Banshee Screams Page 65

  "Son of a bitch," Stew muttered in irritation. He exchanged a look with Tsukino who just shrugged.

  Ross's disinterest in Ranger affairs was getting way out of hand. But this was no time to deal with it. Stew rushed on to the saloon, hoping he could quiet matters down. Most likely he was going to his clocked cleaned along with Miller.

  Miller was seeing nothing but a red haze. That blonde chick had looked like easy pickings, but instead he had latched onto a wildcat. He wasn't even sure he'd managed to lay a hand on her, but he liked to imagine he had. His head felt like it was four sizes too big and was ringing with the fury of a big cathedral bell during mass. He lashed out with his arms and thought he connected, but the pressure around his neck only intensified while someone hammered his nose with a ball-peen hammer. As much as he hated to do it, he shouted for help.

  Ringo heard Miller's pathetic cry and winced as he saw the female teamster holding his friend in a wrestler's headlock and mercilessly pummeling him. He wanted to help but he had his hands full. Bleeding and sore, he launched himself at his opponent. The caravan kid ducked low and met the Ranger's charge, encircling Ringo's ribs with solid arms and literally picked him up and carried him along into the wall. Ringo's breath vacated his lungs in a rush. He drew up his arms and brought them crashing down on the teenager's neck. The kid's grip eased and Ringo boxed his ears for good measure like Chennault had taught him. It was enough. He was free and the teenager was down.

  Ringo glanced over to see how the others were doing.

  Fitz, even though handicapped with one arm, was going toe to toe with the muscular Scarface. The floor shook with their battle, like two massive bulls struggling for dominance. Ringo didn't think anything short of an act of God would separate them. He wisely chose to keep out of that fight.

  Chennault's opponent, the wiry teamster Boss, was wary as they circled each other, seeking openings. They were both bloodied, but their fight looked more like a dance. Feet, arms, and bodies moved so fast, it was hard to keep track of the movements.

  Nope, Ringo decided. He would stay out of that one too. That left Miller. As much as Ringo knew that Miller would be furious to be rescued from a woman, Ringo also knew the Ranger needed some help. Better his griping than having to visit him in Doc Dazy's bizarro infirmary for the next couple of days.

  Ringo leapt without further preamble onto the blonde. Where he thought he would hit soft, yielding flesh, he impacted on hard bone and muscle.

  Oh crap, he thought.

  The blonde wasted no time. She dropped Miller like a sack of flour and reached around for the annoying new presence on her back.

  Stew burst in through the heavy wooden front door, which replaced the summer batwings. One look around and all he saw was a disaster. Mo's was a mess. And the fight was totally out of control. It wasn't just the Rangers and the teamsters. Everyone in the bar had been swept into it, probably due to someone falling on the table or knocking over a beer. Some things were worth fighting over.

  Stew shouted into the din. "Knock it off!"

  The mayhem continued. In fact, no one even paused. No ripple in the flow of battle at all.

  Thinking it was best to pull the Rangers out of this mess as quickly as possible, Stew waded over toward them. The Rangers would at least acknowledge him and ease down. Tsukino followed him, pushing combatants aside.

  Stepping over Miller's prone form on the floor, Stew grabbed Ringo by the collar and pulled him from a female teamster's reach. He barely saw the fist that caught him just below the eye. Stars erupted and he rocked back.

  Shaking his head, he saw the next punch coming and blocked it. "That's enough!" he shouted at the woman. He threw Ringo on the pile that was Miller. Thankfully, the kid stayed there.

  The blonde just smirked at Stew. "Who the hell are you? You got a problem where the hell I sit too?"

  Well, at least he knew what had started this fight. "I couldn't care less, lady. You can plop your can down in the middle of the street for all I care."

  "Good." The blonde stepped back but then Fitz stumbled into her, shoved aside by Scarface; she turned angrily toward him, fists about to fly.

  Tsukino broke in between the two of them, and nearly got crushed for his effort. He staggered aside and shouted at Stew. "This isn't getting it."

  "I know," Stew shouted back. He realized his mistake in getting into the thick of the fight. This was no way to make the enraged grapplers see reason. He needed a distraction. He spied Mo's elaborate barka antler chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

  With a silent apology to Mo, and praying the object wasn't a family heirloom, Stew jerked out his Dragoon and took aim. The floor was clear directly beneath the fixture. He fired, hoping no one shifted position.

