Alone, Book 3: The Journey (14 page)

     But, then again, Dave had never known John Savage. If he had, he might have felt differently.

     So Dave discarded the notion of trying to overpower the old man. Instead, he chose a different option, placing both hands up in a show of surrender and apologizing.

     Perhaps the old guy would be more apt to reason with him if he knew he was the alpha male, and totally in control of the situation.

     Dave knew that with some men, control was the ultimate high. And he didn’t mind taking a subservient role to the man with the gun if it helped him get out of the predicament he was in.

     Besides, if he went peacefully, there was a good chance he’d meet a judge or a magistrate who would be a bit more open minded.

     “Move it,” the old man commanded.

     He gestured with his non-gun hand, pointing up the street toward the center of town.

     Dave followed instructions, and walked down a sidewalk overgrown with weeds.

     After a few hundred yards, he drew a breath of relief as he finally saw other people. He’d been starting to wonder if the madman holding the gun was the only living resident in what would otherwise be a ghost town.

     As it turned out, the relief he felt was unfounded.

     “Well, well, whatcha got there, Chief?”

     The words came from a tall rail of a man, wearing a University of Texas baseball cap. The cap was as worn and dirty as he was.

     “Got me a thief,” Savage replied with some disgust.

     The voices in the street drew some attention from some of Blanco’s other residents. A curtain fluttered here and there.

     In a small apartment over the town’s hardware store, a window opened.

     Another old man, a squat accountant-type, asked, “What’d he steal?”

     Savage commanded of Dave, “Show him boy. Show him what you stole.”

     Dave slowly placed the backpack on the sidewalk and zipped it open. He took out the alternator and folded the flap over the top of the battery so the others could see it.

     The fat man cackled.

     “What is that, a generator and a battery? What in the hell are you gonna use those for?”

     Dave wanted to say, “It’s an alternator, you fat son of a bitch.”

     But he remembered his promise to Lindsey. And he knew instinctively that these men were the same ilk as the police chief. So he held his tongue, deciding not to inflame the situation.

     Savage nudged him in the ribs, with a revolver that was still cocked. Dave somehow knew that Savage’s finger was on the trigger, and hoped it wasn’t too sensitive.

     “Answer the man, boy!” Savage growled.

     Dave wasn’t about to tell these men he had a working vehicle. So instead he repeated the same lies he’d told to Savage a few minutes before.

     “I need an anchor for my fishing boat. I figured I’d tie a rope around the alternator and use it, since it ain’t much good for nuthin’ else.”

     He was hoping that maybe, by his talking like a hillbilly, it might curry favor with this crowd. They might consider him one of their own.

     He went on.

     “I was gonna use this here battery to make sparks, to start my campfire so I could cook my fish. Y’all are welcome to come join me if you like.”

     The thin man walked menacingly up to him.

     Dave’s efforts to curry favor had clearly failed.

     “We don’t cotton to no stealers around here, Mister. Even if they steal stuff that ain’t worth a diddly damn to nobody else.”

     He reached behind him and drew a Glock handgun from a holster behind his back.

     A handgun Dave previously hadn’t known existed.

     A bead of sweat broke on Dave’s forehead. For the first time he realized this was a situation he might not survive.

     At that same moment another man walked out of a storefront.

     A hulk of a man, he reminded Dave of a linebacker. Younger than Dave, and built of solid rock, he appeared to be two hundred and eighty pound of pure muscle.

     So much for meeting a reasonable judge or magistrate.

     “So, Chief, Whatcha gonna do with him?”

     Savage made a big show of chewing on the question before answering it. He took a lot of pleasure in knowing that all eyes were on him, as everyone awaited the man’s fate.

     And he enjoyed even more that Dave’s life or death was his choice, and his alone.

     “Well, I fined him five hundred dollars, gold or silver, but the sumbitch ain’t got it. So I reckon we’ll just have to show him what we do with thieves who can’t pay their due.”

     Dave had only a moment to wonder what Savage meant.

     At least with a clear head.

     For as soon as Savage finished uttering the words, Dave felt a blinding blow to the back of his skull.

     The thin man with the Glock had hit him hard with the weapon, just behind the right ear.

     Dave’s legs went weak, then wobbled, then gave out.

     He went down to his knees and fought hard to stop the blackness from overtaking him.

     Then he was kicked hard, right in the teeth.

Chapter 28

     The kicks were coming fast and furious. So were the blows with the aluminum softball bat the fat man was swinging.

     He seemed to take great delight when he’d land a solid blow against one of Dave’s knees or hips. He found that the bat gave off a sharp “ping” when connecting with something of substance, not unlike the sound it once made when connecting with a softball.

     Dave had lost his share of bar room fights in his youth. And he’d been shot at in Iraq, and even been within a hundred yards of an IED when it exploded.

     But he had never taken this severe of a beating.

