"All right, gal, it's over," he whispered.
"It ain't," she whispered. "There's still McConville."
"Think I'd forgot that, you dumb rabbit? Git a hold a yourself."
He rubbed her ears with his thumb and put her down gently. Then he looked out again, very cautiously, along the line of columns to the stack of barrels at the other end of the empty floor. There was no movement.
But Lee realized with a little flicker of hope that McConville wasn't only brutal: he was stupid too. A clever man would have done nothing, held his fire, kept as still as a stone until Lee had either killed or been killed by the other man. If Lee came out on top he might have thought all the danger was gone, and McConville could pick him off when his back was turned. Instead of that, what did the fool do but give himself away. So there might be a chance.
Those columns ... two rows of eight, equally spaced along the length of the building, back and front. When Lee looked past the left side of the row at the front, by the windows, he could see the whole room, almost, clear across the center of the big floor to the stack of barrels; but when he looked past the right side of the columns, he could see nothing but the narrow passage between the front wall and the row of overlapping columns, right down to the side wall at the far end.
But that meant in turn that McConville would have the same view. If Lee moved along between the row of columns and the front wall, he'd be invisible to the other man for some of the way, at least.
It was the best chance he had. He looked down at Hester, and she flicked her ears: ready. Lee quickly filled the magazine of the Winchester (and what a sweet weapon this was) and set off, making as little noise as leather-shod feet could on a wooden floor.
For the first three or four columns he was safely invisible, and he was ready to snap a shot as soon as anything moved into sight at the other end. The further he got, though, the more dangerous, because as the angle increased so did the gaps between the columns.
Couldn't be helped. Take the rest at a run. He stopped at the last point where he was still fully concealed, opposite the big doors right in the center that opened for goods to come up by the hoist, and then gripped the rifle and ran.
And in the same moment he thought, My shadow--damn, he can see my shadow--
The sun was pouring in through the windows. McConville had been able to follow his progress every step of the way; and no sooner had Lee realized that than two shots rang out, and he dropped. He was hit, but he had no idea where. He'd sprawled in the space between the second and third columns. With all his might he dragged himself up and flung himself forward towards the rack of barrels. If he was close against it on this side, McConville wouldn't be able to see him.
Maybe.
He made it, and slipped down to the floor. Hester was close by, trembling. Lee brought his finger to his lips, and he could do that because his hand was free, and his hand was free because he'd dropped the rifle.
It lay out in the open, several feet away and unreachable.
He sat there with his back to the lower rack of barrels, smelling the stinking fish oil, feeling his blood race, listening to every drip and creak and scrape and click, and holding back the pain that was prowling around just waiting to pounce.
It was his left shoulder, as he discovered a few moments later. Where exactly he didn't know, because the pain inconsiderately took up residence like a bully and demanded all the feeling there was; but Lee tried to move his left hand and arm and found them still working, though badly weakened, so he guessed McConville's bullet hadn't found a bone.
Damn, there was blood all over the place. Where the hell was that coming from? Was he hit somewhere else as well?
He shook his head to clear it, and drops of blood flew off and splashed across his face. Simultaneously his left ear felt as if a tiger had taken a bite out of it, and Lee had to hold his breath to avoid gasping. Well, ears did bleed, no doubt about it, and if it was no worse than that, then it was better than it might have been.
Silence in the warehouse, apart from the drip of blood onto the floor.
Outside, the distant sounds of work, and the cry of seagulls.
Lee sat, stiffening with pain, with one gun that didn't work and yards from another that did, in the deepening stench of fish oil. Somebody's bullet--probably his-- had punctured one of the barrels, and not far away from where he'd fallen a steady trickle of the stuff was leaking down from the top rack and spreading slowly across the floor. In another five minutes he'd be sitting right in it.
Hester sat crouched tightly against his side. She was hurt by his wounds, but she wouldn't complain.
"Scoresby," came a voice from the other side of the rack of barrels.
Lee said nothing.
