Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 14
Jefferson blinked, trying to focus on Gantry as he lumbered around the kitchen. The big man paused for a moment to take in the writing on the wall. “That you, Quinn?” he asked, gesturing. His breath was still short, but not as short as Jefferson’s, who felt like he could barely suck in any wind between the damage to his throat and ribs. Gantry turned back to look at Jefferson. “Nah, that wasn’t you, was it? You wouldn’t write in the Old Tongue. It’d scare you too much.”
“Wouldn’t use gravy if I did,” Jefferson rasped, easing himself halfway to a seated position, leaning against a cabinet. “Try to keep things classy.” Between the two of them, their wheezing was filling the room.
Gantry grinned. “Listen to you, still a smart guy even after I damn near killed you. What’s it going to take to get you in a serious frame of mind, Quinn?”
“Oh, don’t think I ain’t serious, Gantry.”
Gantry fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “That almost sounded like a threat, my boy.”
“Ah, I’m in no position to make threats.”
“No, no you aren’t, pally.” Gantry looked around the room again. “This Reeves is having a time of it, isn’t he? Just like old Sullivan. You think he took a powder?”
“I reckon. Reckon maybe I ought to just go let you take care of him, too. One more notch on your pistol.” Jefferson eased himself a few inches more upright. “Gotta be getting crowded, after you took care of those two boys in that Plymouth.”
Gantry chuckled. “Let me, huh? That was you in that Ford the other day, was it? Guess I owe Farthing a sawback.” He frowned. “Where is he, anyway?” He glanced out the back window.
“Who were those fellas?” Jefferson asked. He was feeling just about able to get up, now, though he didn’t like his chances of making the revolver. He had a nasty feeling Gantry was hoping he’d go for it, in fact.
“You don’t know?” Gantry asked, his eyes wide. “Hang on a second now, you didn’t know who they were? What’s the Blue Candle Society coming to, these days?” He turned to regard the scarred and gravy-smeared wall again. “Do you even know what this says?” he asked in a strange voice.
“Ah, hell, sounds like you might need the same thing as Reeves does,” Jefferson rasped.
“Well now, I know that was a threat,” Gantry said, still looking at the wall. He turned and took two long steps toward Jefferson, then kicked him hard in the thigh.
Jefferson sucked in a breath across his teeth. “Not a threat. Just kinda wishing I’d shot you in the back of the head just now, steada trying to start a chat.”
Gantry looked down at him for a moment. His leg eased back, like he was going to kick Jefferson again, then is settled back. “Bet you do, my boy, I’ll bet you do. But I tell you, threat or not, like I said, I want to see what it takes to get you to stop making comments about every damn thing. But I think we’ll let Farthing take care of that.”
“Yeah, you’d best,” Jefferson said. “You sound like you might keel over you try to get too active just now.”
Gantry frowned for a moment, then grinned and shook his finger at Jefferson. “There you go again. But we’ll let Farthing have his turn.” He turned and stepped toward the door. “Anyway,” he said over his shoulder. “I kicked your ass, don’t you forget that.” He poked his head out the door. “Farthing! Where’ve you gotten to?”
There was a shot outside the house, a .38 from the sound of it, followed by two more in rapid succession, and a man’s cry.
Jefferson jumped, as did Gantry, and froze for a moment. For a second, neither man moved, then Gantry took a step forward. “Farthing? What the hell?” There were two more shots, from a .45 this time Jefferson thought, and Gantry took another step forward through the door. By the time he remembered what was behind him and turned, Jefferson had managed to stagger to his feet and lurch toward the stove.
Gantry reached for his own shoulder holster, then turned and ducked down the hall. Jefferson grabbed the Smith and Wesson and started after him, then staggered and fell flat as his feet tangled up under him. The revolver went spinning across the linoleum even as he heard more shots from outside. He was still crawling toward it when he heard the squeal of tires on pavement.
As he got himself to a seated position, clutching the pistol, footfalls approached down the hall, fast light clicks on the wood.
Copyright © 2012 SM Williams