Part 36 (1/2)

Shaking his head, Biff guffawed again. ”You figger you get me riled enough, I'm gonna do somethin' dumb. Maybe yer dumb enough to figger you can whup me. But none of it makes no never mind to me. You're a dead man, dude.”

”Come now, Biff. It's your country and not mine. I didn't invent the rules.”

”Rules?” Another guffaw. ”There ain't no rules. Darryl, seems to me like the dude here is downright harda hearin'.”

Darryl grinned. ”How you figger that, Biff? He's the one doin' all the talkin'.”

”That's what I mean,” said Biff. ”He can't hear how dumb he sounds.”

Biff guffawed and Darryl hooted. In different circ.u.mstances Oscar might have relished the mot himself.

”Okay, dude,” Biff said. ”Time's up.”

Oscar knew then that the scene had played out. His one chance, and not a very good chance at that, had been to provoke the giant into a fight. That chance now was gone. That chance had never existed.

So it came to this. He had traveled some eight or nine thousand miles, over the sea and across the prairies and the forests, to meet Death in the form of an ignorant lout wearing a greasy buffalo fur coat. He should have been frightened, should have been awash in the clammy sweat of terror; he was not. When all hope goes, he perceived, fear leaves with it.

He was, however, sorely disappointed. That his life would end like this, in farce, seemed to him perhaps the most tragic of tragedies.

And what of Elizabeth? Although at the moment his fondness for her was somewhat diminished (she and Tabor discussing him as if he were a packet of lamb cutlets!), certainly he had no wish to see her ravished and murdered by this mindless brute.

And what of Mother? Who would entertain the old dear?

Where was Dr. John Holliday when you really needed him?

Biff was broadly grinning. He glanced for a moment to Elizabeth McCourt Doe, then looked back at Oscar. ”Tell you what. You get down, right now, on your hands and knees, and you beg me for it, and I'll shoot you in the head insteada the belly. That way you die quick, without watchin' your guts spill out for an hour. But see, you gotta beg me for it.”

Here was an opportunity to tack an artful ending onto this sorry comedy, to give it one small note of n.o.bility and panache. He raised his head and stood at his full height. ”It's an extraordinarily generous offer, Biff. It does you credit. But much as I'd like to oblige you, I'm afraid I can't. I learned years ago that kneeling wreaks havoc with the creases of my trousers. It's one of the reasons I left the Church of England.”

”Too bad,” said Biff, and c.o.c.ked his pistol.

And, off to the right, stepping from around the gray trunk of a pine tree, wearing his sleek black topcoat and holding in his hand a bright silver revolver, Dr. John Holliday said in a whisper that somehow carried across the small glen with perfect clarity, ”Drop the guns, children, and grab yourselves a cloud.”

With a small startled squeak, Darryl tossed his gun away, and shot his hands toward the sky.

Biff hesitated. His revolver still pointing at Oscar, he glanced toward Holliday without moving his head.

Holliday whispered, ”I hate to repeat myself.”

Biff wheeled toward him, moving his big body into a crouch, bringing his gun to bear, and Holliday's gun exploded. Oscar watched Biff as several things happened simultaneously. Biff's gun went off and so did his hat, popping straight up into the air as a small black hole appeared in the exact center of his forehead and pennants of gray and brilliant red fluttered for an instant from the back of his skull. He stood upright and then, with a look of utter amazement on his face, his arms opening wide as though he were about to embrace an old friend, he toppled backward and crashed to the ground.

Stunned, Oscar felt his stomach roil. He stared stupidly at the lifeless bulk of Biff as Holliday approached.

To Elizabeth McCourt Doe, Holliday said, ”You all right, Mrs. Doe?”

”Yes,” she said softly, her voice hushed. ”Who are you?”

”Elizabeth,” muttered Oscar, still staring at the rec.u.mbent Biff, ”this is-” He stopped, suddenly overcome by the pre-posterousness of introductions at a time like this.

”John Holliday, ma'am. A pleasure.”

Oscar turned to him, gaping. A pleasure?

”Best thing now,” Holliday whispered, ”would be for you folks to head back to the Springs. I'll take care of this.” He nodded to Biff's body. He held the gun loosely, down at his side-he was no longer worried, evidently, about Darryl (who, eyes darting, seemed to be trying to disappear within his gray duster).

Oscar said, ”But ... the man is dead. Surely, the police ... the authorities, Grigsby, someone ... surely someone should be notified.”

Fractionally, Holliday shrugged. ”More trouble than it's worth. Means the two of you testifying. A trial. Might take weeks. And it comes to the same thing in the end. He's dead, and we walk away. Self-defense. But you'd be using up a lot of time.” Another faint shrug. ”Up to you, though.”

”Oscar,” said Elizabeth McCourt Doe, ”help me up. We're going back.”

Moving slowly, as in a dream, Oscar offered her his hand. She took it and arose from the blanket. Oscar turned to look back at Biff. He was still dead.

Elizabeth handed him his coat. He took it and, without thinking, without quite knowing that he did so, he put it on.

Biff's angled stovepipe hat lay on its side in the pine needles a few yards from his body. For some reason the hat, battered and abandoned, seemed more poignant, more emotionally resonant, more final than the man's lifeless form.

Oscar turned to Holliday. ”How did you know? How did you manage to get here in time?”

Another faint shrug. ”Saw the two of them headed this way from the Springs. Thought it might be a good idea to follow them. Lost the trail for a while after they left their horses, back on the road.” Below the handlebar mustache, he smiled his ghost of a smile. ”I'm not much of a tracker.”

”Oscar,” said Elizabeth McCourt Doe.

He turned to her.

She was squatting down, her hands along the hem of the blanket, the wings of her fur coat spread out atop the pine needles. ”You're standing on it.”

”Oh. Sorry.” He stepped off the blanket.

”What about the basket?” he asked her. This was insane. A man had been shot to death, his brains splashed across the forest floor, and the two of them were jabbering about the picnic paraphernalia.

Standing now, folding the blanket, Elizabeth McCourt Doe looked at Holliday. ”Do you drink champagne?”

Holliday nodded his infinitesimal nod. ”Now and again.”

”Then you're welcome to it,” she said. ”The basket, too. With my compliments.”

A similar nod. ”Obliged.”

Oscar turned to Darryl. He stood, silent and still, his glance darting from Oscar to Holliday to Elizabeth McCourt Doe to Biff, and then back to Holliday.

Oscar said to Holliday, ”What about him?”

Holliday looked at Darryl, looked back to Oscar, shrugged slightly. ”He won't be saying anything to anybody.”

”No sir,” Darryl ventured eagerly. ”No sir, I surely won't.”

Oscar said to Holliday, ”You're not going to-”

Holliday faintly smiled. ”Kill him? Don't expect so.” He asked Darryl, ”You won't be giving me any grief, will you, Darryl?”