"I know you're there, you cheap son of a bitch, and I know I got you," the slow grinding voice went on. "Course I don't know if you're dead yet, but you will be soon, you bastard. You think I didn't know who you were soon's I saw you? Ain't nobody I forgit once I seen 'em. You was next on my list back there in the Dakota country, you better believe it. You shoulda seen them two marshals when I finished with 'em, whoo, man. One of 'em had a serpent-daemon and he took his eyes off me and I picked her up by the tail and cracked her like a goddamn whip. You ain't never seen a man so surprised to be dead. That was by the Cheyenne River. And it left the other man on his own against Pierre McConville. That ain't good odds, Scoresby, you think of that. I can stay awake longer'n anyone. He tried to out-wake me but in the end he fell into the sweet arms of slumber, and the sucker thought he'd tied me safe, but ain't nothing can hold me down. I got a trick for that. I snuck out of my bonds and I lashed that son of a whore's feet and hands together and then I just picked up his daemon and tied her to his horse and unhobbled the horse. Man! That was funny. He woke up and he saw the terrible fix he was in. He kept saying, 'Here, Sunshine, good horse, don't go 'way now, come on, you dumb critter, please please now don't move.' As long as that horse didn't move too far he could just about live, but if something was to startle her so she ran off, well, bang, thassit. Like a hand coming up inside your ribs and feeling your heart still beating and pulling and pulling it till the strings and the veins all pop and it comes away in your hand. Man, you're dead then all right. In the end I took his gun and I fired it in the air and off ol' Sunshine took like a cannonball. You ain't never heard a scream like that marshal screamed.
"Well, I'm gone do that to you, Scoresby. There's that big hoist outside the doors there with a rope on it. I'm gone play a trick with that, you bet. I'm gone play with you and that scrawny jackrabbit for a long time."
The pool of fish oil had spread. It was close enough now for Lee to reach out and touch it, and then he saw Hester look that way too, and then at him, and then at his pistol, and he knew at once what she meant.
McConville was still talking, but Lee blanked out his voice and with infinite care reached for the pistol at his waist. Holding it on his lap, he touched a finger to the pool of oil and brought a drop to the pivot of the hammer, and another to the trigger mechanism, and another to the bearing of the cylinder. With his weakened left hand holding the barrel as firmly as he could, he turned the cylinder with his right, very slowly, and felt it loosen. He pulled back the hammer: it moved stiffly at first, and then freely. He made sure there was a cartridge in the chamber, and sat with the pistol cocked, waiting for McConville's deep grating voice to stop.
"Well, Scoresby, I'm gone start killing you now. This is your end a-coming. It's gone be a hard one and a long one. I made that other marshal's end last a good half-hour by his pretty watch, which I took. I think I might let you stick around a mite longer'n that. Depends how much you scream."
Lee heard the sound of a man getting to his feet and coughing slightly as if to cover a grunt of pain. So he had been hit!
And Hester pricked up her ears, tensing suddenly, as she and Lee heard another sound: the slither of a serpent body along a wooden floor, and the faint dry clicking of a rattle. McConville's d
aemon, impatient to get the torture started, was moving ahead of him.
And then, not six feet away at the end of the rack of barrels, the snake head appeared--and Hester sprang, and seized it.
She gripped the daemon just behind the head, and bit down hard. Lee felt every quiver of her muscles, and clenched his teeth in sympathy with hers.
McConville uttered a great cry of rage and pain and fell to the floor behind the barrels. Unable to move, Lee watched the furious struggle between the lashing, coiling, whipping snake and the tense little form of Hester, her claws slipping as she scrabbled on the floor. There was nothing for her to get any purchase on-- no good turf, no springy twigs of sage--nothing but smooth boards, and the little rabbit had only half the weight of the snake; and Lee could feel with his daemon the furious power of the twisting, writhing form of McConville's as she flung herself left, right, left, trying to tear her neck out from be Hester's teeth.
"Keep going, gal," Lee whispered. "Hold tight there, sweetheart..." And she dug in, she tightened her trembling jaw, she scrabbled and slipped but she dug in again and tugged, and dragged, and hauled, and little by little pulled McConville's daemon away from him.
