The Hound of Hell Page 15

  “Renault listen to me. You’re walking into a trap.”

  “I know they won’t kill me outright. Not in that saloon. Proximus and King Aleksandr will want credit for capturing the Hound of Hell. They wouldn’t spoil their moment of triumph by eliminating me before a proper execution. You ken?”

  Duelyn sighs heavily and looks at Renault with doleful eyes. “I see I can’t stop you from showing up, lad. But for Christ’s sake take all the precautions you can muster for getting yourself out alive. At least promise me that.” He pleads as he grabs onto the lapel of his jacket, a little too forcefully.

  Renault nods. “Ai, Franklin. Set watch and warrant it. I’ll take every precaution.”

  Duelyn’s heart warms with his old name mentioned much like a child would when hearing their pet’s name. “Been a long time since I’ve heard that name, Cailyn. Warms the heart to hear it. Your father would have been proud of you were he here.” Duelyn’s voice breaks at the mention of it.

  “Then together we would see this deed done and see vengeance fulfilled.”

  “Ai,” replies Duelyn.

  “I need to go” states Renault.

  “Ai. You do indeed. I hope to see you again.”

  Renault smiles. “Ai. Take care of yourself.”

  “And you as well,” answers Duelyn. They shake as brethren with forearms outstretched in a partial hug.

  Chapter 25: Showdown at Barnsby’s

  In the heart of Pillar’s Cove, Drake, Daliance, Ghange-Rhu, Kilroy, and Wyker, enter Barnsby’s Saloon in Terra-Gaulia. A faint whiff of air breezes through the double doors. The welcoming waft of flowery perfume, spirits and soldiers’ body odor hits them in the face.

  The Terra-Gaulian soldiers occupy about a quarter of the seats. They sport the dark blue wool frock coats which hang down to their waist. Black leather belts and purple pants complete the ensemble. The brethren look at each other with the same rueful expressions and shake their heads in a disconcerting gesture.

  They have the same questions on their minds. Are we walking into a trap? And what has become of Renault? And what will become of him if he shows his face here? A plethora of attractive waitresses and courtesans in revealing clothing wait on the men. The gents grow intoxicated with each passing hour.

  One girl takes special notice of Drake. She is a beauty and looks somewhat familiar, but he can’t place her. She is young, for this place. Her blue sequined skirt clings to an adolescent body beginning to blossom. A white laced blouse hangs loosely around her arms but shapes her bosom. A bead of sweat trickles down her neck and she wipes it with a handkerchief. This produces a stirring in his extremities. She couldn’t be over sixteen, though she has a special air of confidence for someone much older.

  She winks at him. Drake smiles and tips his hat.

  The brethren notice the many soldiers on each side of the saloon. These soldiers have a clear view of both exits. They appear to be robust, calculating and alert. Why are they so alert when the rest of the patrons have let down their guards? Drake can only guess that it does not bode well for any of them.

  One stalwart gentleman sips at his bourbon pinter with leisure, while glancing at his cards. He opens a pocket watch and glances at the clock. For what reason? The 7:00 appointed time?

  Drake looks down at the man’s feet and sees an extra-long saddlebag. The bag is long and narrow, like one that you would hide a rifle in. An ice-cold chill runs down his spine. Drake shakes it out like a dog who found himself soaked in water.

  The men walk through the main hall since they cannot locate Whalen. They enter the next rambling vestibule and the next anteroom. As expected, two tables of Terra-Gaulian soldiers sit at tables. They guard the two exits out of that part of the saloon.

  The other brethren look at Drake knowingly. They saw the same thing. Their eyes immediately go to the center of the room. A large circular table sits in the middle. In four of the seats are Whalen, Terranimo, Rober the usurper, Cutswayne and Fallon.

  Drake wants to draw his speed shooter and start blasting away at them, Whalen first. But that would do little to help their cause and would only speed up their demise. Besides, he must be more subtle than that.

  Instinctively, he reaches inside his pocket, hoping he put some small weaponry inside. To his surprise, Drake discovers some pop rocks Renault gave to him earlier. A smile erupts with a contentious glare. At least it’s something.

