Free The Englishman's Boy by Guy Vanderhaeghe

witnesses.”
    The loud announcement attracted attention. Several nearby tables of faro and poker suspended gaming to see how this was going to play out. A portly man in a good coat and good hat shouted, “What you doing, Stevenson? Stealing this sprat’s sugar tit?” Everyone around the table guffawed appreciatively at his sally.
    “I’m a stranger here,” said the boy in a voice which rose above the slackening din. “Whatever falls out here ain’t my doing.”
    Suddenly Stevenson seized him by the wrist of his gun hand. There was no use in struggling. He could sense the power of the man’s grip, knew he was not strong enough to break it. He remained very still. Stevenson grinned in his face. “Hello,” he said, and suddenly struck him a savage blow to the ear with his fist. The Englishman’s boy staggered with the force of it, was jerked up short by the wrist.
    Dizzied, the boy said to the room, “I ain’t got nothing of this man’s. I ain’t asking for no trouble.” The ringing in his ear made his own voice sound as if it were coming from somewhere distant and deep, the words from his very throat rising out of some unplumbable well.
    Stevenson dealt him another blow to the ear. The ear caught fire,the fire sank into his jaw, coursed burning down the side of his neck, running hot in its cords. Stevenson smiled and said “Hello” again. The Englishman’s boy could not hear him this time, could only read his lips mouthing the word. The fist cocked again, and the boy dropped his free hand to his boot-top. The hand jumped up with a metallic glitter.
    Stevenson’s face was all bewildered surprise. He stared down at the knife embedded in his armpit. Then the first shock passed; the steel bit bone like a desperate dog, warping and knotting his face beyond all recognition.
    “Leave go my hand,” said the boy as he jammed Stevenson up on his toes with the point of the knife. Blood was pouring down the blade like rainwater down a drain spout, soaking the cuff of his jacket sodden and heavy, turning his fingers hot and sticky and reeking.
    Stevenson seemed beyond comprehending. Agony was clamping the fingers of his good hand even tighter to the thin wrist.
    “Leave go my hand,” the boy repeated, twisting the knife hard where it lodged. The knife grating in the joint tore a hoarse screech out of Stevenson and he loosed the wrist.
    The pounding piano at the far end of the saloon went silent; the dancers stood still, arms draped around one another; the gamblers sat frozen with cards in their hands.
    As Stevenson stood spitted on the knife, the boy pulled the Colt, jammed the muzzle to his head. “Hello,” he said between his teeth. The hotel man’s eyes bulged. Someone entered the saloon and scurried back out again when he saw what was happening. The hinges of the flapping bat-wing doors wheezed in the silence.
    “For Christ’s sake, don’t kill me,” Stevenson whispered hoarsely. “I got a sick wife in Missouri.”
    Hardwick rose from the table next to the window. The boy swung the pistol on him, Stevenson flinching with the sudden movement. Hardwick spread his hands before him, demonstrating he had no weapon. “Word of friendly advice, son,” he said. “You kill him where he stands – they’ll hang you.”
    The truth of this statement contorted the boy’s face. He jerked theknife out of Stevenson and drove it, twice, with blinding rapidity into the man’s buttocks. The hotel-keeper gave a great hollow groan as his knees gave way under him, capsizing him to the floor in a dead faint.
    The boy stepped over the body to where the black silk hat had rolled and trampled it savagely under his dirty boots. No one moved as this was accomplished. “None of this was my doing,” he told the room, brandishing the pistol above his head for all to see. “I’m walking now. If this bastard has any kin or friends setting here making plans – you’ve seen my gun. It’s cocked.” He took a step toward the