Pariah (2 page)

One quick glance over his shoulder was enough for Clint to see the look on the blonde woman's face. “Seems like the lady is about to hack up her breakfast just from hearing that claim. Makes me think it's not true.”

“It don't matter what you think. Step aside and let us pass.”

“I'm not wide enough to take up this whole street,” Clint said. “If you want to pass, you can surely get around me.” Waiting until the men took their first steps in his direction, Clint added, “You might want to give the lady and those children a wide berth.”

The three men stopped. Two of them looked at the spokesman for the group, prompting that one to ask, “Or what?”

Shifting his gaze into a cold, hateful stare, Clint replied, “Take another step toward her and find out for yourselves.”

The spokesman thought it over for all of two seconds before backing up. When he bumped into his two companions, he straightened his posture and faced Clint much like a rat that just realized it had been forced into a corner. Putting on an unconvincing scowl, he strode toward the blonde.

Clint stepped to one side and placed his hand flat against the man's chest to stop him in his tracks. “Is this man your husband, ma'am?” he called out.

“I don't have a husband,” she replied.

Clint smirked and cracked his knuckles. “Well then,” he said to the spokesman. “Seems like a bit of bad luck for you.”

The first man to charge at Clint did so without warning. In fact, he seemed to take the spokesman by surprise as well when he rushed forward with his fist swinging at Clint's jaw. Although he was a little surprised by the timing, Clint wasn't shocked to see that one make a run at him before the others. While the other two had been posturing and talking tough, his attacker had been tensing like a bowstring being drawn taut.

Fortunately, the first one to charge also had the most ground to cover. By the time he got close enough to reach Clint, he no longer had a target for his punch. Clint had stepped aside into a wide stance, leaving one foot planted where it was and sliding his other out a few feet. When he felt the man's boot snag against his leg, Clint snapped a quick jab across his face and then pushed him over. The man stumbled and dropped as if he'd accidentally found a half-buried log while charging through a mess of bushes.

The spokesman stayed put while his second companion rushed forward to try his luck with Clint. He was met by a stiff, straight punch to his gut that doubled him over and drove all the wind from his lungs. While he was bent over like that, he left his chin wide open for a straight, upward knee. Clint was more than happy to oblige and used his knee to send the second man staggering away to trip over the first.

“Mister,” the spokesman said, “you just called down a whole mess of trouble.”

Clint let the man talk, simply because it gave him a few seconds to step away from the other two and square his shoulders with the last upright man.

The spokesman wore a pistol strapped around his waist, but moved slower than molasses in winter when he tried to skin it. Before that man's fingers closed around the grip of his revolver, Clint had already cleared leather and was pointing his modified Colt at him.

“You sure you want to take it this far?” Clint asked. “You and your men can still walk away.”

The spokesman gritted his teeth and glared at Clint, but there was no real conviction in his eyes. He was defeated and he knew it. All that remained was for him to hide his fear, and he wasn't doing a very good job of it. Finally, he sputtered, “We'll go . . . but just because we wanna go.”

“Of course,” Clint replied.

Shifting his eyes to the blonde, the spokesman added, “And when we feel like comin' back, we'll—”

“Think real hard before you finish that sentence,” Clint warned.

The spokesman froze with his mouth hanging open. If the words had been physical things, they might have dribbled from the corner of his lip and spilled onto the front of his shirt. Slowly, he turned away from Clint and walked past his two companions. “Come on,” he grumbled. “You gonna lay in the street all damn day?”

While the spokesman kept from walking anywhere near Clint, the other two seemed incapable of even meeting his eye. They dragged themselves up by the bootstraps and hobbled away, trying to ignore whatever bumps and bruises they'd been given.

As much as he'd wanted to give them a few parting digs, Clint refrained from letting out so much as a chuckle. The children with the blonde, however, weren't so restrained. The young ones giggled to each other and the boy started to say something to the men before he was stopped by the woman.

The blonde was still putting the children in their places when Clint walked over to get a closer look at them. “Everyone all right?” he asked.

Still wound up tighter than a watch spring, the boy jumped off the bench and stood directly in front of Clint. Looking up at him with wide, bright blue eyes, he said, “That was great what you did, mister! You really showed those two!”

“It was not great,” the woman said sternly. “It was violent and uncivilized. We should never resolve our differences that way.”

“She's right,” Clint said. “But any man that bothers good folks like you in such an uncivilized manner deserves a whole lot worse. Maybe next time someone should tan their hides and toss 'em into a pig sty where they belong.”

The little girl had been doing her best to maintain her resolve, but cracked a little smile when she heard that.

The blonde woman sighed and stood up straight so she was on a more adult level when she whispered, “Thank you for that. I just don't want these two to think they can—”

“No need for an explanation, ma'am,” Clint gently interrupted.

Just then, a meek little voice drifted up from the bench. “I think we should invite him to supper,” the little girl said. When the blonde looked down at her, the girl added, “It would be civilized that way.”

“Yes,” the blonde said. “I suppose it would. That is, unless this man has any other plans for the evening?”

“He doesn't,” Clint said. “And it would be most uncivilized for me to refuse such a kind offer. Don't you agree?” he asked the little girl.

The girl's cheeks flushed, but she nodded quickly before turning away from him and burying her face into the blonde woman's skirts.

“Those men ain't civil,” the boy said. “Do you know what he called me?”

“That's enough, Sam,” the blonde woman warned.

“He called me a little monkey!”