  Whalen waves them over and smiles as if they are old friends reuniting after a long journey. They walk over to Whalen and stand before his table, wearing the same contentious expressions.

  “Sit down, gents. Take a load off,” says Whalen amicably. Drake looks at the other men and nods. For now, at least, he oversees those who remain loyal to the Merlin.

  Whalen puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles at one of the waitresses. The women look over with measured indignation.

  “Good evening, Sai,” she says in a sultry, listless voice. “What can I do for ya?”

  “Bring me two bottles of your best whiskey and a scorching Felipe Royal Alespritz.”

  “Right away, Sai.” She turns to go. As she does, Whalen fires out his hand to grab her ass. As he does, Drake seizes Whalen’s hand, twisting it painfully. Whalen cries out and points his gun at Drake. Drake draws his gun and points at Whalen. They cock their weapons at the same time.

  “Enough!” shouts Daliance. “We’re here for business. So, let’s finish this business and avoid a fucking shootout. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in enemy territory here.”

  Whalen and Drake holster their guns with reluctance as they eye each other.

  Whalen rings out his hand and scrunches his dramatic face. “Fuck! What the hell? This is supposed to be a celebration.”

  “Just what the hell are we celebrating here?” questions Drake.

  Whalen throws back a shot. Drake and his men give each other a subtle nod. He’s permitting himself to get buzzed. Whatever he’s planning, he has help. And plenty of it.

  “We completed our mission, brothers,” says Whalen.

  “No thanks to you,” mutters Ghange-Rhu.

  Whalen laughs. “Of course. Renault told you that. Right? I’m the bad guy here. The boogeyman who betrayed you all.”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious,” says Daliance. “Someone sold us out.”

  “And I’m the likely culprit, right? Because our self-proclaimed leader has fingered me. He must be right. The all-knowing, all-powerful Renault. The hand of the Merlin,” he says in a grandiose, sarcastic tone.

  “If the stirrups fit,” says Drake.

  “Stirrups may fit a lot of men, brother. It don’t make it their horse. You ken?” offers Whalen.

  Drake laughs. “You trying to tempt the devil, Whalen? You know what game we’re in. We’re all privy to your tactics of self-deception. Besides, we’ve used them before and we’re well versed. Try to convince us the noses on our faces don’t exist. We know better.”

  “Do you now? Seems to me you have been led astray by the greatest deceiver of us all. Renault. While fingering me, did he happen to tell you all he murdered one of my contacts on a killing spree? Tillip Dinsmore? Oh no, of course not. He so conveniently left that part out.”

  Kilroy and Daliance raise their eyebrows. “I didn’t know that,” replies Daliance.

  “Of course not. Renault wants to lead this group for his own and rid himself of any competition. That would be me.”

  As Whalen goes on his rant, Drake observes two of the soldiers in the corner of the exits. These men feign card play and drinking, while surreptitiously guarding the exits and waiting for a signal. Now, those same two soldiers passed out from too much drink.

  A small smile flickers from the corner of his lips. In that moment, he knows Renault lives and is planning something.

  As he looks at Daliance and Kilroy, a sense of deep foreboding sets in. They appear to be receptive to Whalen’s assertions. Not good.

  Drake searches and notice
s a group of cattle ranchers dressed in stained ponchos. They appear to have just come in from the fields and have the smell of it. Cow and oxenule shit waft up from them.

  One looks much older than the others. He walks with a bit of a limp and at first glance appears decrepit. He dresses similarly but wears an eye patch. He barely makes out the scar which extends from the eye to the middle of his cheek. Poor sap. It was a common injury among the men of such rough trade.

  But on closer inspection, he appears overly scrutinizing and observant, taking everything in. His black slouch hat is pulled way down on his face. It is as if he is trying to conceal his identity, perhaps? That scar appears authentic, but is it? Only an up close and personal inspection of his face would reveal if it was or not. Though he walks with a limp, something appears slightly off about him. He appears to be blending in as subtly as possible. Drake nods. One helluva disguise he thinks. Be ready for anything.

  Was that his voice?

  While Whalen rants, the young, beautiful waitress he had seen earlier comes back with their orders. Whalen is too busy talking to notice, but Drake notices. She puts their two bottles on the table but shoves the alespritz closer to Drake. She nods the slightest bit to him. He takes the signal.

