Bill Pronzini - Beyond the Grave

Quincannon rolled off him and made an agile move to gain his feet just as Witherspoon, still bellowing, pawing at his eyes with one hand and brandishing a leather cosh with the other, charged him. He ducked away from the first wild swing, or would have if he'd had firmer footing. As it was one boot got mired and the cosh struck him a glancing blow on the left shoulder. The force of it was enough to knock him down, which gave Witherspoon sufficient time to kick him in the shin. This made Quincannon angry. He dodged another wild swing, successfully this time, and delivered a mighty blow to the side of Witherspoon's peanut. Witherspoon grunted and lunged again, unhurt. The head, clearly, was not the place to attack if you intended to stretch out the likes of Ollie Witherspoon.

Taking another offensive tack, Quincannon succeeded in knocking the cosh out of Witherspoon's hand on the next swing and then smote him in the stomach. The blow broke him at the middle but it, too, failed to stop him. He struck Quincannon in the chest, once more in the right side; the second punch might have caved in his rib cage if it had come straight on instead of at a glancing angle. This made Quincannon even more angry. To hell with the Marquess of Queensbury, he thought. He ducked another punch, feigned one of his own, and promptly kicked Witherspoon in the crotch with all the force he could muster.

Witherspoon lay down on the sand and commenced screaming. It was an unpleasant noise on such a peaceful night; Quincannon found his Navy revolver in the big man's pocket and used the butt of it on the Witherspoon peanut. Witherspoon stopped screaming immediately. And the night was quiet again except for the soothing whisper of the surf as it rolled in over the beach.

Quincannon limped to the derelict and sat down on a driftwood log that had washed up next to her. His shin hurt where Witherspoon had kicked him; his shoulder hurt and his ribs hurt and the knuckles on his right hand hurt. And as if that wasn't enough, there was a six-inch rend in the sleeve of his new Cheviot coat.

He sat there for five minutes, holding the Navy revolver and alternately looking at the ocean and the two inert forms on the sand a few feet away. Twice during that time he considered going over and presenting each of them with another bruise or two, but he did not give in to the impulses. He was a civilized man, after all, not a ruffian of their ilk. He had no taste for violence. He was a detective who preferred to use his wits, like that fictional fellow in London Conan Doyle wrote about. What was his name? Holmes? Yes, like Sherlock Holmes. Refined. Cerebral. Genteel at heart.

He wondered if he had ruptured Witherspoon. He hoped so. If not, and if Ollie ever came after him again, he would deliver a kick of such magnitude that it would explode the bastard's scrotum like a balloon.

He stood finally and went to where Evans lay and had a look at him. Then he had a look at Witherspoon. Neither man had moved; neither man was likely to move for some time yet. Moonshine showed him where Evans's Colt automatic and his own derby lay. He picked up the gun first, hurled it through one of the holes in the derelict's hull. Then he picked up the derby and clamped it on his head.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said to the two unconscious felons, and limped away toward Rancheria Street.

Now he knew how he would spend the rest of the evening. He would spend it in bed, nursing his wounds and sleeping. A pox on Charles Nordhoff. Santa Barbara was not good for everyone's health, especially not John Frederick Quincannon's.

Quincannon awoke at dawn-stiff, sore, and in a peevish frame of mind. After ten minutes, restlessness drove him out of bed. He examined himself in the mirror in the adjoining bath and found four bruises, all of them on parts of his anatomy that would be concealed by his clothing. The one on his shin was the largest and tenderest, but it hurt only when he put too much pressure on that foot; he could walk more or less normally. And except for a scratch that was all but lost in the tangle of his beard, his face had miraculously escaped being marked.

The examination buoyed his spirits somewhat, though not enough to put an end to either his cranky mood or his restlessness. Going back to bed was out of the question. Instead he washed, dressed, and went down to the dining room for coffee and hot pastry.

Traffic was sparse and desultory on State Street when he emerged from the hotel and its grounds half an hour later. The rim of the sun was just visible above the Santa Ynez Mountains to the east; the sky still wore a pink flush, like a bride on the morning after her wedding night, and the air was salty and had a crisp bite to it. lit was going to be another glorious spring day. At least, Quincannon thought grumpily, insofar as the weather was concerned.

It was too early to conduct business, but he felt that a long, brisk stroll might clear away some of his muscle stiffness and the remnants of a dull headache. He set off down State Street, found himself approaching the St. Charles Hotel, remembered that Felipe Velasquez was due to leave for his ranch at eight o'clock, and consulted his big turnip-shaped watch. Ten minutes before eight. He detoured into the alley that ran behind the St. Charles, looking for the hotel stables. The odors of fresh hay, old leather, and horse manure led him straight to them.

The first person he saw when he got there was Barnaby O'Hare.

O'Hare, dressed in riding breeches and an old-fashioned duster, was watching a stablehand saddle a ewe-necked chestnut horse. The historian's presence here surprised Quincannon-and vaguely annoyed him, for no particular reason. There was no sign of Velasquez, although a fine Appaloosa stallion stood waiting nearby, outfitted in a silver-studded bridle and a high-forked Spanish saddle with tasseled stirrup-skirts.

Quincannon was within ten strides of O'Hare before the moonfaced young man glanced up and saw him. “Ah, Mr. Quincannon,” he said with a smile. “Have you decided to join us?”

“Us?”

“Senor Velasquez and I. Didn't he tell you I am accompanying him to Rancho Rinconada de los Robles today?”

“No, he didn't.”

“Well, one of the men I shall be interviewing for my book is a neighbor of his. And there are geographical details of the old grant that I'll want to reexamine. Senor Velasquez was again kind enough to extend his hospitality for a few days.”

Quincannon thought uncharitably: After you promised him an entire chapter in your book, no doubt . He said nothing.

“ Will you be joining us?” O'Hare asked.

“Not today. At the hacienda in a day or two.”

“I look forward to it. Perhaps we'll find time for a talk. I find your profession fascinating, and I should like to know more about it-your methods and such.”

“If I confided my methods to everyone who wanted to know them,” Quincannon said, “then I wouldn't be a very successful detective, would I?”

The rear door of the hotel opened just then and Felipe Velasquez emerged. He, too, wore riding clothes, and a wide-brimmed sombrero. As the rancher approached, Quincannon saw that he looked pale and hung-over this morning. It gave him a perverse pleasure to think of this pompous grandee listing a few degrees to starboard under a burden of too much wine.

“ Buenos dias , Senor Velasquez.”

Instead of acknowledging the greeting, Velasquez fixed him with a sharp look. “Have you something new to report?”

“Not as yet-”

“Then why are you here? Why are you not doing what you're being paid to do?”

“May I remind you, sir,” Quincannon said, managing-just barely-to keep the testiness out of his voice, “that it is not yet eight o'clock?”