Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

“I wouldn’t draw on me if I were you,” the man said with a drunken slur, his body wobbling with the effort of standing. “You ain’t got no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”

Hughes eased into the room, finger steady on the trigger. His eyes darted around, making a quick assessment of the situation. On the nightstand by the bed stood a near-empty bottle of whiskey, a revolver lying next to it. Another pistol lay on the bed between Monique’s legs, employed, he was sure, in all kinds of horrors. The man he held steady in his sight was dirty and small, his mean eyes bloodshot and watery, his hands twitchy and empty and hovering.

“I don’t give a damn what your name is,” said Hughes in a dead-calm voice, not wanting to alarm the half-conscious Monique, who moaned quietly in between gasping for breath on the blood-soaked bed. “Raise your hands, slow and easy. Walk toward me.”

“My names Whitt. Dalton Whitt. Me and my brothers Monroe, Raymond, and Arthur make up the Whitt Gang. I’m sure you’ve heard about us. My brothers’ll come looking for me if I don’t make it back to camp.”

“I said get your hands in the air, you son of a bitch.” Hughes stepped further into the room, blood pounding in his head like a drum. “Walk nice and easy toward me. Now.”

Dalton Whitt raised his hands, his body swaying with the exertion. He cast a glance at the table and his gun, then back at Hughes. “I believe this’ll be your last day to live without worry or regret. Go ahead, take me in, but my brothers are even more unpleasant than I am.” He laughed and wiped spittle and Monique’s blood from the corners of his mouth, his shirt sleeve already a dark rusty brown.
 

Looking back at Monique, he gestured over his shoulder, “She had it coming. The bitch laughed when I dropped my pants. Laughed at me! Can you fucking believe it?” He lunged toward the table, hands outstretched, grabbing for his gun.
 

Hughes, with the heel of his left hand pounding the Colt .45’s hammer in rapid-fire succession, emptied his six-shooter into the man, the first bullet taking care of the job, the other rounds spent for good measure. He pulled Dalton Whitt by his shirt collar and dragged him out into the hall, away from the bed and Monique. Then, with the butt-end of his gun, he began to pummel the face and head of the lifeless Whitt.

“Stop, Hughes,” Leighselle said as she ran up the stairs. She grabbed his arm, pulling back on it with all her weight. “He’s dead. You can stop.”

“He’s not dead enough.” He hit the man one last time across the face, teeth and bones crunching. With one final kick to Whitt’s side, Hughes fell back against the wall. He took deep gulps of breath, blinked hard against the white-hot rage melting his vision, trying to focus on Leighselle’s face, not on the bloody mess lying unmoving at his feet.
 

I killed a man
. He turned aside, hands on his knees, and vomited.
 

Leighselle rubbed his back until the heaving stopped. “I should have come up with you but Smitty said to let you handle it. What happened?”

“He went for his gun. I shot him. I . . . I killed him.”

“You did what you had to. A man defending himself is not a killer. Do you hear me? This does not make you like him.”

“When I saw what he did to Monique, I knew I was going to kill him.” Hughes stared at Leighselle, his words hanging in the air between them. “I’m glad he went for his gun, the stupid, drunken fool. Monique’s bad off. He tried to kill her, too.”
 

“Tried? You send for the sheriff and the doctor—I’ll do what I can here.” She turned to enter the room but Hughes stretched his arm across the doorway to block her.

“It’s bad. Don’t go in there—don’t look. Just send for the doctor.” He tried to pull the door closed behind him but it bounced against the splintered frame.

Leighselle gasped. “Oh! I did. I saw.” She turned quickly, pressing her face into Hughes’s vest.
 

Hughes took her in his arms, a hand cupping the back of her head, and he held her against his chest while Leighselle wept.

*****

After the sheriff and undertaker left with Dalton’s body, most of the revelers departed, too, in search of a livelier party to end the evening. Hughes felt edgy and alert. He wanted the night to be over. The three other Whitt brothers, no doubt, would come looking for him. Fine. He would wait for them.
 

He allowed himself one more whiskey. Then, to Leighselle, “Close down business for the night. Take Addy-Frank and go upstairs to your rooms and lock your doors.”

Leighselle nodded. “The doctor and Addy-Frank are up with Monique. That’s where I’m headed now.”