  “Thankee,” he says.

  “Ai,” she replies.

  “You all know that Renault, if he is still alive, is the most impulsive of killers,” Whalen says. “He simply can’t help himself. It’s his nature. And it will lead us to ruin. That I promise you, brothers. He’s undermined us from the start. The Hound of Hell. We are his unwitting minions, doing his bidding. God only knows what our true missions are. Only the great Renault receives orders from Merlin, while us underlings accept him at his word. He has always been at war with the Terra-Gauls. I tell you he is using us to achieve those goals. He’s the real traitor here.”

  “Easy to lampoon and condemn a man who isn’t here to defend himself,” notes Wyker.

  “He’s never steered us wrong before. I see no reason not to trust him,” Ghange-Rhu says. “You and your men weren’t there. Renault risked his life to save a mother and her children. He didn’t have to do that. But he didn’t hesitate. Not once. That’s what I call gumption. Grit. Hell, some would venture to call it integrity.”

  Whalen shrugs. “Well, that’s admirable. He made an attempt at atonement. Good for him. Still don’t change the facts he is the one that led us to ruin. And, our goddamn near failure on this mission. He’ll always lead us to ruin. It’s his way. His destiny. You want to follow him? You’ll follow him right off a fucking cliff. To your own undoing. Your fucking choice. And if he were here, I’d tell it to his fuckin’ face.”

  The decrepit old cowpoke saunters up to the table. Drake laughs out loud.

  “What’s so fucking funny?” questions Whalen.

  “You wanted to tell him to his face?” Drake asks. “I think you just did.”

  Whalen looks to the left. He doesn’t recognize the man until he looks closely at the eye not covered by the patch. Somehow the son of a bitch snuck in here, wearing a disguise. Goddammit.

  “Hello, brother,” Renault says.

  Whalen’s heart trip-hammers. Fortunately, his training and instincts have taught him well. As it is with seasoned killers, things happen lightning fast, within the blink of an eye.

  Whalen reaches for his pistol on his left side, but he is not fast enough. Renault grabs his hand and slams it into the table and plunges his knife in it, impaling it. Whalen wails as Renault slams his head on to the table. The cartilage in his nose cracks and emits a spray from it.

  As Renault raises a second knife to Whalen’s ear, Terranimo and Rober spring up. They tackle Renault, slamming him against the floor. Renault coughs and sputters as Terranimo slugs him repeatedly in the stomach. While wrapping his legs around Renault, Terranimo squeezes the breath out of him.

  But as Rober edges closer to knock him out, Renault violently bucks up. Renault snaps out his foot with the force of a coiled viper and connects painfully with Rober’s groin.

  Drake and Wyker try to intervene. But they are held in check from the large number of Terra-Gaulian soldiers who reach for their revolvers. From the exits and the anteroom, many of them surround the table with shotguns. Helplessly outgunned and surrounded, Drake and Wyker look at each other and reluctantly raise their hands in submission.

  As Terranimo loses his grip on Renault, Renault takes advantage by bucking up again on the floor. He bends his back almost unnaturally, pushing Terranimo forward. As he falls back, Renault raises his legs, closes them around his neck, and slams him against the floor. The air is knocked out of Terranimo.

  Renault wants to apply maximum pressure to break his neck. But then an ear-deafening gun-blast blows a hole through the roof. A chunk of the ceiling expels and likely a hole through the second story. “Get him up! Now!” yells an authoritative, burly voice.

  Renault sighs and knows exactly who they mean. Terranimo and Rober pull their shooters from their holster and point it at Renault. They hoist him up roughly.

  “Get on your knees! Now!” shouts Captain Wilford Buckley of the Terra-Gaulian Fifteenth.

  Renault looks at his gun belt and glances at Drake. Drake subtly shakes his head. Don’t do it.

  Before he is under arrest, Drake removes the label from the alespritz quickly and reads it. Dammit, I wish I had read that earlier, he thinks.

  The captain cocks the hammer. Renault reluctantly gets down on his knees.