     And never before had he been so certain he was going to die.

     The worst part of it was, he was helpless. He couldn’t fight back. He was on the verge of losing consciousness, seeing only a strange mixture of inky blackness and bright white stars in front of his eyes.

     If he couldn’t see his attackers, he had no chance of landing a blow of his own.

     And his arms and legs weren’t working anyway. They were little more than limp noodles, worthless to him.

     Well, almost worthless.

     The one thing he was able to do was to curl up in a ball, using his limbs to try to shield his head and midsection. He somehow seemed to sense that the blows would do much more harm against his skull and internal organs.

     At the same time, though, another side of him wasn’t worried much about the organs. That side of him was praying that since he was going to die, he would go quickly.

     That side of him wanted to get this over with.

     The back of Dave’s head was bleeding profusely, as all head wounds are wont to do.

     But that wasn’t the only place he was losing blood. He’d been dragged into the middle of Main Street by the linebacker, so that those townsfolk who were watching from behind their curtains could get a good show.

     The dragging opened up a second bleeder on Dave’s forehead, and road rash all over his arms and legs.

     One blow after another he endured, wincing or grunting each time. The bat came down hard on the forearms covering his head. He thought he felt one of the bones in his left arm snap, as though it were a twig.

     Oddly enough, though, the snap wasn’t associated with any significant pain.

     His arm, by that time, had already lost any semblance of feeling.

     He didn’t know who was wielding the bat now, unaware whether they were passing it around to let everyone share in the fun.

     All he knew was that whoever was repeatedly beating his arms, trying to make them fall away to gain access to his skull, was trying to kill him.

     He thought of Sarah.

     And the girls.

     He’d let them down.

Chapter 29

     Dave had given up.

     He knew he was going to die, on a dismal street in the middle of someplace called Blanco, Texas.

     He just didn’t know how much longer he’d have to endure the beating before his world went mercifully black.

     He hadn’t noticed the window above the hardware store being slammed shut.

     Hadn’t noticed that the shadowy figure behind the window came scurrying down the stairs and onto the street.

     Hadn’t noticed that the figure raised a Remington Model 7615 Ranch Rifle in Dave’s direction and fired off a round.

     In fact, he never even heard the shot. It had come at the exact moment he endured a vicious kick in his left ear with Linebacker’s boot.

     But the others heard it, and all activity came to a sudden halt.

     The boot to his left ear was the last blow Dave would have to endure.

     The shot wasn’t intended for Dave.

     Rather, the bullet found its target in the pavement mere inches from Linebacker’s other foot.

     All heads immediately turned toward the figure, who still had the rifle raised and was ready to take another shot.

     Savage was the first to finally find his tongue.

     “Now, you stay out of this, Red! This don’t concern you.”

     Red raised the weapon and turned it to the right. It was now aimed directly at Savage’s ample and wrinkled forehead.

     Savage winced.

     Dave, still wavering between blackness and daylight, was grateful for the respite but had no clue what had caused it. He thought he vaguely heard someone say the word “red,” but was probably mistaken.

     Red didn’t agree with Savage’s assessment.

     “Any time I see a murder being committed, it damn sure does concern me. And I’m damn sure gonna stop it.”

     The fat man spoke.

     “The Chief’s right, Red. This ain’t none of your concern. Go back to your window and watch, like everybody else who’s smart enough to mind their own business.”

     Red was unfazed.

     “All of you. Take off your weapons and throw them away from you. I’m not gonna ask a second time. If I have to ask a second time, my Remington’s gonna do it for me.”

     The men in the street all complied. Even Savage, who was none too pleased about it.

     Red didn’t care.

     “If anybody is gonna die here today, it ain’t gonna be some city slicker for stealing things that nobody else has a use for anyway. If anybody’s gonna die here today, it’s gonna be you, John Savage.”

     Then Red turned back to the fat man before continuing.

     “Unless you’d like to volunteer to die in his place, Brady.”

     The fat man swallowed hard and shut his mouth.

     Red backed toward a tall Morgan tied to a post in front of the hardware store and continued to address the group.

     “There’s been too much dying in this town already. Too much of people shoving others around, just so they could feel better about themselves and their lot. It’s time somebody got the balls to put a stop to it.”

     Linebacker scoffed.

     “And I suppose that somebody is you, Red? Seriously?”

     Red turned again while pulling the reins down from the big horse and saddling up.

     The rifle’s sights were now pointing at Linebacker’s chest.

     “I’ve got nine bullets left, Billy. How many of ‘em do you want?

     Linebacker had no more words.

     But he did have a job to do.

     Red said, “Now you lift that city slicker up and put him behind me. And you better be damn gentle with him. You’ve hurt him enough already.”

     Linebacker did as he was told.

     “Now, put that stuff back in that backpack and hang it here, on the saddle horn.”

     Again, Linebacker did as he was told.