Carnival (13 page)

Martin reached inside the Blazer and came out with a sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun. He shucked a round into the chamber and things got real quiet, real quick.

Martin said, “I carried one of these often when I was in 'Nam—and used it. Take my word for it, boys: they make a real mess out of a man's belly,”

The Bar-S hands, to a man, stopped dead in their tracks, and then slowly began backing up.

Lyle looked at the shotgun, then lifted his eyes to meet Martin's steady gaze. “You a real hot-shot with a gun in your hands, ain't you, Holland?”

Right then, at that moment, Martin reached the breaking point. The past few days had been confusing, frightening, and in most cases, unpleasant. As far as he was concerned, as illogical as it seemed—even though he was convinced it was true—everything that had been happening was due in no small part to Lyle Steele and his partner, Jim Watson. He laid the shotgun on the hood of the Blazer and walked over to Lyle.

When he came within swinging distance, Martin decked the man.

While a stunned and surprised Lyle Steele was flat on his back on the ground, Martin took off his sunglasses and watch and handed them to Audie, who was standing with his mouth open at the suddenness of Martin's attack and his following calmness.

“This won't take long,” Martin told him, then turned and clubbed Lyle on the side of the head just as the man was trying to get up.

Lyle hit the ground again. He shook his head, roared like an angry bull, and tried to grab Martin around the knees, to bring him down.

That move got him a knee in the face. Martin felt the man's nose give under the impact and Lyle's hands lose their grip from his legs.

Martin stepped back and gave the man an opportunity to get to his boots, and that was not something that Martin was noted for doing. But he wanted to whip the man at his own game. It was intensely personal and a bit on the childish side, he knew, but it was something he wanted. Martin's hands were balled into big, flat-knuckled fists, held chest high, moving in tight little circles. He felt good. Felt the adrenaline surging within him. He was looking forward to this scrap.

But he was not so smug as to feel he would come out of it unscathed. Lyle was quick and tough, and Martin would have to be ready for anything.

While Martin had not done the type of heavy physical work that Lyle had done all his life, Martin nevertheless was in excellent shape for a man just over forty. His was a naturally heavy musculature, and he kept in shape by using the small gym he'd built in his basement and by running several miles every day, no matter what the weather. He had never backed down from a fight in his life.

And had lost few of them.

With blood leaking from his bent beak, Lyle charged Martin, both fists swinging. Martin took a hard pop to his belly and it stung. That was followed by a left to the side of his head and that hurt, too. Lyle could punch; give the man his due.

But so could Martin, who was taller and had a longer reach than Lyle, and he gave the man a combo—a left and a right to the head—just to remind him. Then he stepped in and planted a right fist to the man's heart, staggering him. Martin stepped in closer and caught a fist on the jaw, snapping his head back and loosening a tooth for him. He spat out a glob of blood. Sensing premature victory, Lyle closed with him and Martin gave him a kick to the kneecap that brought a yelp of pain. Martin backhanded the man and stepped in, swinging.

The men stood close and slugged it out, both of them drawing blood from the other. Martin's lip was cut and bleeding and there was a cut on his cheek—and his head hurt, as well—but for every punch Lyle landed, Martin landed two, always a punishing body blow followed by a blast to the head that jarred the rancher. The blows were telling on Steele. His eyes were closing and his face was battered and bruised and bleeding.

Martin tangled his shoes with the man's boots and brought Lyle down to the dust. Martin clubbed him on the back of the neck as he went down, then stepped back, catching his breath and allowing the rancher to slowly get to his feet.

“I'll kill you, Holland!” Lyle panted, as the blood leaked out of his mouth.

Martin laughed at him and taunted him. “You've done a piss-poor job of it so far, Steele.”

Lyle's face darkened with hate and rage and he swung, leaving himself wide open. Martin stepped inside as he started his punch chest high, planting it directly on the side of the rancher's jaw.

Lyle Steele hit the dirt and did not move.

Martin pointed a finger at the knot of hands, gathering around and staring in disbelief at their fallen boss. “I got a couple of more rounds left in me if anybody else wants to waltz.”

Audie stepped forward, as did Don and Gary, the doctor holding a broken axe handle in his hand.