“I’ll come check on you in a bit, but don’t open the door unless you know it’s me. You’re armed?”

“Always.” She ran her hands down the outside of her ball gown, feeling her garters. She kept single-shot pistols, one each side, just above knee high.

A shadow moving caught Hughes’s eye, but before he could react, a knife was thrown, missing his face by inches as it sliced the air between where he and Leighselle stood. Hughes pushed her to the floor, pulling a table in front of them for cover.
 

“We got word that someone here killed our brother Dalton,” shouted a voice from outside the swinging doors. “We’re not here for nobody ’cept who done it. You step forward, and we’ll leave everyone else alone. You don’t step forward, and we burn this place to hell.”
 

“Don’t do it, Hughes. I’m sure the sheriff’s moments away.”

“He’s probably tied up or dead if these three got past him. Stay down behind this table. Don’t make a sound.”
 

Leighselle nodded.

Hughes rose from behind the overturned table. His hunting knife, with its gleaming blade and carved antler handle, pressed against his lower back. He knew within a fraction of an inch where his hand would settle on the heavy weapon. He knew how fast he could get to it, then how fast he could zip it through the air to meet its target. Perfecting the move was something he’d practiced since he was a small boy learning to hunt wild boars with Okwara, the half-Negro, half-Navaho plantation slave who’d taught Hughes how to slice the air clean through.
 

“I’d rather you take me prisoner than see this fine establishment go up in flames.” Hughes stood with his arms hanging casually at his sides, hands relaxed, fingers open and ready. “Well, here I am, girls. Come on in and take me.”
 

Without a word, the Whitts eased into the room, the three standing shoulder to shoulder, barring the door. Boots shuffled and spurs clinked on the wooden floor strewn with streamers and glitter. Dust motes floated in the air, illuminated in the golden glow of the gas lights. The only sound was heavy, measured breathing.
 

Hughes waited. The reward goes to the patient hunter.
Yes, Okwara, I remember
.
 

Then, with an almost imperceptible gesture, a slight dip of the head from the brother in the middle, nodding to the one on his right, the largest of the three brothers made a quick move for his gun.
 

Hughes was quicker, drawing the knife from the back of his waistband, flinging it at his barrel-chested target, hitting the man square in the heart. The big man sank to his knees and fell sideways, dead before he could close his surprised eyes.

The two remaining Whitt brothers went for their guns. Hughes filled his hands with his Navy Colts, firing both pistols simultaneously, each one aimed at its own target. He hit one brother in the gut, but his other shot missed its mark.

Hughes continued firing, moving away from the table where Leighselle crouched in hiding, drawing the gunfire away from her. He tried to make his way to the safety of the heavy mahogany bar. Firing his last shot, he leapt on top of the serving counter, scattering glasses and bottles, taking a shot to his side as he went over.

“I been hit,” said Monroe Whitt as he dropped to the floor, “get me outta here.” He clutched his belly, his hands turning dark with blood.

“What about Arthur?” Raymond pointed to the man with Hughes’s knife buried hilt deep in his chest. “We can’t leave him.”

“He’s dead. Leave him. Get me out of here.” Monroe tried to stand but sank back to the floor, blood pooling around his feet.

With one pistol reloaded, Hughes rose up from the shadows, clutching his right side with his left hand, and fired. He hit Monroe again, a direct shot to the thigh. Hughes collapsed onto the slick, cool surface, semi-aware of hearing another shot, knowing more than feeling his body flinch.

“Goddamnit, Raymond, I said get me outta here.” Monroe was losing copious amounts of blood from both wounds. “My leg . . .”

The shot that struck Hughes was from Raymond’s gun, aimed and fired in a quick panic just before he grabbed Monroe by the collar, dragging him out of the tavern and down the stairs. Throwing his brother onto the saddle, Raymond heaved himself up behind him, the horse crow-hopping in protest at the weight of both men. Raymond dug in his spurs. The horse galloped off, with a spray of blood misting the midnight air.

“Oh dear God, Hughes!” Leighselle rushed to him, wiping the blood from his face. “Please, someone, help me!”

“I’ll run upstairs and get Doc,” said Smitty, the beefy-armed blacksmith who’d taken refuge behind the bar.