Clint turned around, hoping to find the three men still screwing up their courage to take another run at him. Even though the dark-skinned boy seemed more upset to be called a noisy animal, Clint knew the insult ran a lot deeper than that. The men were nowhere to be found, however, so the additional lesson in manners would just have to wait.

“That's very rude,” Clint said.

Nodding vehemently, the boy said, “It sure is. Monkeys are silly and stupid. I'd rather be a wolf! Or an eagle!”

“How about a mouse?” the girl asked. “At least they're quiet.”

“We'd best be on our way,” the woman said as she took hold of each child by the hand. “Any longer and you'll have another fight on your hands.”

“Maybe I should accompany you,” Clint offered. Even though the other three men were out of sight for the moment, he knew better than to assume they were gone for good. Still, he didn't want to worry anyone about it.

Judging by the look on her face, the blonde woman was worried enough already. “You really think that's necessary?”

“Probably. At least let me see you home.”

The girl tugged on the blonde's skirts and when the woman bent down to her, she whispered into her ear. When she was done, the girl watched Clint carefully. The Asian slope of her eyes made it look as if she was always smiling. When the girl truly did smile, her eyes made the expression that much more charming.

The blonde huffed about it for a little while, but eventually gave in. “All right,” she said. “Dinner won't be ready for a little while, but I suppose you could always come back if you don't feel like waiting around that long.”

“I don't mind,” Clint said.

“Good,” the little boy chirped. “I want to see your gun. Is that a Colt?”

“Sam!” the blonde scolded. “Don't be rude.”

“Rude? You didn't even ask the man his name!”

The blonde didn't have a response to that. Realizing that he'd caught her with a valid point, the boy grinned proudly.

“It's Clint Adams,” he said, before Sam got a chance to rub it in.

“Madeline Gerard,” the blonde replied.

“And I'm Chen,” the little girl added.

“There,” Sam said. “Now that's good and civilized.”

As they walked, Clint intended to watch for any indication that those men would try to get one last jab in just to prove themselves. Even worse, there was the possibility that they would round up a few more of their ilk to overpower Clint at the first opportunity. Fortunately on both counts, it was a short and uneventful walk to Madeline Gerard's home. She lived in a little house that was situated among a cluster of similar houses on the outskirts of town. The moment they got within a stone's throw of the house, both children broke free and raced to the front door.

“So you're not married?” Clint asked.

Madeline shook her head.

“Then it's just you and the children living here?”

“That stands to reason,” she replied.

“I don't mean to pry. It's just that—”

“You're not prying.” Madeline stopped and crossed her arms as she watched the children. Sam and Chen had gotten to the front door, tapped it, and immediately scampered toward a sapling that had been planted between that house and its neighbor, in what must have been some sort of game the two were familiar with. “Most folks around here are very friendly,” she continued. “It's just that some of them aren't as understanding about my children's situation.”

“So those are your children?” Clint asked.

“In everything but blood. I took the first one in when a bunch of Sioux were passing through and most of the family died of fever. Only a little boy was left and I vowed to care for him.”

Clint took a look at Sam, who was now protesting loudly at how Chen must have cheated to reach the sapling before him. “That boy sure doesn't look Sioux.”

“Oh, he's not. The Sioux came through here just under five years ago. The rest of the first boy's family came along to take him back to his tribe. Since then I've been taking in all sorts of folks when they're in need. My neighbors say I've got a weakness for strays.”

“Where do you find them?”

“It's not difficult,” she explained. “You always hear about an outbreak of some sickness somewhere or a train accident somewhere else. Wagons roll through and overturn. Someone's wife or husband goes missing. There's always some bit of news like that, but most folks don't concern themselves with who's left. I just offer a warm bed and some hot meals to folks in need. They move along, but there's always another chance for me to help.”

“There's always plenty of bad news to go around.” Suddenly, Clint winced. “Sorry about that. Slipped out before I could think better of it.”

“That's all right. Unfortunately, you're also correct. I like to think we all do what we can to help put out the fires that spring up. I have a big house and plenty of food, so that's what I can give.” Turning to Clint to show him a warm smile, she added, “You step in before other fires get started. Thanks again for speaking up for us back when those men were being so rude.”

“Rude is a kinder term than I would have used, but you're welcome all the same. If it's an imposition for me to stay for supper, you can say so and I'll be on my way.”

“Weren't you listening?” Madeline asked. “I have a weakness for strays, and I keep extra food in the house.”

Clint nodded and walked along with her as she made her way to the porch and sat down upon a swing. “So where did you pick up those two stray pups?”

“Sam's aunt was a baker in town. She passed away, leaving him alone until I can get in touch with some of his cousins that are supposed to live in West Texas. Chen was left at a train station outside of Tombstone. Her mother was murdered. It was a very grisly affair and I haven't had the heart to tell her about it.”

“No child should know too many grisly details,” Clint said. “There'll be plenty of time for that later.”

“Yes, there will,” she said softly.

Clint stood his ground and watched the two children play for a while. The show they put on wasn't exactly theater, but it relaxed him in the same way as when he took a moment or two to follow a couple leaves being thrown around by a swirling wind. When his eyes were drawn toward the neighbor's house, he found a withered old face watching him sternly from a window.

“Maybe I should come back later,” he said. “Wouldn't want your neighbors to get the wrong idea.”

Madeline followed Clint's line of sight to the window. “Oh, don't worry about her,” she sighed. “She's always got the wrong idea.” Plastering a friendly smile on her face and waving, she shouted, “Hello, Mrs. Beansley.”

The instant she realized she'd been singled out, the old woman pulled her face away from the window and snapped the curtains shut.

“You're welcome to stay as long as you like,” Madeline told him.