  The blast from the gun made everyone pause and the shattering effect of the chandelier on the floor made all jump back. Silence finally fell over Mo's.

  "That's better!" Stew shouted. "Now that I have everyone's attention, I'm officially calling this fight over. Fitz, Chennault, get over here."

  The two Rangers backed slowly away from their opponents.

  The teamster Boss watched them go cautiously, wiping his dripping bloody nose with the side of his hand. Scarface stepped forward after the retreating Rangers, eager to continue, but the Boss stopped him in an outstretched hand.

  It was over.

  Stew inclined his head at the Boss, grateful for the late assist in bringing this all to a halt. He could feel his right eye starting to swell. He didn't touch it, just blinked as rapidly as best he could.

  "Take your people and go," Stew informed the Boss. "Now."

  The Boss, Scarface, the blonde, as well as Fitz and Ringo immediately protested about who started what and who should be in jail and wasn't this a free town. The Boss glanced at silent Chennault. Then he raised his hands to silence his people. He nodded once in begrudging agreement to Stew. Then the teamsters gathered the unconscious teenager off the floor and they shuffled out of the saloon.

  Mo came over to Stew. "Thanks." His eyes tracked to his shattered, personally handmade chandelier, and he added, "I think. You know Ross always seemed to settle these things down a lot faster and a whole lot less expensively."

  Biting down the bitter taste of resentment, Stew scowled. "Take it up with him, if you can find the man." He turned to his bedraggled troops and lifted a hand to the door. "If you please, ladies."

  Chennault strode out sullenly while Ringo struggled to hold up the barely conscious Miller.

  "How come you're not arresting those teamsters for disturbing the peace?" Ringo griped to Stew as he tried to heft Miller's limp arm around his shoulders.

  "Because if I did, I'd have to arrest you too, you idiot," Stew snapped, clearly at the end of his patience. Then he whispered, "And maybe you haven't noticed this saloon is full of teamsters who don't like seeing their brothers hauled off to jail. For any reason. No one was killed. So let's just forget it."

  Fitz reached over and grabbed Miller by the scruff of his jacket and heaved him up the rest of the way, allowing Ringo to get a better hold. "Don't matter, kid. We showed them. They ain't likely to intrude on our space again."

  "You mean we won?" Ringo was confused. His jaw sure didn't feel like they won.

  Fitz slapped the youngster on the shoulder so hard he almost dropped Miller. "We took what they tried to dish out. Went toe to toe for what's ours. It'll be different next time."

  "We won't have to kill them, will we?" Ringo appeared slightly worried.

  "Hell no, but we might have to buy them drinks though." Fitz laughed loudly, holding the door open for the others.

  "Male bonding sucks," Ringo concluded.

  Chapter 3

  Ross drank alone in the corner. The LAX was quieter than Mo's now that the town had swung back toward a normal way of life. Freighters and smugglers had started trucking in again. The decrepit spaceport bar reflected the decrepit spaceport. Pilots and crew loitered inside, chattering about their flights a
nd spreading tall tales.

  The bar was noisy and crowded, but at least Ross didn't know many people here and very few souls bothered him. He didn't like being here, but he badly wanted a drink and Mo's was out of the question. The LAX was the only place besides the quiet cemetery that he could think.

  He poured himself another shot of whiskey and slugged it back. He concentrated on the sensation as it burned its way slowly down his gullet. He wanted any respite from thinking about Debbi. While he was in town, only liquor numbed the pain. He was eager to get back into the wilds and keep vigil on the Sanitarium.

  A shadow fell over his table and Ross started, his hand dropping immediately to the Peacemaker at his side. He drew it quickly away though upon recognizing Sharif. Inclining his head to the chair opposite him, Ross leaned back.

  The tall, imposing figure of the Tuareg decked out in dark robes sat silently with Ross. The black eyes normally so cool and detached held sorrow for the man across from him.