  The captain keeps a safe distance. “You two,” he says as he gestures at Terranimo and Rober with his rifle. “Shackle him. And then very carefully remove his jacket, gun belt, and any other weaponry he has on his person.”

  Terranimo and Rober take the heavy chains, shackle his feet and cuff his hands around his back. To search Renault, they take off his jacket, throw his gun belt and revolvers to the captain. Probing through his pockets, Terranimo finds tiny daggers, steel wire spools, throwing stars, and a miniature methane lighter.

  With one hand, Whalen removes the knife from his hand and cries out in excruciating pain.

  When they feel they have gotten everything, Terranimo and Rober look toward the Captain. The men level their shotguns and revolvers at Renault. “I think we’ve gotten everything.” says Terranimo.

  “Not quite!” yells Whalen.

  He walks over to Renault as he cradles his hand against his stomach. He stands in front of Renault and gloats. He takes hold of Renault’s hair and finds the braid that doubles as a lock pick. He pulls it from Renault, and he swings viciously into his stomach, causing Renault to double over. As he does, Whalen drives his fist up into Renault’s face. He drops to the floor, unconscious.

  “Get him up! Jeffrey, smelling salt.”

  Jeffrey takes some smelling salt and places it under Renault’s nose. As he comes to, Renault looks at Whalen with a threatening smirk. He laughs at him. “That’s the only way you’re going to get one over on me, chum.”

  “The next time I see you, you’ll be hanging on a cross.” Whalen moves closer to him and speaks in a hushed tone. “And I’ll have the distinct pleasure of wiping off that fucking smirk from your face.” Whalen walks off.

  “It’s a date then,” says Renault.

  The men point their guns at him, half expecting him to try something. “Renault Jacobs, alias Tyco Cobb, alias Van Kell, alias Cailyn Woodsbury, alias Conrad Foyner, alias the Hound of Hell, I’m placing you under arrest.”

  “For what?” Renault asks with a smile.

  “For the murder of Tillip Dinsmore.”

  “I guess you could say we didn’t quite see eye to eye,” chides Renault. As Drake laughs, a soldier takes the butt of his gun and slams it into his back. Drake falls against the table. He coughs and arches his back painfully. “Fuck!”

  A soldier cocks his rifle. “Anybody else think this man is so fucking funny? Huh? Speak up now!” yells Captain Buckley.

  Buckley removes a list. “You are under arre
st for the murder of Tillip Dinsmore, Creed Evans, James Worth, Jackley Aimsley, Filroit Evans, Commander Marcus Bentley, Shariff Evan Skarp, Marshal Evander Cummins, Samwise Buckley, and King Maximillian Burnhill.”

  Renault looks at him curiously. “That must be the short list. I’ve killed more men than that since this morning. Since breakfast even.”

  Captain Buckley moves closer to him with a death threat glare. “Those are just the important ones, smartass. Not the least of which was my brother Samwise.”

  Renault nods his head in feigned sympathy. “Oh yes, I think I remember him. Slight fellow. I can see the resemblance. Tell me, Captain. Was he the one that shit himself right before he pissed himself and cried while I held the knife against his throat? And finally slit him from ear to ear? Is that the one?”

  Captain Buckley’s face contorts and his lips quiver uncontrollably. Buckley swings his rifle into Renault’s stomach, causing him to double over.

  Captain Buckley takes his rifle and slams it down toward Renault’s exposed neck. Renault leans out of the way and Buckley’s momentum pushes him forward into a fall. He drops his rifle, while a couple of the brethren laugh.

  When he gets up, Buckley cries out in a rage. He pulls his revolver, hoping to end Renault’s sarcasm for good. But Sergeant Delwater and another soldier intervene. He draws his gun, cocks it, and points it at Buckley. Several other soldiers follow suit.

  “Put it down, Captain. That man is the Hound of Hell. You waste him here; it’ll be all of our heads on the chopping block and I simply can’t have that. We need him intact, so get a hold of your fucking self. We have him. In chains. Put it away.”

  Buckley peers at the sergeant, enraged by his insubordination.

  “Do it,” commands Corporal Helmer.

  Buckley surveys the men with their guns drawn on him. In a lower voice, he relents, “You’re right,” as he tucks his gun away.