Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

Tate sighed and thought for a minute. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a way around the thing he knew he had to do.

“Well?” she said finally. “What do we do?”

“You wait here while I have a looksee.”

“Are you kidding?” Imogene grabbed him by the arm. “This is Arson and Claire we’re talking about. You know they go armed, and they got two others with them. I’ll bet those folks have guns, too.”

“I got one of those myself.” Tate patted his holster. “Now, I want you to promise me you’ll stay put. If you hear any shooting…” He paused, thinking it over. “Damn, if you hear any shooting I guess you’d better make yourself scarce.”

“I hear any gunplay, I’ll head for Fiddler on your bike and bring back the cavalry.”

The very idea of a woman on a motorcycle, especially one in a black slip, made Tate laugh. “This ain’t no toy, darlin’.”

Imogene stiffened. “It just so happens that I got a boyfriend who’s got one.”

“Not J. W.?”

“Hell, no. J. W. can barely handle that goddamn Ford.”

‘You like this other fella better?”

“Not much…” She grinned. “Well, maybe a little.”

“I’ll remember that.” Tate couldn’t figure out what else to say. He felt like a fool, asking Imogene about the other fellow. A jealous fool.

Well, he just couldn’t stand there like some lovesick idiot. He had to do something. He started walking. He wanted to look over his shoulder, get one last look at the little flapper because he knew damn well that he might never get another, but he didn’t.

Imogene called after him. ‘You better not get yourself hurt.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m cooking your dinner tonight.”

Tate smiled, but he didn’t look back.

“Steak?” he asked.

“Steak,” she answered.

Pearl shivered. Ahead in the corn, the vultures were going crazy over something.

All that cawing and screeching raised her hackles. God knew what the buzzards was making a meal of. Pearl didn’t want to know. That was the God’s honest truth.

She figured she’d better go the other way. She didn’t have the stomach for that kind of stuff. That was one of the reasons Pearl didn’t like Claire Ives. Claire never flinched when it came to spilling folks’ blood. Even Pearl had to admit that Claire sure had the stomach for bad business and then some. That’s what the newspapers said, and they were right.

Still, it burned Pearl the way the writers played up that little tart, like she was a movie star or something, when they hardly ever mentioned Pearl at all.

If they only knew the truth. Just lately Pearl had noticed a thing or two that made her think that deep down Miss Claire Ives was just as nervous as your old Aunt Bessie. The little tart was sure enough full of piss and vinegar when it came to spilling other folks’ blood, but she had sure gone and lost her nerve when it came to spilling a little of her own.

Like with the cut on her hand. Stitching it up like that, when it was just a little old cut. Squeezing it all the time and busting the stitches. Why, if Miss Claire Ives didn’t leave that hand alone, it was gonna get all infected and blow up like a damn circus clown’s.

Pearl would like to see that. She’d like to see —

Just ahead, someone screamed in the tall corn. A woman. The sound was something awful. Pure misery.

Maybe it was Claire. Maybe she was hurt —

Oh, lord, but the sound of that scream turned Pearl’s stomach. She didn’t want no part of a scream like that.

For a second, she stood frozen, too scared to run away. Then the sound of gunfire cracked at her like a whip, and she took off like greased lightning. Her goddamn corset was too tight and she could hardly breathe but she sucked the sweltering afternoon air as deep as she could and kept on running as fast as her feet would carry —

Claire fired at the birds. Feathers flew and stray bullets whipped through the corn as the gun bucked in her hand.

She pulled the trigger again and again and again.

Until the gun was empty, and the only sound that remained was her scream.

A tumult of screams and gunfire and black wings erupted from the corn.

“Jesus!” Hank said. “It’s the law!”

Arson didn’t say a word. He grabbed the Thompson machine-gun and tossed the Browning Automatic to his brother, and together they started into the corn.

Arson’s heart pounded like a goddamn drum. If some cracker cop had shot up his Claire while he wasn’t watching…

If the bastards had stolen her from him…

If that had happened there was only one thing Arson Pike wanted.

Blood.

Pearl ran for all she was worth. Oh, lordy, but she hurt. A bullet had knocked her down and another had clipped her when she struggled to her knees, but she had known that she had to get up, even when a third bullet nearly blew her left hand clean off.

Two fingers were gone from that hand, along with her wedding ring. Pearl was hit in the side. And there was something wrong with her neck, which was gushing blood like a garden hose. She didn’t even remember getting hit in the neck.

The woman’s scream chased her through the corn. The gunfire stopped for a moment, but the scream didn’t. It was everywhere, all around her, like the corn and the sky and the clouds and the air that seemed as heavy and hot as blood.

God. Pearl knew they’d done desperate things. They’d killed honest folks. She knew the law hated them. But what the bastards must have done to Claire to make her scream like that…

Pearl didn’t want to know what that was. But she knew one thing — she had to keep moving or she’d end up screaming too. She didn’t know which way to go, but she had to go somewheres. She couldn’t slow down for a second. Else the law would get her is sure as sunshine.

Behind her, the gunfire started up again.

The screaming hadn’t ended.

Pearl ran.

Now she was screaming, too.

By the sound of it, all hell had broken loose.

There was no use waiting. Imogene kick-started the motorcycle. It was a heavier brute than the one she’d learned to ride, the one that belonged to that wildcat of a boy she’d met at the county fair. But then again, the cop outweighed that boy by a good bit, so it was only right that he’d ride a bigger machine.

None of the cop’s weight was what you’d call misplaced, though. Imogene sure hoped that he’d stay in one piece.

Fiddler was ten miles away.

Somehow, Imogene knew they’d be the longest ten miles she ever traveled.

She put the bike in gear and didn’t spare the horses.

Tate moved along the edge of the cornfield, heading toward the road where Imogene had spotted the stolen Ford.

The screams and gunfire had set him on edge. Who knew what the hell was going on in the cornfield. It could be almost anything — a police ambush set up by the local sheriff that no one had bothered to tell him about, or a crazy-brave farmer gunning for reward money, or a thieves’ quarrel turned deadly.

Whatever it was, Tate knew he had to be ready for it. His gun was drawn and he was sweating bricks, trying to fix the newspaper photographs of Arson and Claire in his mind’s eye as he hurried along, trying to remember the descriptions of their accomplices and at the same time get a handle on the situation —