Part 60 (1/2)

He flung himself sideways as I fired. My slug splashed his right eye. His head was turned at the moment, though, so it didn't drill through to his brain but only took out a corner of his socket.

He hit the ground screaming. And firing.

Already, I was slapping leather with my left hand. I pulled my second Colt. Before I could bring it into play, my arm was struck. Felt like a club had pounded it just below my shoulder. The gun dropped from my hand. I ducked quick, trying to catch it with my right as bullets sizzled past me. And catch it I did.

As I swung it up, a bullet smacked my right right shoulder. shoulder.

I lurched backward, tripped over Jesse's legs, and fell. My head thumped the rock floor.

Next thing I know, Whittle was looming above me, pointing his revolver at my face. He looked frightful. His right eye was a runny gorge. Half his face was masked with blood. He'd lost his nosepatch, so I saw the pulpy scar tissue in the cavity between the nubs of his nostrils. He was sobbing. Blood and drool dribbled off his trembling chin. His left hand was clutched to the hole in his belly.

”See what you've done to me!” he whined.

”Less than you deserved,” I said.

”I'm not finished yet, you scurvy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.” He threw his gun away. Whimpering and moaning, he hunched down over me, grabbed the front of my s.h.i.+rt, and hoisted me up till I was sitting. ”I'm not finished finished! Not quite yet yet! Watch! Watch the Ripper at work! He loves his games!”

Stumbling backward, he swept one of the huge knives from its sheath. He stood up straight. A belch came out of him and sent a gout of red flopping out his mouth.

With more energy than I gave him credit for, he jammed a boot under Jesse's hip and sent her rolling onto her back.

I looked this way and that, hoping to spy either of my revolvers-any revolver. None was in reach, so I tried to shove myself up to my feet as Whittle dropped across Jesse's hips. revolver. None was in reach, so I tried to shove myself up to my feet as Whittle dropped across Jesse's hips.

Grunting, wheezing, blood flowing down his chin, he glared at me with his single eye. ”You've never...seen the...Ripper at play!”

”She's dead!” I yelled. ”Leave her be!”

He ran the blade beneath her s.h.i.+rt. With an upward jerk, he sent the b.u.t.tons flying. He used the tip of his knife to fling each side of her s.h.i.+rt away, laying her bare to the waist.

I got my feet beneath me. I leaned forward, hoping to stand.

”Splendid set,” he gasped, spraying blood on her face. ”Which...which shall I...have off...first?”

”I'm right partial to them both,” Jesse said.

She grabbed his wrist, pinning the knife down flat between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her other arm swung up and chopped the gleaming blade of her Bowie knife across the Ripper's throat.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR.

Wounds and Dressings The blood just leaped out of Whittle, slopping onto Jesse while he sat atop her and made gaggy sounds. Then she jabbed his side to tumble him off.

I crawled toward her.

Whittle's knife still lay on her chest. She tossed it away, then blinked blood out of her eyes and looked at me.

I keeled over.

I woke up once while Jesse was tending to my wounds. My s.h.i.+rt was off. She had me propped up some, a pile of clothes under my back. My left arm was already wrapped tight. She was straddling me, her knife clamped between her teeth as she used both hands to rip apart somebody's s.h.i.+rt that she held up in front of her.

With a popping sound, the fabric split. She hadn't taken time yet to clean herself. Her face and chest gleamed with Whittle's blood.

I pa.s.sed out again.

By and by, I came around. I was still sitting up against the piled clothes. Now, both my wounds were bandaged. The cave seemed darker than before. I judged that some of the torches had likely burned themselves out.

Jesse was gone.

I called for her, but she didn't answer.

Worried, thinking that perhaps she had pa.s.sed out, herself, I looked about as much as I could without trying to twist my body around. Whittle was sprawled nearby, dead as all the folks he'd murdered. I glanced at several of his victims. Had no choice in the matter, as I was hoping to find Jesse. While I did that, my eyes lit on Sarah.

She was facedown where he'd flung her.

The pain from my wounds was nothing next to the agony I felt, looking at her. My poor Sarah. A scalped and gutted carca.s.s. Not only butchered by Whittle, but gunshot many times by me and Jesse. Ruined beyond recognizing long before we ever battered her with our slugs.

My beautiful Sarah, come to this.

She hadn't run off with Briggs, after all. She'd traveled on to Tombstone in hopes that I had survived my fall from the train and would come to her. She'd tried to take on Whittle by herself. And ended here-spending her final hours, or days, suffering the most unspeakable of tortures.

All on account of me.

She had loved me, and died for it.

It didn't matter a bit that she'd cut me off from Mother in regard to our letters. No doubt, she'd feared losing me. A small betrayal, really.

I'd betrayed her in a far more grievous manner when I gave my heart to Jesse.

At least Sarah had been spared the knowledge of that. She'd died believing that I loved her still.

I suddenly let out a sour laugh that sent pains flas.h.i.+ng through my body.

Indeed! It must've been a great consolation to her, believing in my love while Whittle was at her with his knives. What a trifling thing, the affections of a boy. When one is in the lair of a madman. When the body is afire with torment and death is certain.

With every cut of the knife, she should've wished that I'd never roamed into her house, that I'd been cast out into the blizzard the night of my arrival, that she'd never taken me into her arms or into her bed-certainly that she hadn't ventured west with me to search for Whittle.

She should've died cursing my very existence.

All of them should have done so. All of those who crossed my path or Whittle's, and died because of it, ever since that bitter night in London so long ago when I led him to the of them should have done so. All of those who crossed my path or Whittle's, and died because of it, ever since that bitter night in London so long ago when I led him to the True D. Light. True D. Light.

At least he'll he'll kill no one else, I told myself. kill no one else, I told myself.

We finished him. Jesse and I.

My eyes lit upon a revolver some distance beyond my feet. I wondered if I had the strength to fetch it. A single bullet through my head, and n.o.body else would ever die on my account.

The last time I'd considered such a move, I'd held off because Whittle still needed killing.