Arslan (35 page)

“When was this, Cully?”

“Near two months ago.” He screwed up his eyes and rocked on his feet. “It was six weeks, Mr. Bond. When we got home, we heard as Hunt was out of town again, so we figured we'd get him when he come back. Then when he come back hurt, it seemed like a God's judgment. We don't none of us figure you had a thing to do with it, Mr. Bond. I know I don't.”

I stepped back across the porch to the front door and opened it, and held it open while I motioned to Flaxman and J. G. They straightened themselves and came up the walk grim as death, not a hint of a grin between them. “I'll take the gun,” I said to Flaxman.

“No, sir,” he said, snapping his mouth shut. That meant, most likely, that it
was
loaded. Guns were a lot easier to come by than ammunition.

“Then you wait out here.” He nodded curtly. “You two come in. You can say what you think about Hunt to his face. If it's more than hot air, the whole business belongs in court.” There were no treason laws in Kraft County—we hadn't been able to agree on how to word them—but the KCR had its own rules. It was one thing when Hunt was a virtual prisoner, with Arslan's hand on his throat; it was another to ride a hundred miles out of county to tell his little tales behind my back.

Hunt on the couch looked at us with eyes no more wary than usual. He didn't speak. He couldn't help knowing that something was up, but he was prepared to be polite if the situation allowed. J. G., not sure what had been told, wasn't about to say anything, either. As for me, I didn't feel much like doing favors for any of them. “Tell Hunt what you just told me,” I said to Cully.

“Well, like I was telling you, Mr. Bond—”

“Tell it to Hunt.”

He mustered some of the patriotic indignation, or whatever it was, that had slipped away from him. “Hunt, we seen you up on the Wabash.”

He raised his eyebrows very coolly, but I'd lived with Hunt long enough to recognize the quick shrinking look in his eyes—hurrying to acknowledge defeat before the fighting started.

Cully was back on the track now; his voice shrilled and trembled. “You been spying for Arslan all along, ain't you? There ain't nothing never went on in this town but what you told him, ain't that right? Living right here in this here house and everything. There's a lot of folks always said so, and now we know it. We got the proof!”

But it wasn't for Arslan, it was for Nizam. Hunt shrugged. He had been looking steadily at me, and I at him. “Am I being charged with something?”

“I'll have to check out the legal aspects,” I said. “One way or another, we'll see that justice is done.”

Fear and humor washed like rotating colored lights across Hunt's face and left him looking tired and injured. He nodded vaguely. Six weeks ago. He had believed then—at least he could have believed—that Nizam was still Arslan's selfless right arm. And four weeks later, he had ridden north again to battle against Nizam.

“I don't hear him deny it,” J. G. observed contemptuously.

“He can deny it all he wants to,” Cully shrilled. “But we seen it with our own eyes!”

The door scraped open. Flaxman was well into the room before I took my eyes off of Hunt. “Cully,” I said, “you know Ward Munsey's house. You go tell him or his brother we've got a charge of collaboration to investigate. If you can't find them home, get me Leland Kitchener or—”

“You just stay put, Cully,” Flaxman said. Five minutes earlier he wouldn't have dared cross the porch with that gun. Five minutes earlier I wouldn't have let him. There was a kind of justice that replaced legality sometimes—the kind of justice that dragged a careless hand into the gears of a machine.

“Hey!”

I didn't understand for a moment what had happened. Flaxman, with his startled shout, had dodged back, jerking up his gun. Cully wavered, then leaned his long reach forward and scooped up something from the floor. It was Arslan's knife.

He was leaning on the bannister. His face shone with sweat. His mouth was drawn into a grimace or a grin. J. G. was swearing softly.

“By God, it's
him
. Is it him?” Cully said, in a voice of awe, looking from the knife to Arslan and back. Flaxman leveled the rifle.

“Wait,” I said, and “Wait,” said Arslan at the same instant. His hoarse voice rasped. As he spoke, he forced himself upright from the bannister, his arms trembling with the strain. “I make you an offer,” he said steadily. “You see that I am weak—even too weak to throw a knife properly. You see that I am alone. You want Hunt. Will you trade him for me?” His voice was gathering strength and color. “I will surrender myself to you, in return for a promise.” I wouldn't have surrendered a tenpenny nail to those three for all the promises they could make. “You will promise—you will swear—before Mr. Bond and before your God, that you will never come to this house again, that you will never attack this house or anyone in it. Do you understand?” It was ridiculous, of course, but inside I was cursing whatever had made me keep the whereabouts of my gun strictly to myself. If I'd told Hunt about it, Arslan would have known by now.

