Ball and Chain (14 page)

Hank shook his head.

Clint sighed and leaned his head against the bedpost. “Can I at least have some water and maybe something to eat? My head's killing me from where you knocked me out.”

Glaring down at Clint with a face that was an unreadable mask, Hank let out a slow, measured breath. Just when it seemed the old man was about to shake his head and grouse some more, he nodded. “I can get you some water. Maybe a little grub to go with it.”

“Mighty neighborly of you,” Clint said.

Hank obviously didn't know what to make of the friendly tone in Clint's voice. He turned away from the bed, took a few steps toward the door, and then rushed back to get a look at Clint. When he saw that Clint hadn't moved a muscle, he grumbled to himself and left the room for good.

Clint kept his head back and his eyes closed. That way, he wasn't distracted by the sight of the wall or hints of sunlight coming through the square window. It was easier to concentrate on the sounds drifting through the room. What he was most interested in were Hank's steps and eventually the subtle squeak as the old man carefully opened the door. Keeping his eyes closed, Clint thought back to the last time he'd been outside the cottage. It took a few moments, but he remembered there had been a water pump just outside and to the right of the cottage's front door. Since that was on the opposite corner of the bedroom, Clint allowed himself to make a bit of noise as he stretched and scraped to get his hands loose.

The ropes were fairly well tied, but Clint had been pulling at the knots from the moment he'd regained consciousness. His wrists burned and his ankles felt as if they'd been snapped within his boots, but he'd managed to give himself a little more slack than when he'd started. Taking advantage of the time when Hank was outside, Clint shifted his weight until he could curl his legs closer to his hands.

Unfortunately, he still wasn't close enough to get to the knife in his boot. He knew the slender blade was still in its spot because he could feel it against his ankle. Knowing it was there may have been comforting, but getting the knife in his hand was going to make him feel a whole lot better. Mostly, Clint was grateful that Hank was such a piss-poor jailer.

Wincing at the noise he was making, Clint knocked the side of his boot against the floor a few times. He did his best to time it to the screeching coming from the rusty pump handle outside, but still expected to hear Hank rush back into the cottage at any second. When the old man didn't hurry back, Clint kept working the knife out of its scabbard.

After shaking his leg a few times, Clint felt more like a dog wagging its tail. As ridiculous as it may have looked, he was getting the job done. The slender boot knife was slipping free, thanks to the fact that he kept it loose in its scabbard anyway so he could get to it in a pinch.

The squeaking from the pump handle stopped.

Hank's heavy steps pounded against the porch and would carry him into the cottage at any second.

Clint gave his feet one last knock, which was enough to drop the knife from his boot. He pulled a few muscles along the way, but Clint was just able to straighten his legs out again and use them to cover the knife on the floor before Hank walked in.

“Here's some water,” Hank said as he held a dented ladle to Clint's mouth.

Most of the water spilled down the front of Clint's shirt, but some of it managed to get down his throat. Clint was grateful for the water, but he was more concerned with Hank catching sight of the blade or knife handle protruding from under Clint's legs.

“You want more?”

As much as he wanted another drink, Clint shook his head. “No, that'll do.”

“How about I fix you some eggs? It's all we got.”

“That'd be good.”

Hank studied Clint for a few seconds before grunting and turning his back to him. The old man's footsteps stopped a bit short, so Clint resisted the urge to move his legs.

After a few more seconds, Hank grunted again and stepped out of the doorway. Whatever the old man had been hoping to see, he hadn't seen enough to keep spying.

The moment Clint heard pans rattling from the other room, he stretched his arms to loosen the ropes tying him to the bedpost and scooted the knife closer.

The square window overhead was dimming as the day wore into night, but Clint wasn't paying much attention to it. Hank grumbled to himself as he stomped about the cottage, but the old man seemed more concerned with his daughter than his prisoner. In fact, after throwing some eggs in the general direction of Clint's mouth, Hank had spent the better part of the day muttering at the front window.

