Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (47 page)

Mr. Dupont grappled with his attackers, desperate to regain control of this mad situation, but it was of no use. For among Mr. Dupont’s many personal weaknesses was his lack of muscular strength. Until recently, he had compensated for this with hired security, whom he had not been able to pay, and who had eventually wandered off in search of new employment.

Mr. Dupont cast a desperate glance in Cherie’s direction to see that she retained her hold on Evelyn, but Cherie’s screeches filled the room as she struggled against another pair of vigilantes. After the first two men had stormed the stage, a host of others followed. They freed Evelyn, who staggered a couple of bird-like steps before fainting altogether. Josephine was beside her in an instant, stroking the tangled hair away from her face and taking her clammy hands in her own.

Once Mr. Dupont was detained, Lucius closed the distance between himself and the woman he had married. She was incoherent as he lifted her in his arms, her body useless against the intoxicants it had been administered.

            Furious, Mr. Dupont struggled against the arms that held him back. His fortune, his salvation was being taken from him, and he could do nothing,
nothing
to stop it. The grips that held him would not loosen. Were not these men just bidding on the prize they now worked to set free? What the devil had gotten into them? Mr. Dupont was not the bad guy! He was only providing a service, and a valuable one at that! It was
that
man, Lucius Flynn, who sought to steal everything for which they had come! How did anyone know Lucius’ claims were true? He could very well be lying, and Miss Brennan was hardly sober enough to know the difference. Besides, she was drunk on absinthe, and absinthe could create wonders in the mind. For all she knew, she was married to the president of the United States. If Dupont’s establishment had any hope of salvation, it was in one of two things: either his customers must believe Lucius Flynn was lying, or Lucius Flynn must pay the price for Evelyn Brennan.

            As things stood, Lucius Flynn was taking Evelyn Brennan without proof
or
purchase.

            “You cannot take her!” Dupont screamed after him. “You have no proof! How are we to believe she is your wife?”

Lucius kept walking, and the onlookers did nothing to stop him. They did not seem concerned with legitimate or illegitimate claims, for it was not their ruin that rested on the outcome of this fiasco.

Mr. Dupont’s voice climbed in pitch and severity.

“Stop!” he cried. “You must stop! You must pay the price!”

            At this, Lucius did stop. He turned and looked Mr. Dupont in the eye, as all others in the room held their breath.

            “Before God,” Lucius spoke, “this woman is my wife, and her price has already been paid.”

            The Duponts watched hopelessly as their scheme was doomed to public failure. The audience cheered, for although they had come for a different show all together, this one was not so bad. In the end, no man had a better chance of winning Evelyn than any other. They were all just spectators as the play unfolded; with the stage director a malevolent fraud, the courtesan an innocent damsel in distress, and the victor a man acquainted with the deepest, most desperate form of selfless love. How could they not be pleased when the battle was won, when love saved the day, and when the hero walked away with his prize? It was a very different ending than what they had anticipated, but brothels were common in these parts. Stories like this were not. And whereas a brothel made a man forget the woman he left behind, this scene inspired tears of homesickness for the arms that were once so familiar, but were now so distant and cold. On this night, many handkerchiefs would be dampened, many words of encouragement given, and many letters home would be written, all on account of what they had witnessed, and the emotions that had been stirred that night in the Buck’n Burro.

            Mr. Dupont watched with despair as his customers dispersed into the night. He knew it was the last time he would see any of them step foot in his establishment again. For all his hoping, for all his conniving, this night had come to nothing, and as his attackers released him, he felt one of their hands slip into his pocket. It was a fleeting sensation, as the hand was removed as quickly as it had come, and with it, the weight of the senior Mr. Dupont’s watch was alleviated. The thief disappeared into the throng of departing spectators, with Dupont staring blankly after him, watchless.

            The Duponts remained, steeped in the acute sensation of their demise, while their eating house emptied into the streets of Panama City.

