The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [209]
“What the hell’ve you done to him?” one of the men shouted: a question I’d heard before, and under similar circumstances.
I could only get out the words “Believe me, it wasn’t us—” before the men picked up their friend and began to hustle him away in terror.
“You get the hell out of here!” one of them called. “And you stay the hell out!” With that they disappeared back in the direction of the tavern.
Miss Howard kept hold of her revolver, as we both spun to look all around. “Where is he?” Miss Howard asked in a whisper.
“In this darkness?” I said, also whispering. “He could be anywhere.” We didn’t move for another minute, but kept listening and waiting, expecting some move out of our small enemy—if in fact he was our enemy, which I was beginning to doubt. But there was no trace of any activity on the road or in the shadowy trees and shrubs what lined it, and that was good enough for me. “Come on,” I said to Miss Howard, taking her arm.
She didn’t need much persuasion, by that point, and in another half minute we were aboard our rig and heading north again, the little Morgan stallion moving at a nice trot. As we passed by the tavern, I could see a few pairs of angry eyes following us, and the body of the man who’d been struck by the aborigine’s arrow was laid out on the bar: how long he’d be unconscious, or if in fact he was dead, I didn’t know, and I certainly couldn’t have said why Señor Linares’s servant had once again come to our assistance. The first time, during our bout with the Dusters, might’ve been laid off to his arrow finding the wrong mark; but this second incident made it clear that the strange little man who’d seemed to threaten me with death on Saturday night was trying to keep us alive.
“Maybe he just wants to kill us himself,” I said, once we’d gotten half a mile or so out of Stillwater.
“He’s had more than enough opportunities to do that,” Miss Howard answered, shaking her head. “None of it makes any sense …” She finally shoved her revolver back into its hiding place, then took a deep breath. “You don’t have a cigarette, do you, Stevie?”
I shook my head with a small laugh, feeling relieved that we’d made good our escape. “You’d think people would get tired of asking me that question,” I said, going for my pants pocket with one hand as I let the reins slack a bit with the other. Pulling out the packet of smokes, I handed them to her. “Light me one, too, if you would, miss.” She put a match to two cigarettes, then handed one over. After taking a few deep drags off her own, she put her head between her hands and began to rub her temples. “You got pretty hot back there,” I said.
She managed a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I hope you know I wouldn’t put you in danger deliberately. But that kind of insufferable idiocy—”
“World’s full of men like that, Miss Howard. Can’t go telling them all where they get off, and not expect a few to get riled.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “But there are certain times…. Still, I do hope you know that we were never in any real danger.”
“Sure,” I answered; then I took a few seconds to study my companion. “You really would’ve shot him, wouldn’t you?”
“If he’d touched either one of us?” she said. “Absolutely. Nothing like a bullet in the leg to make men mind their manners.”
I chuckled again, although I knew that she was perfectly serious. There probably wasn’t another woman in the world who was as comfortable with guns—or, for that matter, with shooting people—as Miss Howard. She had some very personal reasons for being that way, and it isn’t my place to recite those reasons here; she’ll take care of that job one day herself, if she’s so inclined. All that mattered to me that particular night was that when she said she would’ve shot a man to protect me, she meant it; and that knowledge allowed my nervous system to grow ever more calm, and my mind ever more inquisitive, as we traveled along the moonlit river road.
“How can she do it, Miss Howard?” I eventually