklin gazed about the room and abruptly stiffened. He did not like what he saw. “My club is rarely graced with so many of your brotherhood. Quinton I would recognize anywhere with that white head of his.” Vasklin gave a tiny start. “Is that Vin Connors by the bar?”
“One and the same,” Duncan said, dealing the last of their cards. “He wouldn’t miss this for all the gold ever mined. Something to do with his sister, I believe.”
Worry ate at Vasklin’s features but he adopted a casual smile. “If one did not know better, one would think you were the general of an invading army.”
“I could not have put it better,” Duncan said.
Vasklin had it, then. The full import dawned, and he gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. “Surely you can’t be serious? It’s four to one.”
“Three to one is more like it,” Duncan said. “But you know gamblers. Bucking odds is our stock in trade.” He raised his cards just high enough to read them. “How many would you like?”
“Eh?” Vasklin said, confused, but only momentarily. He examined his cards and slid three to the center of the table.
“Three it is.” Duncan dealt them. “The dealer takes one.” He made a show of taking it from the top, another subtle insult that wasn’t lost on those who watched. “What do you have?”
Vasklin did not answer right away. He was gnawing on his lower lip. The impression he presented was that of a rat caught in a trap desperately seeking a way out. “Have what?” he absently asked.
“Your hand,” Duncan prodded. “Bragging rights, remember? Are you going to show your cards?”
“Oh.” Vasklin turned them over. He had two pair, eights and jacks.
‘‘Not bad,” Duncan said. “Not good enough, but not bad.” He turned his over one at a time to reveal four kings. “One of us is on a lucky streak tonight.”
“It need not come to this,” Vasklin said. “I forgave you long ago for my brother.”
“No, you haven’t,” Duncan flatly replied. “You’ll never forgive me as long as you live. You’ll never stop fleecing everyone who visits your club, never stop what goes on in the back rooms. Not until you are dead.” He stated the last with finality.
“Start something and I am not the only one who will die.”
“Again you forget you are dealing with gamblers. To us, some rewards are worth the risk. In this instance, it’s the reward of removing a blight on the city. That blight being you.”
“I should have killed you long ago.”
“You were always welcome to try,” Duncan said, “but you never were all that brave without your brother to back you. He had most of the courage in your family. And even though he was a cheat, he died like a man. Will you do the same?”
“Go to Hell.”
“I imagine we both will.” Duncan’s smile was ice and fire combined. “There’s nothing left to be said then, is there? Would you like to start the dance or shall I?”
Fifteen
In the silence that greeted Duncan’s challenge, Zach King heard the soft rasp of wood on metal and saw Vin Connors twisting his cane. The reason became clear when the handle separated from the sheath to reveal a gleaming sword.
Nearly everyone in the club was now aware that ominous thunderheads of violence loomed. All those playing cards and faro had stopped, all the talk had died, and almost all eyes were on Duncan and Martin Vasklin. The former sat relaxed and self-assured; the latter seemed stunned by the gauntlet hurled in his face.
“You can’t just waltz into a man’s place of business and threaten his life,” Vasklin blustered. “You complain about my lack of breeding when you’re no better.”
“Do you really want me to recite a litany of your evil?” Duncan responded. “We would be here for a week.”
“Your humor is not appreciated.”
Duncan’s voice acquired a flinty edge. “I will offer you a way out, if only to spare those who might take a stray bullet. Meet me at noon at Potter’s Field. Bring seconds, if you like, so long as they abide by the rules of conduct.”
“A duel? With you?” Vasklin’s laugh was brittle. “Wasn’t killing my brother enough?”
“I never had anything against him personally. His mistake in life was looking up to you. In thinking you were worthy of respect.”
Hatred twisted Vasklin’s features. “Some insults are not to be borne.”
“Then give the word. Or are you too spineless?” Vasklin’s men were eager, if he wasn’t. Many had knives half drawn, pistols half revealed. They were waiting for their boss to give the command before committing themselves.
An exodus was underway toward the front door. No one wanted a part in the impending melee, and Zach didn’t blame them.
