* * * * *
I was back on my feet, somehow. Pig Eye lay sprawled before me. I heard
him whining as though from a great distance. Dunger stood six feet
away, the ring of black beard spread in a grin like a hyena smelling
dead meat.
"His back's broke," he said. "Hell of a sound he's making. I been
waiting for you; I wanted you to hear it."
"I've heard it," I managed. My voice seemed to be coming off a worn
sound track. "Surprised ... you didn't work me over ... while I was
busy with the arm."
"Uh-uh. I like a man to know what's going on when I work him over." He
stepped in, rapped the broken arm lightly with the club. Fiery agony
choked a groan off in my throat. I backed a step, he stalked me.
"Pig Eye wasn't much, but he was my pal. When I'm through with you,
I'll have to kill him. A man with a broken back's no use to nobody.
His'll be finished pretty soon now, but not with you. You'll be around
a long time yet; but I'll get a lot of fun out of you before the Baron
gets back."
I was under the trees now. I had some wild thoughts about grabbing up
a club of my own, but they were just thoughts. Dunger set himself and
his eyes dropped to my belly. I didn't wait for it; I lunged at him. He
laughed and stepped back, and the club cracked my head. Not hard; just
enough to send me down. I got my legs under me and started to get up--
There was a hint of motion from the shadows behind Dunger. I shook my
head to cover any expression that might have showed, let myself drop
back.
"Get up," Dunger said. The smile was gone now. He aimed a kick. "Get
up--"
He froze suddenly, then whirled. His hearing must have been as keen as
a jungle cat's; I hadn't heard a sound.
The old man stepped into view, his white hair plastered wet to his
skull, his big hands spread. Dunger snarled, jumped in and whipped the
club down; I heard it hit. There was flurry of struggle, then Dunger
stumbled back, empty-handed.
I was on my feet again now. I made a lunge for Dunger as he roared and
charged. The club in the old man's hand rose and fell. Dunger crashed
past and into the brush. The old man sat down suddenly, still holding
the club. Then he let it fall and lay back. I went toward him and
Dunger rushed me from the side. I went down again.
I was dazed, but not feeling any pain now. Dunger was standing over
the old man. I could see the big lean figure lying limply, arms
outspread--and a white bone handle, incongruously new and neat against
the shabby mackinaw. The club lay on the ground a few feet away. I
started crawling for it. It seemed a long way, and it was hard for me
to move my legs, but I kept at it. The light rain was falling again
now, hardly more than a mist. Far away there were shouts and the sound
of engines starting up. Mallon's convoy was moving out. He had won.
Dunger had won, too. The old man had tried, but it hadn't been enough.
But if I could reach the club, and swing it just once....
Dunger was looking down at the old man. He leaned, withdrew the knife,
wiped it on his trouser leg, hitching up his pants to tuck it away in
its sheath. The club was smooth and heavy under my hand. I got a good
grip on it, got to my feet. I waited until Dunger turned, and then I
hit him across the top of the skull with everything I had left....
* * * * *
I thought the old man was dead until he blinked suddenly. His features
looked relaxed now, peaceful, the skin like parchment stretched over
bone. I took his gnarled old hand and rubbed it. It was as cold as a
drowned sailor.
"You waited for me, Old-Timer?" I said inanely. He moved his head
minutely, and looked at me. Then his mouth moved. I leaned close to
catch what he was saying. His voice was fainter than lost lope.
"Mom ... told me ... wait for you.... She said ... you'd ... come back
some day...."