Within the audience was one head that stood above the rest, and it moved with speed through those who otherwise took their time.

            Brock Donnigan was not accustomed to having his plans thwarted, and he would not allow this small hiccup to put off his desired conclusion for long. Sliding and dodging through the crowd, he pursued Lucius Flynn. As he gained proximity, Josephine sensed him, and placed a hand upon Lucius’ shoulder. They were surrounded by a hundred others, so Lucius thought nothing of the touch until he heard Brock call his name.

            Lucius stopped.

He nearly turned around, but thought better of it. The desire to walk on was too strong. He had Evelyn in his grasp, and she had barely escaped the clutches of devastation and ruin. He would have lost her if Josephine had never found him, and that reality tasted potently of the fear of what might have happened, what
would
have happened. It made Lucius shudder. In the end, losing his fortune was not quite enough to destroy him. But losing Evelyn would have been more than he could bear.

He resumed his pace, ignoring the possibility that Brock had called his name. After all, there were a hundred men nearby, all shouting something or another, clapping Lucius on the back, congratulating him, offering apologies.

“We didn’t know she was your wife.”

“So sorry for what happened.”

“Is she all right?”

            He ignored them, his will bent upon getting Evelyn safely back to camp, where she could rest and the other women could look after her. Whatever the Duponts had done to Evelyn, her body was wrecked and wasted. The poor girl hung limp as death in his arms, and she was his only concern. Not any other. Not even Brock Donnigan.

Whatever Lucius had done, whatever mistakes he had made, whatever troubles he and Evelyn had encountered, he was ready to move on. Right now. They could leave their troubles behind, forget about Brock Donnigan, about the money, about the near-catastrophe of the Buck’n Burro. He didn’t know how they would manage, but Lucius was determined to find a way. Borrow. Barter. Work. Somehow, he would climb out of the grave he had dug, and things would be better. Whatever it took, he would make sure of that.

            But then Brock Donnigan called Lucius’ name a second time. He was closer now, his voice harsh, demanding, and unmistakable.

            Lucius slowly came to a halt and squeezed his eyes shut.

            How could he be so foolish as to believe he could simply walk away?

            Brock Donnigan was a problem. Brock Donnigan was a disease. And what Lucius Flynn had just done had not treated or assuaged him. Lucius had only served to aggravate him.

            As hard as he had fought it, as much as he had ignored it, resignation washed over Lucius.

            This must come to an end, and the end did not look like Lucius taking the prize and Brock giving up. Brock would not relent until he had what he wanted, and what he wanted was the very thing Lucius held in his arms. The only thing Lucius had left.

            Evelyn.

The sea of men parted between Brock and Lucius, whose back was yet turned.

Josephine stepped to the side, her eyes trained on Brock. He felt uncomfortable in her sharp gaze, but he had never felt at ease in her presence. With her peculiar irises, dumb lips, and healing hands, he thought of her as a freak.

And it was slightly unnerving to have the freak stare at him.

He shrugged her off and decidedly ignored her. After all, Josephine was only a child, and Brock hated children.

Especially that Irish boy.

            “A duel,” he demanded, pointing a finger at Lucius’ back.

They were the only two words he spoke.

            Yet they were enough to cause Lucius to turn.

            A duel. A fair opportunity for both men to find retribution.

            In the past, Lucius had known men who had dueled. Proposals were made over offenses as large as stolen property and as small as an insult to one’s pride. The main objective was to regain one’s honor, which was often accomplished once a formal apology had been issued, after the challenge to a duel had been accepted. The point of the duel would be made, the opponents would shake hands, and both would walk away absolved of their offenses and affirmed in their courage, nobility, and honor.

            If the apology was declined and the duel ensued, it was not common for either opponent to be killed, as guns with faulty aim were often the weapons of choice. However, blood was sometimes demanded, and if one was not satisfied with a simple wound to the arm or leg, he would be within his rights to have his way with the wounded.  If the offense was too great to be absolved with anything less than death, the victor could finish off his opponent by whatever means he wished.

