"He could say kill the bastard," the instigator of the violence announced casually as he lit another cheroot.
The man with the burned face recovered from his shock and directed his anger at Hedges, sending a straight right low towards the captain's solar plexus. Hedges chopped down with the edge of his hand on the wrist and launched a kick towards his attacker's groin. Both connected and the man yelled and staggered back as his partner landed a vicious punch to Hedges' neck. He staggered to the side, feeling the pain ricochet around the inside of his skull like a solid object.
"And, he said, painfully."
One of his attackers had not yet been hurt, and Hedges' mind, working coolly in spite of the pain, demanded that this roughneck had to be taken first, while the other nursed his injuries. Hedges turned to face square on to the advance, his eyes narrowing to slits as he saw the flash of a knife.
"Just stick him," the well-dressed man ordered. "Don't kill him—yet."
The knife arm raised high and began its descent. Moving with the speed of an animal fighting for its life, Hedges stepped inside the swing, raising one hand to clutch at his attacker's wrist while the other went up behind the descending arm to grip his own wrist. Pain sent the man bending backwards as Hedges applied pressure—but not fast enough. The arm snapped like a twig at the elbow, making a similar noise that became lost under the onslaught of the scream. The knife clattered to the sidewalk and as Hedges stooped to snatch it up he sent a knee hard into the man's groin and threw him crashing backwards into the bank wall.
"Break!" he muttered as the man sailed away from him. He heard a heavy footfall behind him and spun. The second man, in a half crouch, his expression pained, was coming at him with fists flailing. Hedges had to take two blows on his shoulders as he leaned forward and thrust the knife deep into the chest, feeling the hilt change direction as the point glanced, off a bone. The man sighed and closed his eyes. His body went limp as he crumbled and Hedges withdrew the knife, a crimson fountain erupted. "Makes your heart bleed."
"I have to do everything myself!" The words were as soft spoken as any he had previously used and when Hedges spun to face the spokesman he had not altered his casual attitude. Only his expression had changed and his thin features showed distaste as his eyes flicked over the slumped forms of his strongarm men. But as Soon as Hedges took a pace towards him, he was galvanized into action. His body stiffened and the fresh cheroot arced away from him. The hand which had rejected it continued on its upward line of travel, halted for a moment at the rear of his neck and then came forward, gripping something that gleamed with a dull sheen. A grin split his mouth as he saw the flicker of bewilderment cross Hedges' face.
"Pa was a barber," he said evenly as he took a step to the side.
Hedges moved in the opposite direction, recognizing the weapon as a cut-throat razor with a four inch blade. "Guess he was a real demon."
"Gave a man a close shave," the other said conversationally, taking a further side-step in the tight circle around the dead man. "But I get closer still. Specialize in the short and curlies."
He made a threatening lunge towards Hedges' lower stomach. Hedges recognized it for what it was and did not back off. They came full circle. The man with the broken arm regained consciousness and groaned. Nobody looked at him.
Hedges went forward, leaping over the crumpled body and slashing sideways with the knife. The other man sucked in his stomach and sprang backwards, into the street. The grin altered the line of his mouth again. "Fast But not fast enough."
He feigned to the right, then came forward on the left. The swing of his arm was blurred and, as he withdrew, Hedges felt a warmth on his thigh. He glanced down and saw a three inch long slash in his pants. The cut began to sting, but was not deep enough to sap the strength from his leg.
"Real sharp," Hedges complimented.
"Yes." The move to the right was not a feint this time and as Hedges was fooled the razor found flesh again. His other leg spilled blood—from higher up, dangerously close to his manhood. "The end of your end is near," the man said and allowed a laugh of pure enjoyment to rip from his lips.
"You mean I'm going to have it off?"
"With knobs on, Yankee."
This time he relied entirely on his speed, coming in straight and low, preparing to make the final slash with a mere wrist action. Hedges kicked his feet forward and up, the toes of his boots smashing into the knees of his attacker. He hit the ground hard and threw his torso backwards, thrusting upwards with the knife as the razor came down, now aimed at any target available. The man was falling towards him, his expression showing fear for the first time. The razor cut through Hedges' tunic close to the hip, but didn't touch flesh. The knife went into the man's throat, the force of the thrust and the weight of the fall driving it deep. Hedges twisted it viciously. The man gurgled and vomited blood. More blood issued from the wound where the knife point came clear at the back of the neck. Hedges pushed the limp body from him and got painfu1ly to his feet, stood for several seconds breathing deeply of the morning air as he waited for the tension to drain from him. Then a sound on the sidewalk caught his attention and he looked over there to see the man with the broken arm trying to get to his feet. He picked up the fallen razor and moved across to stand watching.
"You killed 'em," the man accused, his voice a croak.
"Wasn't very hard."
"I didn't see nothin', captain," the man pleaded. "I wasn't even here."
"Wrong," Hedges answered. The razor cut through the air and so sharp was its edge that there was hardly a sense of resistance as it slashed across the man's throat. He slid down the wall into a sitting position. "You were here. Now you ain't."
He turned and went to the well-dressed man. He used the razor again, to slit through his elegant suit jacket, vest and shirt collar. Beneath, he found a long pouch of hand-sewn leather, hanging down the man's spine and held in place by a beaded cord looped around his neck and tied in front. Within moments he had relieved the dead man of the pouch and transferred it into a similar position around his own neck.
Then he moved away, buttoning his tunic, as the first sun of the new day threw long shadows from the slumped figures of the three men. Three cats watched him curiously as he made practice draws with the razor. Then they turned and sped away, recognizing perhaps a streak of animal viciousness in the man's gesturing.
"Scaredy cats!" Hedges called after them.
*****
"WE'RE goin' to get him out of here," Thomas Hope said with determination as he looked down at the peacefully sleeping man.
"But if the sheriff's on his way like ma says…"
The father was not normally a harsh man where his family was concerned, but the look he turned upon his son was sufficient to silence the boy. Thomas was short and thickset, with the powerful shoulders of a man who has worked hard for most of his fifty-some years. He had an open, honest face, with dull black eyes which hinted at his lack of intelligence. His son was several inches taller and although his face bore a strong family resemblance, nature had subtly rearranged the features into more handsome lines and added a polish of brightness that advertised a fine, if undeveloped mind.
It was early evening at the farm, the sky darker than usual because of the low cloud which was thinning but still hiding the sun. The men had arrived tired and hungry with a stock bull and forty-six cows. They had been looking forward with pleasure to their homecoming every hard step of the way from Kansas City. But the story Margaret Hope had told and the sight of the man on the bed replaced their feeling of exhaustion with a sense of foreboding. This was stronger in the elder man and emerged as anger.