“That's it!” Dick Mason barked the orders. Dick was foreman of the Bar-S and not a man to trifle with. He looked at Martin and smiled faintly as his eyes twinkled with rough humor. “It's over, Mr. Holland. The boss opened the dance and now he's paid the caller. It's over and done with.”

Martin let his fists fall to his side. He smiled at the foreman. “Deal.” He looked at the Bar-S hands. “Couple of you men take your boss back to the ranch. The rest of you scatter. Dick, stay for a moment, if you will please.”

The Bar-S hands, to a man, didn't like Martin, but they did as he ordered, picking up Lyle—who was still unconscious—and carried him to his truck. Martin Holland might be a town fellow who wore a suit and tie, but he could sure fight. And by God, there wasn't no backdown in him.

But all knew, including Martin, that this was by no means the end of it.

Dick Mason had come into this part of the country from up Montana way, and he came highly respected as a ranch foreman. He was married, with children, and was neither a hard drinker nor a womanizer. He simply did his job and did it well.

While Martin washed his face and neck and soaked his hands in a horse trough, Dick took a look inside the cabin and then walked to the outside of the tack room where Martin was waiting.

“You're a wahoo, Mr. Holland. But I figured that from the git-go.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It's in the eyes, Mr. Holland ...”

“Call me Martin, please.”

“All right, Martin,” the foreman said easily. “It's all in the eyes and the bearing of a man. Worst whippin' I ever got, and it landed me in the hospital, was from a man a lot like you. Suit and tie and such. Every time you knocked Lyle down this day, it took a lot for you not to step up and kick his face in, didn't it?”

“Sure did.”

“I thought as much; and I'll keep that in mind. Anyway, them ol' boys that just left here, they won't like you any better than they did before you whipped the boss, but they'll walk light around you. Now then, what about all that mess in the line shack?”

“You don't seem too torn-up about Red's death.”

“Red was a ornery, no-good. Left up to me, I'd have fired him and about ninety percent of the other hands on the Bar-S first day. That answer your question?”

“For a fact,” He waved Dick to a wooden box and Martin sat down on the side of the trough. “Dick, you want to hear a rather bizarre story?”

“I'd rather hear a tale than have to fight you!”

* * *

Dick shifted around on the box and fished in his vest pocket for a cigarette. He lit up, then shoved his hat back on his head. “Martin, that's the weirdest tale I believe I've ever heard in all my life.”

“I know. And I wouldn't blame you a bit if you sat back and laughed in my face.”

The foreman sighed. “No ... I won't do that. ‘Cause what you just told me makes some sense ... in a way. Ever since news of that carnival comin' into town hit the ranch, tempers have been stretched tight, and the hands—the older ones—are behaving, well, funny.”

“Some of them have been with the Bar-S and the Double-W all their lives. More than a few were born right there on the spreads. They're almost all local people.”

Dick agreed. “And they might have had something to do with that carnival fire years back—is that what you're getting at?”

Martin nodded his head and spat out a glob of blood from a cut inside his mouth. “The sorry bastard can throw a punch, I'll give him that.”

Dick chuckled and then sobered. “Lyle Steele will not forget this day, Martin. Tattoo that on your arm and keep a good eye on your back trail. And tell your kids to be careful. Lyle isn't wrapped too tight and neither is that punk kid of his. Both of them are as crazy as road lizards.”

“If you feel that way, Dick, why do you work for Lyle?”

“Money. Pure and simple. He's a jackasss, but he pays top wages. Provides me and the family with a nice house, all utilities paid, and gives me a good bonus at year's end.” He smiled. “I have a master's degree in Agri-business, Martin. I not only run the ranch operation, but I run the farming end of it too. Couple more years, and I'll be able to head on back to Montana and add to my little spread up there.”

“And Lyle Steele can go to hell.”

“That's probably not quite as strong as what I'll tell him when that day comes.”

And Martin had made yet another friend that day.

Gary and Audie and Don joined them. Don told the foreman he was quitting and Dick congratulated him on finally showing some good sense.

Gary said, “I can tell you only this about Red's death: nothing human did it.”

The foreman sighed audibly. “I think I'll send the wife and kids back up to Montana for a week or so. Be on the safe side. She's been wantin' to see her mother anyway.”