  Sharif believed Ross was a ghost who was chasing a ghost. Twice since Dallas's death, the syker Hallow scouted the Lupinz Sanitarium and reported no evidence of Quantrill. Further, Hallow claimed he sensed no great psychic power at all in the area, which called into question Ross's story of torture at the hands of Dr. Lupinz. In the end, while the syker conceded that the traumatic interference around the Sanitarium was strong and that psychic powers were peculiar and unpredictable things and that he could be wrong, clearly he didn't believe he was. And neither did Stew and any of the other Rangers, nor Sharif himself.

  The Tuareg could easily tell when someone was losing a battle and yet refused to accept it. Sharif didn't want to abandon his friend, but his business obligations and his common sense dictated that he must. It pained him greatly.

  Ross read the man's face and waved a hand at him. "Don't worry about it, Sharif. I understand. You can't sit just outside Lupinz Sanitarium. You've got a life to get back to."

  "As do you, my friend."

  Ross laughed and refilled his glass. "My days are planned out."

  Sharif sighed. "I regret certain duties require my attention elsewhere." He noticed the bartender approaching him and waved him aside. Bartenders never seemed to remember he did not drink alcohol.

  "I'm not holding you to anything," Ross muttered. "I appreciate all the help."

  "You will go again?"

  Ross nodded. "Yeah, tomorrow."

  "Perhaps you should seek out Hallow's assistance again."

  Ross shook his head firmly. "If he can't sense Quantrill out there, he can't. Nothing more for him to do."

  Sharif leaned forward. "My caravan rarely ranges farther than Scapula Springs this time of year. If you need me, send word there. I will come."

  Ross gave a sharp nod. "Thanks." The whiskey was making his throat dry and rough.

  "You are exhausting yourself. Don't let fatigue make foolish choices, my friend. Quantrill, though rotting, has a wicked brain."

  "Yep."

  The Tuareg stood. "Good luck to you then. May the hunting be fair." He stretched out a dark, weathered hand, rubbed harsh by the many years of traveling through the Banshee terrain.

  Ross took it. He could feel the coarse ridge of calluses in the palm, hardened by years of fighting by the sword. "And may soft winds speed you on your journey."

  "That they shall." Sharif gathered his robes and strode out of the LAX.

  The veteran Ranger hunted alone once more. It was better this way, he thought. Less responsibility, less chance of losing another friend.

  With a weary sigh, Ross poured another drink. He lost himself staring through the glass at the brown liquid. The table suddenly shook as a pair of laced, leather boots planted themselves in the middle. Ross looked up angrily at their owner.

  Hickok.

  "Go away," the Ranger growled, debating whether he should push her feet aside roughly or just lop them off at the knees. Ross wasn't in the mood for games, and the cocky Chinese pilot was full of them, always had been.

  Hickok reached a slim arm over to grab the whiskey bottle. She took great pains in examining the hand written label. "Only the best for you, eh Ross?" She took a swig anyway and slammed the bottle back on the table as her eyes watered. "Damn, this stuff will kill you." She laughed hollowly. "But maybe that's the point."

  He didn't comment. He stared at the table, his eyes only black pits. "What is it you want?"

  Hickok's false smile remained plastered on her face. "I just came by to see the walking ghost for myself." She casually rubbed at a smudge on her boot top, appearing distracted. "You hear things. Tales of dark shadows haunting graveyards, looking for redheaded corpses."

  Ross swept an arm and shoved her legs aside, his face twisted into a snarl. Hickok practically fell from the chair. There was no surprise in her expression though. She knew she had woken the sleeping tiger. She meant to. The pilot straightened and resumed her seat and her cocky smile, dismissing his aggression.

  "You'd best mind your own business," Ross hissed.

  "Oh, I am, believe it or not." She leaned over the table. "I just got back from the south. Looking for Quantrill."

  Ross didn't respond.

  The pilot continued, "I didn't find him, if you want to know. But Stew tells me there've been Legion sightings couple hundred miles northeast. I'm heading out in a few days." She stared at the downcast Ranger and waited. His only move was to reach for the bottle again. She placed her hand over his glass. "Come with me, Ross."

  He swigged from the bottle. "Busy."

  Hickok gave a disgusted sigh. "Busy? Sitting in the brush outside the Lupinz Sanitarium watching for something that won't happen? It's been three months and you got zip to show for it. You haven't seen any sign of Quantrill out there. Hallow says he isn't there. Why are you the only one who doesn't believe him? Why are you still there? Maybe you're just looking for payback for what you say happened to you out there." She rested her elbow on the table, her chin propped in her hand. She heard a low growl coming from Ross.