Fontaine stepped to Duncan’s side. “This is getting ridiculous. Since he won’t and you can’t, permit me.” And with that, Fontaine drew a pistol from under his frock coat, pointed it at one of Vasklin’s lieutenants, and blew the top of the man’s head off, spattering hair, blood and brains over everyone within a ten-foot radius.
For a few seconds no one moved. The body melted to the floor oozing brain and grisly gore. Patrons were aghast. One woman put a hand over her mouth, about to be sick. Martin Vasklin shook as if with the ague, his face growing redder and redder until something inside of him snapped and he threw back his head and shrieked, “Kill them! Kill them all!”
Hell was unleashed. Amid the screams and yells of bystanders, the club boomed to the blast of gunfire and the harsh metallic clang of forged steel.
Everything happened so fast. Zach saw a pistol appear in Duncan’s right hand but before Duncan could fire, Vasklin upended the table and kicked it, sending it crashing over. Duncan nimbly pushed it aside and leaped to his feet but by then Vasklin had ducked in among the panicked bystanders. Instead, Duncan shot one of Vasklin’s men who was fixing a bead on his chest.
Everywhere it was the same, violence run rampant. Thorne flicked his wrists and derringers blossomed in each hand. He shot a man on his right, another charging at him from the left. Fontaine was grappling with two adversaries. Quinton had produced a big knife and was laying about him with bloody mastery. Richard and Owen were swapping shots with ruffians at the bar.
Vin Connors had drawn his sword cane and was making for Martin Vasklin. Several of Vasklin’s underlings tried to stop him and fell to the glittering tapestry of steel he so adroitly wove. He was an exceptional swordsman — parry, thrust, counter, slash; he cut a swath through them like a reaper through a field of wheat.
Zach absorbed all this in the opening instants of the conflict. Then there was no time to observe, no time to think, no time for anything other than staying alive as three men rushed him. A pistol went off and sent his hat flying. He answered with his own, dropping one would-be killer and then another. The third sliced a dagger at his throat but he skipped aside. Shoving both spent pistols under his belt, he jerked out his bowie, barely blocking the next swing.
The man dropped into a crouch and shifted his dagger from one hand to the other. “I remember you, breed,” he hissed. “We should have killed you earlier.” It was an oversight he sought to remedy by pivoting on the ball of his left foot and stabbing at Zach’s jugular.
Zach’s arm moved in pure reflex. He swatted the dagger aside and twisted to avoid another stab, down low. His bowie was huge compared to the dagger but it was heavier and not as easily wielded, a weakness the cutthroat exploited by unleashing a furious flurry intended to sweep past his guard and swiftly end their fight. But the man did not know that Zach had been using a knife since he was old enough to hold one. He did not know that Zach had been in knife fights before, that Zach had practiced and practiced until the bowie was an extension of his hand, until its size was of no consequence.
Sneering confidently, the man feinted, then drove his dagger at Zach’s neck. It was a killing stroke but one that never landed. Slipping in close, Zach avoided the lethal sting of the double-edge blade while simultaneously burying his bowie between the man’s ribs. He felt the blade scrape bone, felt the flesh give of tissue and organs, felt warm, damp drops on his hand.
The man grunted and looked down at himself, at the blood staining his shirt. More dribbled from the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be damned,” he bubbled, and his knees caved. He was dead before he struck the floor.
Zach whirled. The club was a madhouse of shooting, screaming, dying. Clouds of gunsmoke were thicker than fog.
Over by the upturned table, Duncan and Thorne were involved in knife fights of their own. Quinton’s cadaverous frame was at the thick of a roiling wave of "fierce combat. Vin Connors was ringed by five assailants, three of them armed with swords, and was a marvel to behold; his sword cane was living lightning. But he could not withstand such overwhelming odds for long, and Zach moved to help him.
Someone beat him to it. Out of the riot of confusion bounded Alain, his sword dripping scarlet drops, his shirt ripped, his cheek nicked, his face aglow with the excitement and thrill. He disposed of one of Vin’s antagonists without breaking stride, and then he and Vin were shoulder to shoulder, blade to blade.