Clint lost track of his knife after kicking it a bit too hard one time, but he'd loosed his ropes enough to get hold of it once he knew where it had landed. After that, he'd whiled away the hours getting the knife in hand and positioning it so he could rake the blade against his ropes. The next snag Clint had hit was the discovery that Hank Mason was smart enough to use quality rope.

The thick lengths that had cut into Clint's wrists weren't snapping as quickly as Clint had hoped once he'd put the knife to use. In fact, Clint started to wonder if the blade was having any impact at all. Just to be certain it was, Clint tried to tug the knife side to side instead of back and forth. The blade hardly moved, which told him it was within a groove of some sort. It wasn't much, but it was better than if he'd realized the blade hadn't even cut through the bindings. Gritting his teeth, Clint got back to work.

As soon as he started in again, Clint heard Hank's familiar stomping steps rushing toward the bedroom. Clint hadn't realized the old man could move so fast, and it was all he could do to try to close his hands around the knife before it was discovered.

When Hank came into the bedroom, he was carrying his shotgun. The moment he was close enough, Hank stuck both barrels under Clint's chin and snarled, “Where is she?”

“I haven't left this spot,” Clint protested.

“Don't give me any bullshit! Ellie's been gone all goddamn day, now where did she go?”

“I . . . don't . . . know.”

It seemed clear that Hank wasn't satisfied with that response. Clint strained against the ropes to try to snap them because the old man looked mad enough to pull his trigger no matter what came out of Clint's mouth.

Suddenly, the squeak of the front door's hinges caused Hank's ears to prick up. Turning quickly enough to crack the shotgun's barrel against Clint's jaw, he stormed into the next room.

Clint had to get out of there and he had to do it now. The only reason he'd been so easy on Hank was because he could understand why the old man had gotten himself so worked up. He also figured that Hank knew he was in too deep to just let Clint go. Either that, or Hank was just too stubborn to do so. Either way, Clint was convinced he'd be safe until he got himself out.

All of that changed when Clint saw the angry fire in Hank's eyes. Judging by the voices coming from the next room, that fire wasn't about to die down anytime soon.

“Where the hell were you, little girl?” Hank roared.

Despite the rage in her father's voice, Ellie's remained chipper. “I went to buy a new dress.”

“All this time to get a dress?”

“And I went to Clint's boardinghouse. I saw my flowers and they were so pretty!”

After a sputtering pause, Hank asked, “What in the blazes is wrong with you? Are you touched in the head?”

“Of course not. Is Clint still here?”

“Of course he's here. Where can he go?”

“He's still tied up?” Ellie cried. “You said you'd let him go! You promised!”

“After Mike got back to—”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” With that, Ellie's lighter footsteps fluttered toward the bedroom.

Clint didn't bother hiding the knife, since his renewed efforts had dug the blade in twice as deep as it had been before. He looked toward the door and did his best to keep her looking at his face instead of his hands. “Have you talked any sense into your father?” he asked.

“Pa's real upset,” she whispered. “But I have good news.”

“What?”

“I met a man and I think he's . . . I think . . . I know I felt something the moment I saw him. He felt it, too, and I'm meeting him for—”

“What?” Clint bellowed in a voice that boomed almost as much as Hank's. “Just get me . . .” Dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, Clint said, “At least get that shotgun away from your father. After that, I don't care what you do or who you meet.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“Do you want to be married to me?” Clint asked.

She winced and lowered her eyes. “I don't want to hurt you, but—”

“Neither do I,” Clint snapped so he could finish her meandering thought. “Give me a chance to get out of here and we can both be on our separate ways. I also suggest you get the hell away from that crazy father of yours.”

Seeing the confused look in Ellie's eyes, Clint had to wonder if Hank hadn't been right about one thing at least. Her being touched in the head, even just a little, would go a long way to explain a lot of things. Finally, she collected herself and straightened up. There wasn't as much confusion in her eyes, but Clint wasn't about to take comfort from that just yet.

