Читать книгу A Knife in the Heart - William W. Johnstone - Страница 20

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The expression on Buster Jenkins’s face was exactly what Fallon was hoping for. So was the laughter from the big brute. That’s why Fallon threw the first punch into the jaw of the thin man with the iron bar.

That was the most dangerous man, Fallon estimated, and the one that needed to be dispatched first.

The blow sent the man turning, dropping the piece of iron on the floor, and bending over while spitting out teeth and blood. Fallon kicked him hard in the buttocks, catapulting him through the plate-glass window. Shards of glass showered the floor inside and the boardwalk outside as the man disappeared from view.

“What the hell—” was all the weasel could say before Fallon whirled, swinging a haymaker with his left that caught the side of the weasel’s face and powered him over an empty table and crashing into two chairs. Body and furniture rolled over the floor.

Fallon backed up quickly, avoiding the rushed swing from the burly man, who glanced at Buster Jenkins as he tried to push himself off the floor, only to bump his head against another table. He roared in pain, in frustration, and kept rising, overturning the second table—and that one had not been cleared of its plates and glasses, which crashed into hundreds of pieces on the floor.

By then Fallon had picked up the iron bar the skinny one had dropped on his way through the broken window. Fallon shot a quick glance. That man had not emerged, but Fallon knew he would need to keep an eye out for him, for that one carried a holstered revolver—and Fallon figured he knew how to use it. Buster Jenkins also had a gun, but he was so mad, so shamed, so shocked by Fallon’s initial attack, he appeared to have forgotten that he had a pistol stuck in his pants.

People across the street stared at the café.

Fallon brought the bar up, like a bat, and swung. He could have aimed for the big man’s head or neck, but Fallon had no interest in killing anyone today. This was not a prison riot, a brawl. This was not—at least for the time being—a fight with hardened men with a kill-or-be-killed attitude. This was just, well, a little welcoming party from three thugs who thought they could have a little fun, get some revenge, by whipping the arse of a former lawman. They didn’t know Harry Fallon.

To men like the weasel and his pards, a deputy U.S. marshal never threw the first punch, never initiated a fight. They were paid to keep the peace, maintain law and order. They didn’t start brawls, especially in respectable businesses in a thriving, law-abiding community like Leavenworth, Kansas.

They did not know Harry Fallon. Not at all. They did not know what Fallon had been doing for much of his life. Being a federal lawman in the Indian Nations had taught Fallon a lot about staying alive—but being in Joliet, in Yuma, in Jefferson City, and in Huntsville had taught him much, much more.

The gunfight outside the Stockgrowers’ in Cheyenne had revived those almost dormant instincts after all those years pushing papers and pens across his desk as a U.S. marshal. Fallon wasn’t quite as rusty as he might have been.

The bone in the big man’s thick arm snapped loudly. In fact, for one brief instant, Fallon thought the thin man had found his revolver and had fired a shot. But the blond-bearded giant screamed loudly and reached out with his left hand. That’s when Fallon lowered the rod, tapping the floor with one end, then quickly jerked it up, catching the brute between the legs, right in that sweet spot.

His mouth widened like his eyes, and he sucked in a silent breath as what little Fallon could see of his face began to whiten. Fallon let go of the bar, stepped in close, and threw four quick punches, driving the man into the first booth on the far wall. The man fell against the bench, slipped onto the floor, and began muttering nonsensical words, basically blubbering like a baby.

“You dirty dog.” Buster Jenkins was standing now. And he remembered the gun in his waistband.

The weasel had the gun out, but the hammer was not cocked, when Fallon slipped between overturned furniture and buried a left in Jenkins’s stomach. Jenkins’s mouth opened, the pistol dropped onto the broken dishes, and Fallon stomped on the man’s left foot with the heel of his own boot. His knee then came up, again connected with the groin, and at the same time Fallon pushed the weasel’s head down while his knee went up again. Jenkins’s forehead connected with the knee, and Fallon shoved him, unconscious, onto the floor.

Now Fallon whirled around, glanced at the big lug underneath the booth, mumbling like some blithering idiot. Fallon moved through the door, turned to his left, and saw the thin man on his hands and knees, still spitting out blood, shaking his head, likely wondering how this day had turned out so bloody wrong. A quick glance across the streets detected no police officers in sight, so Fallon stepped off the boardwalk and came up to the thin man’s side. He jerked the still-holstered revolver from the holster, spun the gun around, and brought the walnut grips down on the thin man’s head. The man let out a moan and fell onto the bloody planks of the boardwalk.

A whistle shrieked, but it seemed pretty far away, so Fallon returned inside the café, laid the revolver by the cash register, picked up the weasel’s gun, and set it by the thin man’s revolver.

The giant kept blubbering on the floor.

Fallon stared at the cook and the waitress with the gray hair. Massaging his knuckles, he spotted a booth on the other side of the café. His boots crunched glass and shards of crockery before he slipped into the wooden bench. Again, he looked at the small man with the dirty apron and the old waitress.

“Coffee would be nice,” he told them. “I’m sure the peace officers will want some, as well.”

Fallon was sipping coffee when the first constable arrived.

“What’s going on here?” the mustached man asked the cook in a thick Irish brogue.

The cook tilted his head toward Fallon.

“My name’s Fallon,” he said. “Harry Fallon. I’m the new warden here. But these three men are for you. At least, for the time being.”

* * *

Christina was reading a storybook to Rachel Renee when Fallon came through the front door. He rubbed his knuckles, but they were just scraped.

“Papa!” his daughter screamed with delight.

The book closed, and Christina said, “Well?”

“I don’t think we should go back to that restaurant anytime soon,” Fallon said, and knelt as Rachel Renee charged toward him, leaped into his arms, and he swept her up as he rose.

“It wasn’t that good anyhow, Papa,” Rachel Renee said. “The waitress didn’t even bring me a lemon drop.”

“Did you ask for one?” Fallon asked.

“No. But I never asked for one at Kate’s place in Cheyenne, and I always got one. Can we go see the town now, Papa?” Rachel Renee pleaded. “You promised.”

“I don’t see why not,” Fallon said. “It’s what we planned to do all day. Although”—he smiled at Christina—“we might stay clear of the street closest to the river.”

“That’s fine with me, Papa,” Rachel Renee said. “I want to find a place with toys.”

Fallon kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Well, Rachel Renee, we can look. But I don’t think you need any new toys right now. But you might see if you like anything because your birthday will be coming up in a few months. And you have plenty of toys right now.” His eyes found his wife. “And we might want to skip roast beef and steaks for a while for supper. Eat rather frugally. At least till I collect my first paycheck.”

“They fined you?” Christina asked.

“Just damages,” Fallon said. “I mean, I couldn’t argue. I threw the first punch.”

“And the last one, too,” Christina said.