They looked uneasily at each other, with dawning greed. Flaxman had lowered the rifle. J. G.'s mouth twisted. “Looks to me like we got you both,” he said fiercely. “We don't need to make no promises. What's to stop us just walking up there and getting you?”

“This.” Now the grimace was unmistakably a grin. He raised the second knife—Hunt's knife, it must be—turning it in front of his chest to make it glint.

Cully cleared his throat. “Well, hell.” He sounded embarrassed. “We can just shoot you, and take Hunt anyways.”

“I am dying,” Arslan reproved gently. “Which do you want more: Hunt Morgan, or Arslan—alive, in your hands?”

They looked sidelong at each other, and suddenly they all three moved, drawing together and mumbling agreement. “Okay, drop the knife,” J. G. ordered.

“When you have sworn. You first.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who says you can take anybody out of my house?”

“Mr. Bond,” Flaxman said patiently, “if you don't shut up, I'm going to shoot you dead. I ain't promised nothing yet.”

“Then wait just a minute. I'm going to get a Bible for you to swear on.” I started for the stairs.

“If that ain't a Bible on that there table"—the gun muzzle dipped towards the coffee table for half a second—"my mama sure didn't teach me right.”

“You first,” Arslan repeated. I held the Bible, and J. G. laid his hand on it unwillingly, looking past me to Arslan.

“Repeat what I say. ‘I swear upon this Bible that I will never set foot in this house—'”

“I swear on this Bible I'll never"—he faltered over the words—"set foot in this house.”

“'Or on its grounds—'”

“Or on its grounds.”

“'And I swear I will never try to hurt anyone—'”

“I swear I'll never try to hurt anyone.”

“'While they are in this house or on its grounds—'”

“While they're in this house or its grounds.”

“'And I swear I will never damage this house—'”

“And I swear I will never damage this house.”

“'And if I ever break any part of this oath—'”

“If I ever break any part of this oath.”

“'I pray that God will strike me—'”

“I pray that God will strike me.”

“'And all my family—'”

“And all my family.” J. G. had no family worth mentioning, but by this time he was speaking in deadly earnest.

“'Dead in agony.'”

“Dead"—he balked a little, and finished in a strangled voice—"in agony.”

I pulled the Bible away. “Do you understand what you have sworn?” Arslan insisted.

“Yeah—to leave this place alone, and anybody that's in it—as long as they're in it.”

“Or on the grounds.”

“Yeah, or on the grounds. But that's only if you drop the knife and come with us.”

“Right,” Arslan approved, like a teacher who's finally dragged the right answer out of a dull class. “Now you.”

And Cully, with his embarrassed air, mumbled through the same oath, impatiently coached by J. G. when he stumbled. “I ain't putting my hand on no Bible,” Flaxman protested. But he did, while J. G. held the rifle for him.

“Now,” Cully said with relief. “Drop that knife and get down here.”

“Back up,” Arslan commanded quietly. “Open the door, and wait there.”

Shufflingly they did as they were told. I saw Hunt brace himself, bunching the muscles of his good leg, and knew he meant to plunge at Flaxman. But Flaxman knew it, too, and gave him a wide berth.

Slowly Arslan made his way down the stairs, stood swaying a moment, and crossed the room more briskly. He was barefoot. He smelled of sickness and sweat. The threadbare khaki clung to him in wet stripes. He didn't look at Hunt. Beside me he stopped and opened his hand, and the knife clattered dully on the floor. At the same time he steadied himself against me with his two-fingered right hand. I felt the hooked fingers tap my wrist, with something between them; I closed my hand over them quickly and they pulled away, leaving the folded paper in my palm.

He stepped forward. I squeezed my hand against the pit of my stomach, where waves of pain ballooned outwards in pulse after pulse. The three faces at the door beamed with triumph, with the lust of cruelty. And who could blame them? Who could blame them?

Flaxman kept the rifle leveled, not at Arslan, but at me. Cully reached for the crippled arm, but J. G. struck out with one foot in a sudden sideways kick, and Arslan sprawled, half through the open door onto the porch. Hunt made a sound, a piteous small moan of protest. J. G. reached down; cloth ripped as he pulled Arslan upright. Cully seized his arm, twisting it up behind his back, and they crowded through the door. Flaxman waited till they got to the wagon. Then he gave a cheerful wave of the gun, slammed the door, and hurried after them.