Zach reached them just as they closed with the remaining four. A man with a sword spun toward him and thrust at his heart. By the sheerest of fractions he deflected it, and then had to retreat under an onslaught the likes of which he had never been pitted against. Pain seared his left bicep. His right thigh was cut. Parrying and blocking, he retreated until his back collided with the bar.
The man paused, wagging his weapon in a circle. “Any last words?” he asked, and lunged.
It was hard to say who was more surprised by what occurred next; a shot cracked and the man’s temple exploded, with one eye popping from its socket. His mouth moved soundlessly as he keeled over.
Ten yards away, leaning on a table, was Fontaine, the front of his white shirt bright red. He nodded at Zach, and smiled.
Zach returned the gesture, then plunged back into the thick of things. A scruffy tough had reloaded and was bringing a flintlock to bear on Alain’s back. Taking a long bound, Zach cleaved his skull from crown to ear. The gun never went off.
By now bodies littered the floor. Many had given up the ghost. Many others were thrashing in agony or moaning and whimpering. A man who had lost a hand pressed the stump to his chest and howled. Another whose neck spurted a fine red mist was rolling back and forth in blubbering hysterics.
The front door was wide open and a few last customers were fleeing into the night.
Zach turned and saw Owen go down, a knife through his side. Almost immediately Richard was there, wreaking vengeance.
Several hirelings had sought cover behind the bar and were firing as quickly as they could reload. One raised up to shoot only to have a goodly portion of his face blown away by a well-placed shot from Duncan.
Ducking, Zach raced to the rear. There was probably a back way out, and the girls might take the opportunity to flee, Evelyn among them. He was a few steps from the hall when out of it hurtled a bearded slab of muscle who was also armed with a bowie, and who, the split-second they saw each other, snarled like a grizzly and sought to remove Zach’s head from his shoulders.
Zach brought his blade up in time but the blow nearly wrenched the knife from his grasp. He evaded another swing, then backpedaled. The man was on him before he could take three steps. The glint of the man’s bowie was all the forewarning Zach had. Again he countered, again he saved himself but not without cost; the blunt back of his knife slammed into him and bright pinpoints of light swirled before his dazed yes.
Zach braced for the killing stroke sure to come. He was completely at the other’s mercy. He had failed his sister, had failed his whole family. There was a yelp and a grunt, and his vision cleared as the man wound up in a lifeless heap.
“Come, mon ami,” Alain said, pulling his dripping sword from the body. “We must find your sister.”
Zach did not need further encouragement. He was first to the hall. On Mercury’s wings he darted from door to door, throwing each open and calling out, “Evelyn! Evelyn! It’s me, Zach!” At the fourth room he gaped in shock and horror, struggling to comprehend how one human being could do this to another.
“Why have you stopped?” Alain asked at his elbow, and then shouldered him aside. “Keep searching. I will cut her free.”
Zach tried not to think of that happening to Evelyn but could not resist a flood of searing images. When they told him Martin Vasklin was wicked, he had no true notion of the depths Vasklin plumbed. This went beyond anything he ever imagined, into a shadow realm inhabited by the sickest of minds.
He didn’t bother with the latch to the next door. He kicked the door in, and smiled to reassure a girl cowering in a corner. “I won’t hurt you.” He started out but she lowered her hands and called out to him.
“Wait! Who are you? What is all the shooting about?”
“The man who forced you to stay here is dead,” Zach said. Or so he hoped. “You’re free to go.”
“Go where?” was her timid reply. “I don’t have any folks. I don’t have family of any kind except Mr. Vasklin.”
“You’ll find someone.” Zach did not have time for this; he had half the rooms to check yet. She yelled for him to wait but he ran to the next door and shoved it wide. The room was empty, but on the floor lay a rawhide whip and manacles.
Zach would dearly love to strangle the life from Martin Vasklin with his own two hands. Or better yet, stake him out over an ant hill after peeling off his skin. Some people did not deserve to live.
Alain had been checking the rooms on the other side. Now he reappeared, pushing two girls aged fourteen or fifteen ahead of him. “Ici. There is something you should hear.”
The girls were frightened and clung to one another as if expecting to be shot. “Leave us be!” the skinniest cried. “We haven’t done anything!”