  "When I need your snide opinion, I'll ask for it," he retorted.

  "Like hell. You've never been one to ask for help of any kind."

  "Because I don't need it."

  "No, it's because you're pig-headed. Always were. Even she knew that. Guess she wasn't as naive as you thought she was."

  "Shut up."

  "Ross, you and I have known each other a long time now. I know all about you. I helped pick up the pieces last time this happened."

  "Don't take credit where it isn't due," he lashed out.

  Hickok scowled, stung. "We helped each other out of some bad times. I appreciated your help even if you didn't appreciate mine. We were both hurting back then. Burnt out as I was from the war, and you reeling from your wife's death on Earth. Both of us needed the other. It just didn't turn out to be forever. No big deal."

  Ross knew he had hurt her, and that his last comment was unfair, but he didn't care. She was opening raw wounds. She'd have to pay the price. "If you're thinking you can waltz back in here again and start playing the savior of lost souls again, you're wrong. We're through. This isn't like before."

  "What a bastard you are. Geez, Ross, I thought...hell, I don't know what I thought." She shoved back her needle straight, black hair behind her ears in frustration. She looked around the room, scrambling to regain her composure. Who'd have thought he could hurt her after all these years?

  "You're right. This isn't like before," she started again, determined to show him something he refused to see for himself. "Debbi and Mary don't have one thing in common. Where Mary was porcelain and polish, Debbi was nothing but spit and fire. She was able to step into your life in a way that Mary never could have. You loved that. Loved having her at your side in battle. And then you lost her. But that was the price. She played with the big boys and now she's gone. Get over her."

  "That's enough, Hickok! I've listened to your crap long enough. Get out of here." He was raging inside. All the pain and hurt fr
om the past and the present were battering him mercilessly. He couldn't stand it.

  Hickok's voice became soft and low. "I miss her too, Ross."

  "Then act like it," he snapped.

  "Why? So I can be a morose wretch like yourself. No thanks. Jesus, everyone's hurting, Ross. There's no reason to shout to the world that your pain is the worst. We all know that. You cared for her and now she's gone. You feel guilty and lost."

  Ross's eyes hardened and his jaw flexed convulsively. "Don't, Hickok."

  "Don't what? Tell the truth? Dear God, man, someone has too. It's my job, you see. She gave it to me. Watch out for Ross, she asked me. Kick his ass every now and then when you get crazy like you are now.

  "She knew you so well. Knew you'd need looking after if something ever happened to her." Hickok shook her head in amazement. "She was a friggin' genius, you know that. So much so at times, I hate her." She reached over and took another long draught of the whiskey bottle. She breathed out roughly for a few seconds. Finally, she turned her attention back to Ross, who was sitting there frozen in the throes of agony, remembering. "Bottom line, Ross. Get over it. Live your life like she'd want you to. All you're doing right here is shaming her. She's looking down at you in disgust."

  "That's enough!" Ross's voice shook the room, hate emblazed on his features. He half lifted himself off the chair, his arms locked on the table. The bar quieted and people stared in their direction, waiting for blows to fall.

  Hickok didn't flinch, but rose up to meet him. "Let her go and find some friggin' peace. We'll run down Quantrill one way or the other, but Temptation needs you now! It's the one thing you both cared about." She pointed a finger at Ross's chest. "You, go to work. Do her proud. You may not have noticed but Hellstromme Industries is trying to turn this into a company town. They're flashing a lot of money around. And it's attracting a lot of attention."

  "So what?" was his sullen response. He sat back and reached for the bottle.

  "You goddamn, pathetic son of a bitch!" She stared at him angrily, slapping the bottle away from him. It crashed against the wall. She stood there breathing heavily, staring at him. Then slowly, her anger abated, leaving her miserable and weary. "You're already gone, aren't you? The Ross we knew would have never said that. You wouldn't let Hellstromme buy up this town without trying your damnedest to stop it." She straightened, sadness filling her dark eyes. "Here's a little free help for old time's sake, Ross. Defend what you both loved instead of wasting your time battering at something you both hated."