A thick ink line crossed the paper. Above it was written in Arslan's open hand, “Wait With Hunt,” and below, “Sanjar—Follow—If I am dead, try Spassky
at once
” and the last two words were underlined, the ink petering out into a pen scratch.

I brought down the pistol from my bedroom, and I got myself a drink of pure cream and sat hunched by the window. Hunt's voice was frantic and coarse. “What are you waiting for? You own this town. Why the hell don't you stop them?”

“That's government. This is a private matter.” For all I could do, I kept wondering how Jesus had looked when He fell with the cross.
If I am dead
...."Who's Spassky?”

“Spahsky,” he said, correcting my pronunciation, “is the ranking Russian officer on this continent—or was when there were ranks. He's the one who raised the irregulars against Nizam and got word to Arslan.” His slim hands were folding, unfolding, smoothing, refolding the paper. “One of the few loyal people left. He sent four separate crews south, far enough so that Nizam's receivers wouldn't pick them up, to broadcast calls to Arslan. And he was sharp enough to see what was happening and do that in time.” He folded, folded again, opened, read, refolded. “So Kraftsville's going to burn after all.”

“Oh, God,” I said wearily. “What's the use?”

He laughed harshly. “What's the difference? Aren't we all dead?” He clenched his trembling fist on the folded paper and burst out, “Nothing about Arslan is private!”

I looked at him. “Try to get things straight in that brain for once, Hunt. Neither the KCR nor the government could possibly lift a finger for Arslan.”

“Well, Sanjar, at least. If your dainty stomach allows, why don't you get the hell out of here and look for Sanjar?”

“I don't put much faith in their Bible oaths, and I judge Arslan didn't either.”

“For Christ's sake! For Christ's sake!” he cried furiously. Tears were spilling into his soft beard.

I did go out to the shed and saddle Sanjar's horse. Arslan was still Arslan; he would take a lot of killing, and they would be in no hurry about it. Still, he had looked very frail. He had said, with all his pedagogic assurance, “I am dying.” And the ugly thought never left my mind that if he died too soon to suit them, they would be back in a hurry for Hunt.

I was in the living room, looking at the old clock for probably the hundredth time, when the kitchen window rattled. I strode in to meet Sanjar as he pulled a heavy string of fish over the sill after him. His grin faded as he turned; I put the crumpled note into his hand. “J. G. Sims, Cully Johnson, and Harry Flaxman. They came for Hunt, and Arslan persuaded them to take him instead. They went in Flaxman's wagon; looked like they headed for his place—that's just north of Blue Creek on the Morrisville road. An hour ago. Flaxman's got a rifle.” The paper fluttered downwards. “I saddled your horse.” I held out the pistol.

He took it in both hands. For a moment more he held still, barely crouched, his eyes flitting wildly. Then he spun back to the window and was up and out. I watched him sprint to the shed; a few seconds later he was on horseback, tearing across the back garden and disappearing into the trees. When he showed again in the glimpse of road beyond the burned stable, he was going at a smooth gallop.

I gave Hunt the knife Arslan had dropped, locked the doors, and went the quietest way round to Jack Allard's. “Well, who's getting murdered now?” he greeted me.

“I'm not sure, but you'd better bring everything you've got.”

By the time we got back to the house, Sanjar had been gone half an hour. That was plenty of time for him to get to Flaxman's. I told the doctor to make himself at home, and started after him.

I heard something coming over the hill and pulled my horse off of the road into the high brush. It was Flaxman's wagon, but Sanjar was driving. I hailed him. He pulled up and sat wordless while I tied my horse to the tailgate beside his and climbed in. “You drive,” he said shortly, dropping the reins in my lap. He swung over the back of the seat, knelt beside a heap of sacking on the wagon bed, and pulled back the top sack. Arslan's face was unrecognizable. “Go easy,” Sanjar ordered huskily.

Four times during that slow ride home, Arslan moaned—a thin, inarticulate sound, horrible because it was so helplessly unconscious. I drove into the back yard and stopped as close as I could get to the back door. The doctor came out, and we rigged up a litter from hoe handles and sacks and carried him in. Hunt was sleeping heavily. “I gave him a little something to knock him out,” Jack explained. “I don't know what you might be bringing home.”