Paxton Pride (18 page)

The sound of pounding hooves and rumbling wheels caught his attention just as he started up the walkway. He glanced along the avenue in time to see a carriage round the corner onto Georgetown Boulevard. Karen's carriage! He forgot the promise of bread and broke into a run as the carriage disappeared around a corner without apparent notice from either Hermann or Karen. The street empty of vehicles of any description, he ran on, oblivious to the pedestrians who stopped to stare at the outlandish figure calling after the long-gone coach.

He rounded the corner only to see the Hampton coach disappear again, this time around a tree-shaded bend in the road leading out of the city proper to the secluded and stately manors of Georgetown. To call out would be useless. There was nothing left to do but follow. He might not be able to overtake the carriage but he'd be damned if he would let the day go by without seeing Karen, even if he had to follow her right up to Barrett Hampton's wrathful door and risk a confrontation with the irate businessman. He settled into a smooth, distance-eating fast walk, a gait he'd learned from the Comanche. And if he cut up Rock Creek and across country, he'd not miss her arrival by much.

Washington was soon out of sight to the rear, as were the last shops and cottages. The boulevard continued alone through a delightfully wooded parkway following the capricious meanderings of hill and valley. Before a half hour passed, Vance came to Rock Creek, his favorite creek since the day he had followed and met Karen for the first time. The banks here looked tended, for the grassy slopes angled gently to the water's edge some twenty feet below the level of the roadway. An inviting scene. Clear, cool water gurgled pleasantly through woods. Vance heard the clatter of horse and wagon overtaking him from the rear just as he started to descend to the path leading to the meadow behind the Hampton residence. He stopped and turned, his hand raised to hail the driver, and saw the motley trio for the fourth time that day. The barrel-laden wagon—moving too fast, perhaps?—slowed as it approached. Suspicion dug tiny heels into him but he continued to hold his hand high. A ride was a ride, he decided, and called out to the driver. “Ho, there!”

The wagon drew abreast, the driver pulling back on the reins. Two of them rode on the wagon seat, the third sat on a barrel in the back. For the first time Vance had a chance to look them over carefully. The driver was an average-looking fellow though his eyes were set mean and close. He wore a pair of filthy canvas trousers bunched with a rope at the waist and a graying linen shirt. Next to him sat a rather good-natured-looking Negro, younger than Vance and built like an ox. His nose was pushed obscenely flat against his babyish face to give him the look of a simpleton. His mouth gaped open. No doubt he had to breathe through it. A roustabout fit for doing what he was told and little more. In the back a short, fat bully sat with legs spread for balance, a Yankee forage cap pushed back on his head to reveal a shining bald pate. He stared at Vance, a little grin on his face.

The driver spoke. “Can I he'p ya?”

“Your horses seem to be movin' faster than my feet. Mind if I ride with you a piece?”

The driver grinned, revealing a row of black stumpy teeth. “Sure. Climb in back with Horace.”

“Much obliged.” Vance stepped to the running board of the wagon and hoisted himself up. The fat man, Horace, rose to offer a hand, and when Vance took it, jerked violently to throw him off balance. Taken by surprise and acting on instinct alone, Vance tried to fall to the side, only to find himself held upright and wide open to Horace's booted foot which swung up and rammed into his right side. A whoosh of air exploded from the Texan's lungs as pain ripped through him. He didn't even see the big Negro twist in his seat and send a ham-sized fist into the side of his head with a blow hard enough to tear him from Horace's grasp.

Only thinly aware of what he was doing, Vance pushed himself from the wagon and fell back onto the side of the road, slammed into the incline and started rolling down to the creek. Barely conscious and fighting for air he let himself tumble all the way down to the water, rolling into the rushing current. Before his head sank for the first time he managed a fuzzy picture of the Negro and Horace descending from the wagon and starting down the slope after him. The shock of the cold water hauled him back to consciousness. He raised his head as best he could, gulped another lungful of air and let himself fall back into the shallows, expelling the air and rising again, continuing the process. To the approaching attackers it appeared their victim was floundering helplessly, badly hurt and so much beaten meat to be pounded even further into submission.

