The Last Hard Men - Brian Garfield [68]
It was empty.
The revolver had fallen out when he’d rolled over—and Shiraz was coming at him now, no time to hunt for it. He scrabbled away from the attack, getting his feet under him, and Shiraz tripped. Shiraz didn’t fall, but it gave Burgade time to get on his feet. When Shiraz had finished windmilling his arms for balance and straightened up, Burgade was crouching, facing him, both arms wide, ready for him, watching from the pained depths of his red sleepless eyes.
The air was charged with sudden quiet. Burgade’s breathing was tight and shallow, his sphincter contracted, his palms damp.
Shiraz studied him, moving slowly with the knife circling in his outstretched fist, slowly driving Burgade back ahead of it. Shiraz’s eye sockets were sunken and charcoal-fiery, emanating hatred. He bit a hangnail on his thumb and knitted the brows of his black vulpine face. “I’m onna admire to stick this knaff in you, Burgade.”
Burgade didn’t waste wind talking. He felt a tree at his shoulderblade: he wheeled, curled behind it, and used that brief moment of respite to whip his jacket off and wrap it around his left forearm in a heavy muff.
Shiraz came prowling past the tree, after him, in no hurry, measuring him. Burgade kept circling. Shiraz moved closer, moving the knife in a little spiral, and then Burgade lunged, swiped his wadded coat at the knife, snagged the blade against the cloth and deflected it, spun half to one side and used his foot—cracked his heavy boot-heel against the front of Shiraz’s shin.
It was a hard kick, almost hard enough to break the bone. Shiraz stumbled, withdrawing the knife. Burgade got both hands on the knife arm, bent it back, used his weight to push Shiraz over. They fell into a bush. A branch raked Burgades cheek, almost got his eye. Gripping the knife wrist, he smelled Shiraz’s sour breath and heard gristle snap in his own shoulder; he heard himself gasping.
Shiraz’s black face was drawn with pain but he had strength and speed all over Burgade. He wrenched himself aside and broke Burgade’s grip and fell off the bush, never losing his grip on the knife handle. The blade ripped away the jacket from Burgade’s arm and Shiraz rolled free.
Burgade batted his arms at the bush getting free, ripped his flesh on nettles, spun toward Shiraz and, when the man got his hands down to lift himself off the ground, kicked Shiraz in the face.
Shiraz’s head rocked back. Burgade kicked him again. He heard the snap of cartilage in Shiraz’s nose; blood sprayed over his boot and Shiraz cried out. Burgade stamped his boot down on the knife hand and twisted his boot, grinding, until the fingers splayed open. He reached down, scooped up the knife, and plunged it up in a short sweeping arc into Shiraz’s exposed belly.
He yanked the knife out and stood wobbling, unable to get breath into his throat.
Shiraz’s hands clutched his belly, trying to hold the blood in.
Burgade straightened up very slowly, soaked in his own juices. There was a powerful tremor behind his knees. Vomit pain convulsed his stomach but he stood there motionless and watched Shiraz fall back onto the earth. The hands dropped away and when blood stopped spurting from the long slash he knew the heart had stopped pumping. Shiraz’s mouth hung open, the bad teeth exposed, eyes open and staring at the moon.
He made sure Shiraz was dead. He closed the eyelids and went prowling for his guns. Found them, straightened up, and said to himself, “Horse, next.” And then the reaction hit him: a chill, a tremor, a hot flush that prickled his scalp. He closed his eyes and felt a dizzy nausea, bright red flickers on the insides of his eyelids, a trembling faintness against which he locked the muscles of his stomach and pectoris and biceps. His whole body began to shake. He had to cling to a tree. There was a wave of flaccid weakness, almost unconsciousness. The quaking tremor seized him again, and he had to grip the tree with all his strength.
Finally the spasm passed. His muscles loosened. He gasped for breath, sucking and gulping; he felt very cold.