“I'm leaving,” she declared.

Clint's jaw dropped as Hank walked into the room. Both of them tried to put some words together, but Ellie cut them off.

“I need some time to figure something out,” Ellie said. “Pa, I want you to let Clint go. If he runs away from me now, he'll only run away once we're married.”

“No, he . . . I mean . . .” But Hank wasn't able to refute his daughter's point. In fact, it seemed all the holes in his hasty plan of action were now showing through like a fishing net that unraveled after a pivotal strand had been cut.

“Fine,” she snapped. “I'll do it myself. If you want to stop me, then you'll just have to shoot me.” With that, Ellie knelt down beside Clint and reached for the knot that was positioned on the back side of his wrists.

Before she could get close enough to see the knife he'd been hiding, Clint set it down and pushed it under the bed. To cover the sounds, he shifted his weight and made sure to kick his heels against the floor plenty of times in the process. As a way to explain his sudden squirming fit as well as provide a bit more noise, Clint asked, “What's going on here? He's just going to shoot me the first chance he gets!”

“No, he won't,” Ellie replied. “I'll guarantee it. Won't I, Pa?”

Hank was too flustered to speak, but he wasn't about to shoot his own daughter. Rather than agree or disagree with Ellie, he stormed away.

“You trust me, don't you Clint?” she asked as she pulled at the knot.

Now that he didn't need to cover any strange noises, Clint nodded and quietly replied, “Sure. Just think about what you're doing.”

“I am thinking. That's why I need some time.”

Ellie got the ropes loose and had done the same for Clint's ankles by the time he'd shaken free of the ropes around his wrists. When he managed to get to his feet, Ellie was already gone.

Within seconds after he stood up, Clint nearly fell back down again. After sitting for so long in the same position, the only thing he could feel in his legs was a throbbing pain. With the ropes having been so tight around his ankles, his feet were nothing but deadweight inside his boots. Steadying himself on the bed with one hand, Clint wheeled around to face the heavy steps that came at him like a one-man stampede from the next room.

“This is your fault, goddammit!” Carrying the shotgun in front of him, Hank roared as he flew at Clint.

Clint reacted out of instinct and reached for the shotgun with both hands. He started to lose his balance again, but not until after he'd grabbed the double-barreled weapon and shoved it toward the wall. When he fell onto the bed, Clint maintained his grip and let his momentum rip the shotgun completely from Hank's grip. When he rolled to the other side of the mattress, Clint prayed his legs would support him.

“What are you gonna do now?” Hank snarled, “You gonna shoot me? Go on and shoot me!”

Having gone from squirming on the floor to jumping up and fighting to pull away the shotgun, Clint's breathing was hard and ragged. The feeling was coming back to his feet and legs, but they still felt as if they were being worked over by scores of cold needles.

“I don't want to shoot you!” Clint said. “All I want is—”

Before Clint could finish his sentence, Hank lowered his shoulder and charged. “Fine, then,” the old man grunted. “Your mistake.”

Clint didn't think to pull the shotgun's triggers, even though that would have been a real quick end to a real bad day. He didn't even get a chance to rethink his position when Hank slammed into him and took Clint off his feet.

Both men rolled onto the bed and fell off the other side in a heap. Clint hit the floor on his shoulder and swore under his breath as his arm jammed awkwardly into his body. Fortunately, it wasn't the arm that had so recently been stitched.

Hank wrapped his hands around the shotgun and tried to reclaim the weapon for himself. While he was able to pull the shotgun closer, he couldn't break Clint's hold on it. He gritted his teeth, leaned back, and pounded his knee against Clint's ribs.

The blow emptied Clint's lungs, but also spurred him on. He crumpled to play up how much it hurt, waited for Hank to move in for another shot, and then snapped his right shoulder toward the old man's chin. It was a glancing blow at best, but it shocked Hank enough to give Clint some room to move. Both of them struggled to get back to their feet, which meant they inadvertently helped the other one up.