Although his eyes remained narrowed, his smile now became a wolf-slash of a grin on Silas’s lips while he said, “You ’member when y’ grabbed hol’t of my arm last fall, Scratch?”
His head bobbed once, not sure what meaning Cooper’s question had. “Yeah. I ’member. When you was fixing to kill yourself a mule.”
The grin widened in the black beard as Silas licked his lower lip. “Do y’ recollect what I tol’t you back then ’bout ever laying a hand on me?”
“Never forgot that, Silas,” he said, the furrow between his own eyes deepening in consternation at the confusing direction things were taking. “But I ain’t never laid a hand on you—”
“Y’ go an’ put your hands on what belongs to Silas Cooper,” he interrupted with a bellow like a buffalo bull in the rut, “y’ might as well gone an’ put your hands on Silas Cooper his own self!”
Without any more warning than that, Bass found himself shrunken in the big man’s shadow, seized, and flung backward with both powerful arms—smashing against the wide trunk of another old pine.
The breath driven out of his lungs a second time, shaking his head free of the mind-numbing stars, Titus remained helpless as Cooper yanked him up, held him out at the end of his left arm, and drew back his right arm.
“Silas!”
Cooper turned at Turtle’s screech.
“Don’t hurt ’im, Silas,” Billy pleaded too. “He don’t know no better. We can teach him. Swear we’ll teach him—Bud an’ me.”
But Silas shook his head, looking back at his two partners. “You can teach him, sure y’ can. I don’t doubt that a bit. But only after I’ve teached him my own self—”
Hanging there in the giant’s grip, Bass flung out a fist, connecting with Cooper’s left temple. God, did that ever hurt his knuckles, he thought … watching Silas turn back to look at him now, his marblelike eyes blinking a few times in surprise. Then flecking over in reddening anger.
“Why—the hairless pup got him some sand after all, boys!”
And the stars burned a fiery path through Bass’s mind as Cooper’s fist connected with the side of his head. It felt like he’d been kicked by one of them big draft Morgans.
Somewhere off in the distance Scratch heard men shouting, watched shadows and colors blur and swim before his eyes as he was yanked back up from the ground. This time Cooper drove a fist savagely into the pit of his belly. He stopped breathing, it hurt so bad. Then a second time the fist collided with his belly, and a third before Silas let Bass collapse onto his knees.
Titus huddled there, heaving slightly, waiting for his coffee to come up. But there wasn’t enough of that in his stomach. Only angry yellow bile spewed fiery torment at the back of his throat as he fought for breath. Struggling to breathe against the pain in his ribs, slowly he raised his face to look up at the fuzzy apparition stepping over him.
“Don’t kill ’im, Silas!”
“Shit, Billy,” Cooper cried back with genuine joy as he snagged hold of Titus again, started dragging him to his feet once more, “I ain’t got no druthers to kill the man.”
Then he brought a wide left jab rocketing in to crash against Bass’s jaw. Like the head on a stuffed doll, Scratch’s skull flopped to the side, then back loosely. He could feel the teeth loosen and sensed that thick syrup of blood on his tongue. How salty it tasted.
“Don’t wanna kill him,” Cooper said as he switched hold of Bass now, drawing back his right arm, cocking it like the hammer on a huge weapon. “Why, this feller be our best trapper, boys! Wouldn’t do to kill him, would it?”
Titus felt his nose crumple as the fist smashed against his face, blurring his vision, sensing the hot blood oozing from it over his mustache and onto his lips as Cooper let go and he sank to his knees.
“Tell ’im, Silas!” Tuttle pleaded, daring to take two steps closer to the savage beating where Bass knelt, gobs of blood seeping from nose and mouth. “Goddammit—tell ’im!”
“Tell ’im, Bud?” Cooper asked with an innocent sound to it, then suddenly brought the-toe of his moccasin up brutally beneath Scratch’s bloody and bearded chin, snapping his head backward with such force that it all but drove his body off the ground in an arch as he sailed into Cooper’s packs.
Tuttle continued, “C’mon, Silas. He didn’t know.”
Cooper wheeled on Bud, his knuckles red, scuffed from the beating he was giving Bass. “Sumbitch’ll know now, won’t he?”
“He’ll know, Silas,” Billy promised, trying that infectious gap-toothed smile of his. “B-but you don’t let ’im be, he cain’t catch no furs.”
Cooper stood over Scratch in that next moment, his shadow crossing Bass’s face. Titus blinked up, trying to focus, sensing that the blood was pooling at the back of his throat from both nose and jaw. Knowing too that if he didn’t get off the ground, he might well choke. Then it suddenly didn’t matter because Silas drove his foot right into Bass’s belly.
Titus doubled up, drawing his legs up reflexively, lying on his side in a fetal lump and coughing up blood on the hard, sharp pine needles that dug into the bloody side of his face.
“Maybeso they’re right, Scratch,” Silas snarled after he knelt right over the bloodied man, putting his face down within inches of Bass’s.
Vainly, courageously, Titus tried to raise an arm, if only to push the cruel face away. In such utter pain, he found he didn’t have any strength and dropped the arm with an agonized gush of air from his puffy, battered lips. As bad as his bones and belly felt, it was his spirit, the very heart of him, that hurt all the worse: lying there, beaten so badly without giving a good account of himself. Not like it had been back in St. Louis. Oh, for sure he had usually been beaten in those days of wenching and brawling, and beaten real good upon many an occasion. But such thumpings had always come after he had given back just about as good as he was forced to take—able to acquit himself honorably in those wharfside tippling houses and knocking shops.
But this … Bass spit blood out with his swollen tongue, the needles plastered to the sticky side of his face, and his stomach wrenched with more burning bile … this beating he was taking at the hands of the man who had come along to teach him how to trap, how to winter up, the man who had shown up to teach him how to keep his hair in the far mountains, was something altogether different.
This hadn’t been any test of bloody knuckles between two drunken sports full of liquefied bravado simply out to prove one another’s mettle. Nor had this been the sort of senseless bloodletting, robbery, and mugging that naturally occurred in the darkened back alleys and narrow lanes of any river town back east. No, indeed—that look on the big man’s face, the sheer gleam of it in his eyes, why—the very way Silas had driven his maul-sized fists into the flesh of Titus Bass showed him just how much Cooper had enjoyed handing out that beating.
It made Scratch all the sicker as he lay there in the dirt and that bed of decaying pine needles, unable to pick himself up, dust himself off, unable even to crawl back to his own damned blankets, all the sicker to have seen the deep vein of passion ignited in Silas.
Titus had just been on the receiving end of something very cruel, very brutal—and ultimately very, very personal.
How glad he was when the blurry face and the man’s hot breath finally pulled back and Titus no longer had to stare up through his puffy eyelids at the taunting vision with its pitiless, crooked slash of a smile.
But just as Bass was celebrating that tiny flicker of momentary victory, Cooper grabbed a handful of Titus’s hair, slowly dragging his head back so that he was again forced to look up at his tormentor. The face loomed close again, so Bass strained to stare instead across the camp as well as he could, unable to focus with the blood seeping in his eyes—yet able at least to see the two standing there, watching Cooper hunker over his fallen victim like a wide-shouldered, predatory vulture.