            Lucius was never in favor of dueling. It was not his style. Lucius liked to cause trouble, leaving his victim irritated, and yes, in pain, and that was usually enough to satisfy him. If the matter was not settled then and there, he might run away. Why not? But a duel was far too organized for his taste. If he wanted to kill a man, he was not about to warn him, much less give him equal opportunity to wound, maim, and kill Lucius as well. Where was the sense in that? Why was it not enough for a man to simply insult another man and walk away? Wasn’t the insult the point?

            Lucius felt tired. One did not simply propose a duel and have the end of it. Arrangements had to take place. Brock would choose a man to be his second, and Lucius would choose a man to be his, and then the seconds would confer together. First, apologies must be issued. Lucius was not entirely sure whether he was supposed to apologize to Brock or vice versa. It really didn’t make much difference to him anyway, because he was not about to say he was sorry and he knew Brock’s vocabulary was probably limited in that regard. Then, the time and place must be chosen, and weapons must be selected. It was a process, and after the day Lucius had just survived- albeit barely- the last thing he wanted to do was plan his own or someone else’s destruction.

            Besides, what honor did Brock Donnigan possess in the first place? Brock Donnigan didn’t give a fig about honor. He just wanted to kill Lucius, and that within the boundaries of the law. He wasn’t about to best Lucius only to be sent to prison. Brock wanted to enjoy his spoils.

            “To the death,” Brock added, as if confirming Lucius’ thoughts.

            Yes, of course. A duel to the death. That was the only way this match could be ended, for even though Lucius was ready to walk away, Brock was decidedly not. Brock Donnigan never walked away. Not without his prize.  This would not end without blood; and if Lucius wanted it finished, a duel it would have to be.

            “To the death,” Lucius repeated. He nodded once, and for the first time in his life, he felt all the fight drain out of him. 

            Brock nodded as well. It was decided.

            “I will send you my man,” he told Lucius. “He will be at your camp within the hour.”

            Nervously, the onlookers shifted their gaze to Lucius. He looked wretched, his skin sallow and transparent, his eyes dark, his brow fallen in resignation. In his arms, Evelyn remained unconscious, like a wilted rose.

            “And my man shall be ready for him,” he replied.

            He turned once more, and began to walk away, when Brock called to him one last time.

            “I should thank you,” he said, “for interrupting the auction. I could have spent a fortune on your wife. But tomorrow, you’ll be dead, and I’ll have her for the price of a bullet. Funny, isn’t it? Enjoy your last night with her, mate.”

            To everyone’s surprise, Lucius kept walking. It was the little maid, Josephine, who stopped and turned to stare, facing the taller man with her burning eyes. His breath caught in his throat, as the look on her face was terribly fierce, and for a moment, he forgot she was a child. He took a step backwards, while those who watched closely could swear they saw a flash of fear in Brock Donnigan’s eyes.

            Satisfied with the effect she had had on him, Josephine turned and walked on.

            Only hours before, he would have never imagined things would come to this.

            Lucius Flynn was walking back to camp.

            Hours before, the thought of facing his friends was impossible. He would not do it. He would not take this walk of shame: head down, heart heavy, tail between his legs. He would rather drown at the bottom of the sea.

Because hours before, he had only thought of himself.

Poor Lucius. You lost your fortune. Poor Lucius. Brock Donnigan got the best of you. Poor Lucius. Your luck has run out.

Poor Lucius, this had been the longest day of his life. How could he have known, when he woke up that morning, that things would come to this? Everything for which he had ever worked and loved hung in the balance. California was forfeit along with his fortune. There was no leaving Panama now, not until he secured work, a loan, or a sponsor. Even now, though his mind was elsewhere, he could feel the weight of this new burden bearing down upon him. His bones were weary. His eyelids sagged. His stomach churned, and his head pounded. When was the last time he had eaten? Or taken a draught of water?