“No tracks that I can pick up,” Audie informed them. “Horse or vehicle or foot. Nothing.” He shook his head. “I've got to call the sheriff about this. Too much has happened for him to be left out in the cold and uninformed.” He walked back to his Blazer to call in to the Holland P.D. They would relay to the county seat. From this point, almost eighty miles away.

“You need me anymore, Deputy?” Dick called.

Audie stopped and turned around. “No. This'll do it, Dick. Thanks for sticking around. And, Dick, keep this under your hat, OK?”

“No sweat. Audie, when you find out if any of, well, the theory you all share is true, or not true, let me know, will you?”

“I think you'll know, Dick,” Martin took it. “I think we're all going to know at just about the same time. Will you be coming into town for the fair?”

“I think I'd better.”

“Then I'll see you there. Stop by the house for a drink.”

“I'll do that.”

After the foreman of the Bar-S had left, Don said, “I forgot to tell you all something. I don't know whether this has anything at all to do with this ... murder, but I can tell you it was just about the oddest thing I ever had happen to me.”

He told them about hearing, or thinking he was hearing, the truck starter grinding and the moaning and the voice calling out about coming home, or wanting to come home, or something like that, way out to hell and gone in the empty grasslands.

Martin and Gary exchanged quick glances, each one thinking about Martin's dad, murdered and buried, truck and all, up near the state line.

Martin shook his head, absolutely refusing to accept that. “No.”

Don looked at him. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Nothing. It isn't important.” But he couldn't turn loose of it. “Don, do you think you could find this place again?”

“Well ... I could probably get you to within fifty yards of it, I guess.” He looked at the men. Tried to grin; didn't quite make it. “Ah, people, you guys don't think, I mean, you, ah, don't think that there's anything to what I just said, do you?”

“We'll brief you on that later, Don,” Gary told him. “How about your horse and your gear at the ranch?”

“I'll pick up some things in town. I don't want nothing out of that cabin, and feelings are going to be kind of hard against me at the ranch. I'd as soon avoid the ranch. We'll turn the horse loose. It'll find its way home. But the saddle is mine.”

“We'll stop on the way back. How about any wages due you?”

“Dick will see that I get them. Don't worry about that. He's arrow-straight.”

“There are sheets and blankets stored at the yard, Don,” Martin told him. “Pick out a company truck and use it as your own. The bedding will have to be laundered. Place not far from the yard. And Don, whatever we tell you on the way back to town, and what you've seen out here, don't repeat any of it, okay?”

He nodded his understanding just as Audie walked back to the group.

“I got Miller's coming out to body bag the pieces.” He looked at Gary. “You'll want an autopsy.”

Gary nodded. “What about Sheriff Grant?”

“Out of town. Gone to some law enforcement seminar out of state. Chief deputy's gone to Florida to pick up a prisoner. Left this morning. I didn't say anything to the chief investigator about what's happened up here; except to tell him there'd been a murder. No details. Maybe I should have. But I didn't.”

“Perhaps that's for the best,” Gary agreed. “Hell, who would believe us? Anyway, when is this state investigator coming in?”

“She'll probably check in late this afternoon or early evening. I got her a room at the motel. Name is McClain. Frenchy McClain. And she's good. Knows her business. She's quick and tough. Dropped the hammer on two people over the years. Killed both of them.”

“There's aren't many women with the state police, are there?” Don asked.

Audie grinned. “Not
any
like Frenchy. She's a knockout. You'll see.”

* * *

Monday morning.

Martin had run his miles and done his exercises. Back at the house, he had showered and changed clothes and was sitting on the front porch, drinking coffee and watching the sun unfold the new day. But he couldn't make the term “nice morning” fit. It was a different kind of morning. One that Martin didn't like but could not put a finger on the why of that feeling. He struggled to find a word that fit it. Tainted, came to him. There was a flatness to the dawning. He had noticed it while running. The dogs were not barking and playing and running along with him as many of them did. They lay under or on the porches, silently watching him as he jogged past. They were not unfriendly ... that was not the mood Martin felt from the animals. Wary, was more like it. Suspicious. Like they could sense some ... dreadful thing about to enter and alter their lives. Only a fool believed that animals could not sense an approaching storm or a bad change in the weather.