The black man reached Vance first, grabbed a handful of the Texan's matted hair and brutally yanked him upright. Vance rose with the momentum, slamming a fistful of silt and mud into the giant's face. The black man howled and released his hold on Vance, bringing his hands up to claw the filth from his blinded eyes. Horace clumsily sloshed through the water and swung a knotty fist which bloodied Vance's lip and sent him reeling backward to trip over a rounded, loose stone and fall, twisting in order to land face first. It was an unfortunate tactic, Vance realized, as he rolled against the blinded black man. How unfortunate he soon learned, for suddenly the weight of the Negro dropped on him. By the time he figured out what had happened it was too late. He was caught in a strangle hold from behind.

His right side numb, his head still spinning crazily from the original fall, Vance strove mightily but to no avail to free himself. He thrashed and squirmed desperately trying to slip out of the iron grip but the black was too strong, his arms locked into place and immovable. Something dug into the flesh of Vance's leg. He reached down with his left hand and found a jutting length of tree limb which crumbled when he tugged on it. His hand, fingers rapidly growing numb to the point of uselessness, reached again and closed, this time upon a water-smoothed stone, the one on which he'd tripped. His lungs burning with lack of oxygen, his mind striving for a consciousness gradually slipping away, he clawed for the stone and finally grasped it just before the Negro lifted him from the water, his massive black forearm still locked around Vance's throat. “You tries to blind Rufe?” he panted. “Well, it do you no good. Rufe don'ts need ta see ta squeeze.”

“Git him, Rufe. Break his damn Rebel neck!” the fat man screamed.

It felt like an eternity, the time it took to whip his left arm up and smash the smooth round stone into the black man's face. And then suddenly there was air. As much as he wanted. Vance dropped to his knees, his mouth wide open, his body heaving with each gasp. The Negro sat in the stream, bawling out like a stricken calf. “O, lawd, ma' po' nose agin. Horace, he hit ma' nose.”

The fat man lost precious few seconds in covering the short distance to the downed Texan. He aimed a kick at Vance who slid to the side and rammed the rock up into the fat man's groin. Horace shrieked, doubling over and falling back into the creek, moaning and scrambling awkwardly toward the bank. Vance rose and staggered over to the Negro. Rufe had regained his footing but still held his hands to his pulped nose, blood darkening further his dusky face.

The hamlike fist swung out wildly. but Vance blocked it with his weak right arm. He slapped his left fist, still holding the rock, across the side of the Negro's jaw and grimaced with diabolical pleasure as he heard the sound of bone crushing. Rufe collapsed. Felled like a tree, he landed on his face in the water. The creek was only a foot deep, unconscious as he was, deep enough for drowning. But Vance didn't want him to drown. He wanted him to enjoy the full range of pain the next week would bring. He propped the Negro's head up on a nearby jumble of branches and stones and left him blissfully unaware of the excruciating delights the future held in store.

Horace was getting away. The fat man was halfway up the slope, bent and struggling, cupping his injured groin with one hand and pulling himself up with the other. To his immediate dismay the driver, seeing Vance in close pursuit, urged the team forward, turned the wagon in a wide spot on the road and galloped off toward Washington. Horace crawled and cursed him with each breath.

Vance reached him near the top. The terrified ruffian spun about and threw a punch. Vance caught the arm in midswing and twisted it around behind the fat man's back. Horace struggled but without result, gradually ceasing as the hand crept closer and closer to the shoulderblade. Horace screamed.

“Who paid you?” Vance asked.

Horace shook his head. Vance twisted the flopping hand, lifted it higher, forcing the squealing fat man into a little tip-toe dance. “Edgar … Edgar did. Oh, God, you're breakin' my arm.”

“Who is Edgar?”

“I don't know. Jesus, I swear on my pa's grave, may his soul fry in hell. I don't know.”

Vance wrenched the arm higher. Horace screamed. “Tell me something else, Horace.”

“Wha … what …? I swear. I'm tellin'… Oh, God … I know. Edgar, he's … he works in the stables.”

“What stables?”

“I don't know.…”

The arm twisted tighter, nearly touching his neck. “Last chance, Horace. What stables?”