“No need to come up,” said Doctor Flemings as he peeked out the door. He made his way down the stairs. “I’m sorry, Leighselle, but Monique . . . she lost too much blood. Her injuries were too severe. I’m sorry.”

“Hughes has been shot. Please hurry.” Leighselle’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my dear Monique.” She shook her head; words stung her throat.

Doctor Flemings and Smitty stretched Hughes out on the bar. “Head wound appears to be superficial. The one to his side is another story. He won’t make it if I don’t get in there and stop the bleeding. Smitty, can you help load him into my wagon?”

Hughes moaned, his eyes opening and closing, his breath shallow, his skin cooling and becoming pale as the men carried him out. Blood left a wide, red trail on the plank floor that was strewn with discarded masks, feathers, and bright streamers in every color of the rainbow.

*****

Leighselle placed the tray of fresh compresses and strips of gauze on the bedside table. “Stand still. Let me finish redressing these bandages. I wish you wouldn’t go. You’re not ready, not strong enough.”

“Three weeks is enough time for healing. I can’t let their trail go cold.” Hughes gritted his teeth, pain shooting through his side. He thought for a moment that she might be right. . . . Then he shook his head against the notion. No. He had to go.
 

“Go back home to Lévesque Plantation, hide out there for a while till all this blows over.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, shoving a stray curl back into place.
 

“Hide out?” Hughes snorted. “You saw what that bastard did to Monique. He and the other one may be dead, but there’s two more who tried to kill me for the effort.”
 

He was prepared to chase those sons of bitches to Hell if he had to. They’d be back gunning for him—of that he was certain. What kind of man would he be if he ran and hid—was afraid to face the fight? He’d be the kind of man he wouldn’t want to know.
 

“Ouch.” He winced as Leighselle tightened the bandage.

“You’re barely on your feet. You think you’re ready to chase after two outlaws? You don’t have the strength.”

“I’ll find the strength.”
 

Hughes strapped on his guns and reached for his hat, pausing while Leighselle finished buttoning his shirt, a fresh bandage covering the wound on his side and secured around his waist. He shoved his shirttail into his waistband and then put both hands on her shoulders.
 

“I’ll be fine. Besides, you know I’m not welcome at home anymore. Father’s decree.” He took a deep breath and let out what sounded like a growl. “I need to finish packing a few things, then I’m off.”
 

“I can’t persuade you otherwise?”

“No.” Hughes opened his saddlebags, taking stock of what to pack.

“I’ll see you downstairs, then. You’ll need a bottle of whiskey—for medicinal purposes.” Leighselle stepped out the door, shutting it behind her, her moss green taffeta skirt swishing around her ankles.

Turning, she saw someone approaching. “May I help you?” she asked in a loud voice.

“I’m looking for someone. A man named Hughes Lévesque. Heard he might be here.” He eyed the trash can Leighselle was holding, looking closer at the bloody bandages. “He’s wounded. Those his bandages? Is he in that room you just came from?”
 

Leighselle tightened her grip on the trash can. “That’s my room and this,” she said, holding the can out for inspection, “this is—uh—it’s my time of the month, is all. See?”
 

Raymond Whitt lurched backward, turning his head away. “Is there a man here named Hughes Lévesque that you’re hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anyone. You’re welcome to look around. I heard Lévesque left for Tennessee, though, about a week ago. You might catch up with him, if you hurry.” Leighselle took a step closer, batting her eyelashes.

“Tennessee?” He took a step backward.
 

“Um-hm. Might you be interested in a little play time? Discounted, today, of course.” She patted the trash can and offered a coy smile.
 

“Hell no, woman. I’m interested in finding Lévesque.” Whitt took a few steps backward, eyeing the door behind Leighselle.

Leighselle pursued. Then, feigning surprise, dropped the trash can. It landed on Whitt’s feet, the soiled bandages spilling on his boots and splaying across the hallway. The mess created a bloody barrier that might as well have been a brick wall between Whitt and the door Hughes stood behind.
 

“Goddamnit, woman.” He danced backward, shaking his feet free of the bloody bandages. “What in Christ’s name are you trying to do?”

“My goodness. I’m a bit clumsy sometimes.” She dropped to her knees, bending forward, allowing Whitt a generous peek at her cleavage. Picking up the bloody strips of gauze, she asked, “Can you give me a hand here, please?”