William Keener - Pearl and the Nigger

“Millbaugh! Millbaugh! You son of a bitch, let her go!” shrieked Andy.

The sadistic, drunken fool heeded not. The hand he had over Molly’s mouth swiftly moved downward, ripping open the front of her nightgown, exposing her lily-white breasts.

Madly Andy rushed to Millbaugh, seizing him by the collar, thrusting him backward at the same time striking him full in the face with a hard right fist knocking him to the floor. Quickly he turned toward the other dragoon, whom he recognized as Sergeant Toney Castino. Toney released his hold on the exhausted Molly, who fell backward onto the bed, and snatched his pistol from its holster. Andy drew his, and the two weapons fired at the same time. Toney fell fatally wounded down, onto the bed across the exhausted Molly. Yates felt a hot sting in his left breast and hot blood oozing out and trickling down his side. His vision grew dim; for an instant he sat there dazed and half-conscious.

Sounds of breaking glass aroused him. He looked, seeing Millbaugh, upon one elbow had upset a table, causing the glass breakage, struggling to get on his feet. Yates’ own gun had slipped away from him, and he realized that he could not locate it. Andy saw Millbaugh’s hand go to his belt and the gleam of his pistol as it left the holster. He knew that Millbaugh meant to kill him because they had had trouble before and hatred had existed ever since.

“Yates, you damn fool,” cried Millbaugh as he looked at the young man down on both knees, clinging on to the side of the bed. “LaCrosse thought he was to be the first with the girl, and now I suppose you think you will be the first, but you’ll not be here long.”

Andy knew he must act to save himself. Summoning all his strength, he drew his feet up under him and, like a puma, sprang forward, his shoulder striking Millbaugh just below the knees, turning the bulky hulk forward into a somersault, causing Millbaugh to lose his weapon.

Yates, much younger and faster, had been trained in the science of boxing. He knew he must make quick work of Millbaugh, but the pain in his side was terrible. He was on his feet, weakening from the loss of blood and swirling from dizziness.

Millbaugh was on his feet, going toward Andy, but he couldn’t muster enough strength to strike at him as he drew Andy into a bear hug. Yates tried his best to break from Millbaugh’s giant clutches. This seemed impossible to do. He could only deliver some short jabs to his aggressor’s ribs.

Millbaugh tightened his viselike grip around Andy’s body, repeating, “Damn yer, Yates! Damn yer, Yates! I’m g-gonna kill yer-yer damn yellow dog!”

Andy knew this was a fight to death, but how was he going to break such grip? If only he was not weakened from the loss of blood, he could bash in his opponent’s face. Millbaugh bent Andy backward. His foot touched the floor. With the last ounce of strength left in him, he brought the knee forward into Millbaugh’s groin. Millbaugh howled from pain, relaxing his grip. Andy slid downward and out of the viselike grip to the floor. He saw Millbaugh grab a piece of firewood from the fireplace and start to swing downward. He threw his arms across his face and faded into total darkness.

The first thing that Andy was conscious of was the chirping of birds. Next, he saw a sunray streaming through a window at the foot of where he lay and that the lace curtains were fluttering in the breeze. It was so soft where he lay that his first thought was that he was reclining on a soft white cloud. Becoming more aware of his surroundings, he discovered he was lying flat on his back in a soft, downy bed. It was so much more comfortable than the hard army cot he was accustomed to.

He rolled his eyes about, still dazed; he could not think, but he was gazing at a ceiling of white plaster. Observing the ceiling and its outline revealed that he was in a small cubical room. It started him thinking it a prison. But he rolled his eyes downward and discovered the walls were papered in a faded rose-colored print and spotlessly clean. He began to think, a soft down bed, plastered white ceiling, wallpaper on the walls—for sure it was a hospital.

As he lowered his eyes, he could see pictures on the wall and trinkets here and there. A little farther down, he could see a marble-top dresser. On it a tumbler half filled with water and a large round bowl with a pitcher in it. He could see set between these objects two or three bottles, evidently containing medicine. What had happened? Was he in a hospital? Andy still a little dizzy, his eyes moved to one corner of the dresser. There lay a holster containing a revolver. What! It was his? He started to rise, with thoughts of retrieving the pistol, but a red-hot, burning pain shot across his left side, causing him to cry out. He grasped his side while slowly lying back in bed. He found it bandaged tightly.

He was possessed with a moment of fear because his surroundings were strange and he could not vision what happened.

He heard a step, and the door swung open gently. Immediately Andy’s mind reflected on the fight. He had seen Millbaugh coming at him with a piece of firewood then the crack of a pistol. Andy screamed, “Molly!” Somehow he knew she was there even though he could not see her.

“Yes” came a soft answer as Molly stepped to his bedside, taking his hand as she peered into his face. “And how is the sergeant today?”

“I-I don’t know,” he answered. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You’re at the Pines in Molly’s house. You’re in no immediate danger, so be calm and be quiet,” she ordered.

“What do you mean, ‘no immediate danger’? Have I been in battle? Did I get shot? Am I a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” questioned Andy.

Gently Molly said, “Before you get those answers, you have to be quiet and calm down. Yes, you have been shot. Yes, you are a prisoner. Yes, you were in a battle. The wound is not dangerous. You will recover. You must not talk or get excited.”

Molly could see by the puzzled look on his face that he did not remember the tragedy of two nights before. Letting go of his hand, she sat down on the side of his bed as Andy asked.

“How did it happen, Molly? Where was the battle? Who shot me? Did you—did you do it?”

“Quit talking,” she commanded in a soft whisper. Getting up from the bed, she tiptoed to the door and cautiously peeped out. She thought she had heard someone come up on the porch. It was only the guard posted outside. Then she returned to the bedside and, in a stern but soft voice, demanded, “You are to keep absolutely quiet. You are not to talk, for the present, anyway. You have a bad wound through your lung that barely missed your heart.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, bringing on a small cough that brought the taste of blood into his mouth. “But-but, Molly, why did you shoot me?”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, I did not shoot you,” she replied. “But I did shoot two of your friends.”

Andy was rubbing his hands across his face as if to clear his vision and spur the return of his lost memory. “Yes, yes, yes, I remember now. I see—I see it now—Millbaugh, but-but there were three of them. You shot three of them, Molly?”

“Someone else shot Toney,” she explained. “I heard the gate slam shut. I got up, lit the candle, removed the revolver from under the pillow, and turned around just as the one they called LaCrosse came through the door. I fired. He turned and fell back through the door. Before I could get another shot, the other two grabbed me. A struggle ensued, and that was the last I remembered. When I came to, the one called Toney was laying across me on the bed, dead. His pistol was beside me. I saw Millbaugh coming with the firewood raised above his head. I grabbed Toney’s gun and fired. The bullet hit Millbaugh under the chin, in the throat, and came out the back of his head.”