“The Whitakers'! Horace screamed just before his arm popped, the bone broken neatly at the shoulder. The wounded man's eyes bulged from his head, only the whites showing. His mouth fought for another scream but couldn't find it, could find only a rasping gasp of pain.

“Rufe needs help, Horace.” Vance planted his foot in Horace's back and shoved. The fat man tumbled down the slope and splashed into the creek, his broken arm flopping back and forth as he fell, ending up awkwardly behind his back. He struggled fiercely to get his head on the muddy bank and succeeded before fainting.

Vance walked down the slope, and ignoring the two who had so grossly underestimated him, washed the blood from his swollen lip and cleaned his clothes as well as possible before continuing to the Hampton house. A little shakily at first, then growing more determined with each step, he didn't hurry. He wanted to be dry by the time he got there. Maybe Alfred, full of fond expectations, would be there. Visiting. Vance hoped he would be. He wiped the blood from his lip again, feeling the warm sun bake into his bruised neck and shoulder. Only a mile and a half to go. He rubbed his right side, wincing in pain which he drove from his mind the second he realized no ribs were broken. Only a mile and a half. He'd be ready by then. For anything.

Karen leaned out the window and ordered Hermann to drive on around to the stables and carriage house. Having missed her afternoon with Vance she was in a foul mood. Visions of Angie—though she knew they couldn't be true—drifted uninvited through her head. The stables and carriage house would calm her. Karen loved the smell of leather and oiled wood that permeated the carriage house. The smell was intensely masculine, still soft and luxurious. Collars and hackamores and traces and shining polished reins. Horses and hay and straw and grains. A restful smell. A peaceful smell. A smell certain to bring back childhood memories of riding with her father when he was a father and not the chief stockholder and executive of Hampton Trading of New York. A smell to soothe and calm the angry breast. A smell to heal hurt feelings and smooth out frustration. A balm.
Why didn't he come when he said he would?

The carriage clattered through the gates and up the curving drive, then swung abruptly to a stop at the front of the house. Karen drew back the curtain from the window. “Didn't you hear what I said, Hermann?”

“Yes, ma'am, I did.” He gestured to the turnaround in front of the house. Karen looked, her mood instantly changing to one tinged with worry and indecision. Alfred's carriage was pulled up, the big grays standing quietly in the afternoon shade. “I thought they'd probably want you to go inside, Miss, seeing as Mr. Whitaker is here.”

Karen sighed and gathered her purse and parasol as she felt Hermann jump down from the driver's seat. She had avoided meeting Alfred since Tuesday night's abortive dinner attempt in spite of numerous protestations and grinding pressure from Barrett and Iantha who day by day became more and more frustrated, more and more angry with her. The door opened and Hermann held out his knobby hand to help her down. “Thank you, Hermann. I suppose you're right. Whatever he wants, I'd better go on in and get it over with.”

Hermann grinned wanly, for he more than anyone save Retta knew what was going through Karen's head. It was Hermann, after all, who had driven her hither and yon for nearly a week of assignations with Vance. “Yes, ma'am. If I may say so, ma'am?”

Karen stopped and turned back to him. “Yes, Hermann?”

“Good luck,” he said, jerking his head toward the house.

“Thank you, Hermann,” she answered warmly. She turned again and walked to the front of the house, her head high in a show of defiance and determination not at all matching her new mood. With Vance beside her she would have faced any confrontation gladly. But she was alone. Vance had not kept their appointment. He had let her down. Perhaps he was preoccupied with business. Well, what could be more important than her and the love they shared? Didn't he realize she was tired of the constant tension she faced in her father's house? He got off easily. He didn't have to contend with the stares, the silent, interminable, pained recriminations.

Retta greeted her at the front door, duster and polish rag in hand. Her eyes rolled toward the back of the house when she saw it was Karen. “Where you been, chile? Mistah Whitaker here to see you,” she said in a loud whisper. “He done been here an hour already.”

“I saw his carriage. Where is he?”

“He said fo' me to send you out in de side garden.”

Karen sighed deeply, removed her hat and placed it and her purse on the stand. “Are you going to wish me luck too, Retta?” she asked.