Brian Garfield - Fear in a Handful of Dust

Finally the provocation succeeded. The scorpion came out of hiding, lashing at the offending stick with its tail. When it was out in the open Mackenzie poked the stick under the scorpion, resting the point on the ground. Predictably the scorpion grabbed hold of the stick in a tight-clenched grip and went to work at it, nailing away overhead with its stinger. Mackenzie whipped the stick into the air, holding onto the butt-end, flipping it hard when the tip reached its apex-like a fisherman casting with a fly. The scorpion flew off. He watched it sail over the top of the camper and disappear.

Mackenzie put the stick down soundlessly and moved as fast as he could. He transferred the rock to his right hand and gripped it securely and went up alongside the truck, dropping to his knees as he went past the right-side front wheel; he was in shadow here, between the truck arid the cliff, and unless Duggai was looking right at the spot and expecting to see him probably he’d go unseen if he didn’t move too abruptly. Mackenzie slowed and moved forward until he could see the edge of the pool below him; he kept pushing his head forward an inch at a time until more of the water came in view and Duggai finally appeared.

Duggai was staring narrowly at something Mackenzie couldn’t see on the rock face to the right. It had to be the scorpion. Mackenzie saw Duggai paddle back through the water toward the pile of clothing. Never looking behind him, Duggai reached the edge of the pool and his hand groped along the rock behind him while he kept his eyes unblinkingly on the scorpion. Mackenzie moved his foot and leaned forward six inches farther; now he could see the scorpion, crawling on the rock to one side of the pool. Probably it had been shaken up by its flight but Duggai wouldn’t know that; Duggai would know only that it was deadly and alive and he would think it was after him-a personal thing, just as Mackenzie had automatically tagged it at first as one of Duggai’s deliberately conjured demons. In Duggai’s mind there would be no question but that the scorpion was after him.

Behind Duggai the big brown hand reached the pile of clothing and patted it blindly until it found the Magnum. Mackenzie lifted his arm and cocked the heavy stone in readiness.

Duggai brought the Magnum around overhead and settled it in both hands. Mackenzie saw him cock the hammer and take careful aim across the quarter of the pool to the point where the scorpion made its slow scuttling way across the bare rock.

Mackenzie tensed. He saw the flesh of Duggai’s finger whiten slightly on the trigger. All his fibers twanging, Mackenzie watched and clenched his muscles.

When the revolver went off Mackenzie smashed the truck’s window.

The scorpion was replaced by a white streak on the rock.

Simultaneous with the roar of the gunshot Mackenzie slammed the heavy stone with all his remaining strength against the side window. It was safety glass and it didn’t shatter; the stone punched a great hole through it and left the remainder starred and frosted. There was no falling tinkle of glass shards.

The explosion of the Magnum’s cartridge kept booming around the bowl of rocks, reverberating, dying slowly. Deafened by it, Duggai certainly hadn’t heard the smash of rock against glass above him. Mackenzie was in plain view but Duggai only put the Magnum back on the pile of clothes and braced both palms on the bank of the pool to lever himself out of the water. It put Duggai’s back to Mackenzie and now Mackenzie reached inside through the hole in the window and found the handle inside the door. As silently as he could he unlatched it.

His mind was hurtling forward in anticipation. Certain things he had to be aware of. The rifle was scope-sighted and probably zeroed in for a range of not less than 250 yards and that meant, at this short range, he’d have to aim low. A combat-trained rifleman like Duggai would keep a round chambered and ready to go but he’d make sure the safety was engaged so it wouldn’t go off accidentally. Mackenzie wouldn’t need to work the rifle’s bolt action but he would have to kick the safety off before pulling the trigger; otherwise nothing would happen.

All this went through his mind in the time it took him to free the door lock.

Duggai was still clambering out of the water, his back to Mackenzie, and Mackenzie with a rough uncaring need to finish it yanked the door open and caught the rifle as it tipped toward him and lifted it to his shoulder in a smooth synchronous motion, found the safety with his thumb and flicked it off, and saw by the sudden tensing of Duggai’s back muscles that Duggai had heard something-some sound Mackenzie had made. Duggai began to turn and began to fall to one side toward the Magnum where it lay only a few feet from him on the bundle of clothes.

In the circular telescopic lens Duggai’s profile was immediate, point-blank, and Mackenzie lowered it, remembering that it was sighted in for longer ranges than this, but suddenly there was too much rage in Mackenzie for this-a bullet through Duggai’s head wouldn’t even make the down payment-and so, as Duggai reached out for the Magnum, falling toward it, Mackenzie shifted his aim. It was guesswork because he didn’t know for what distance the scope was sighted but the target was big enough and close enough-it wasn’t more than thirty feet from him; he hardly needed sights-and Mackenzie squeezed the trigger quickly until the big rifle slammed back in recoil against his bare shoulder and the earsplitting racket exploded in his ears and the bullet knocked the Magnum spinning halfway up the salt lick far out of Duggai’s reach.

Duggai reacted with blinding speed. He pushed himself backward and slid into the water and ducked under. Mackenzie worked the rifle bolt. The empty cartridge case flipped out and rolled down the rock with a tinkle like something they rang at the altar between incantations, and Mackenzie watching it had time to think: it was one of those that started all this.

Duggai had a big chest and stayed under for a long time but then he came up, sputtered, raked hair from his eyes, stared at Mackenzie and finally went still, his head above water, looking like nothing Mackenzie had ever seen but something crossed the mind crazily:

John the Baptist on a silver tray.

The water reflected silver barbs all around Duggai’s decapitated face. He said nothing-only stared into the muzzle of the rifle. Mackenzie put his eye to the scope and he could count the bloodshot veins in the eyes.

Mackenzie did not speak or move. He wanted terror to reach into Duggai and spread through every fiber.

After a long motionless time Duggai finally turned to the shallow side of the pool and climbed onto the slope of rock. Then without even looking toward Mackenzie he began to walk up the salt lick toward the revolver.

Mackenzie spoke.

“Both kneecaps if I have to. You’ll never walk again.”

It stopped Duggai in his tracks. He turned to face Mackenzie and his face lifted, jaw jutting- Get it over with .

“You don’t think I’m going to make it that easy, you rancid bastard son of a bitch.”

Duggai’s eyes closed down as if he was bored. Insolence settled over his features. He merely waited, demonstrating his courage.

“Come up here. Bring the truck keys. Never mind the clothes, you won’t need them.”

Naked and powerful Duggai climbed the switchback rock trail. Mackenzie backed away, never letting him come in jumping distance: he had no reserves left but it didn’t take much strength to pull a trigger and Duggai knew that and Mackenzie kept the rifle aimed at his privates so that Duggai knew he couldn’t be panicked into a hasty kill shot. Even if it missed it would tear up his pelvis or his abdomen and he’d be a long agonizing time dying. No: Duggai’s illness of the mind wasn’t that kind. He hadn’t forsaken his shrewdness. Like his victims he would bide his time and wait for an opening-he wouldn’t fight the drop.