McConville's cries were hideous. He scrambled across the floor--Lee could hear his boots slipping, his fingernails scratching--his grunts and roars echoed around the warehouse till the air was full of the noise, and then helplessly he stumbled round the end of the rack of barrels, and Lee shot him.
McConville crashed backwards against the window and slid to the floor. In Hester's mouth his daemon sagged and loosened, but Hester kept on tugging, and it was easier now, and McConville sobbed, "No--no-- don't do it--goddamn bitch rabbit--"
His face was the color of dirty paper. His mouth was a sagging red hole and his eyes were bulging.
"McConville," said Lee, "you shot Mike Martinez and Broadus Vinson from a hiding place, like a coward, and then you made little Jimmy Partlett fight you because he didn't want you to think he was a coward. You're a dirty piece of work, and this is the end of you."
And he shot the man through the heart. His daemon vanished, and Hester tumbled back towards Lee, who scooped her up and kissed her and held her close till she stopped trembling.
"You better move, Lee," she whispered. 'You got about ten seconds before you're sitting in a pool of fish oil."
"And now our troubles begin, Hester," Lee muttered, struggling to pull himself upright, and just in time too.
Gingerly he moved his left arm and found, at least, that he could. He put his pistol back in the holster and went to pick up the rifle.
Then he looked out of the window and saw the ship's crew at work covering the forward hatch, so they must have loaded the cargo. But one man lay dead on the deck, under a sheet of canvas, and nearby on the quay a crowd headed by Poliakov was being held at bay by Iorek Byrnison, whose bulk stood foursquare on the flagstones, confronting them. Poliakov was addressing the crowd; Lee could hear the muscular drone of his voice, but not the words. He was trying to get them to move forward and--well, attack the schooner, Lee supposed, but the bear would have stopped a madder, braver crowd than this.
Lee could also hear the chug of the schooner's auxiliary engine and see the exhaust smoke puffing from the pipe amidships. She was nearly ready to leave.
He made his way carefully down the stairs. On the ground floor he found a chaos of torn bundles of skins, broken spars and lengths of timber, and the great steel sheet of the door lying flat beside the entrance.
He walked out into the sunlight and made his way to the bear's side.
"Well, York Byrnison, the trouble's gone from upstairs," he said.
The bear's head swung round to look at him, the black eyes glinting under the great iron ridge.
And then Lee's head swam and he lost his balance for a moment, but the bear's head moved in a flash and seized his coat between his teeth, and gently pulled him upright again.
And then things became confusing.
There was someone shouting from the crowd, or did it come from beyond them? Loud voices bellowing commands, anyway, and then the disciplined quick tramp-tramp-tramp of running feet in heavy boots coming along the quay. Behind him, Lee heard a splash, and then turned carefully to see the bear's helmeted head emerging from the water and moving swiftly away.
But he had to turn round again, because an angry voice was shouting, "You! Drop your weapon! Drop it now!"
And he saw it came from the man in charge of the squad of running men in Larsen Manganese uniforms, who had arrived at the head of the crowd now and stood, rifles aimed, facing him like a firing squad. Poliakov was standing safely behind them, frowning his approval.
Lee considered that he didn't feel inclined to drop that nice rifle, and he was about to say so when another layer of confusion was added the mix. A different voice from behind him said, "Mr. Lee Scoresby, you are under arrest."
Cautiously, in case he fell over, Lee turned once more. The man who'd spoken was one of three: young, armed with a pistol, and in a different uniform.
"Who the hell are you?" Let? said.
"Never mind him!" yelled the Larsen Manganese leader. "Do as I say!"
"I am Lieutenant Haugland. We are from the Customs and Revenue Board, Mr. Scoresby," said the young man calmly, "and I repeat, you are under arrest. Put down your rifle."
"Well, you see," said Lee, "if I do that, the Senator over there will suddenly regain his courage, and order those marionettes of his to come and take over Captain van Breda's ship. And after all me and York Byrnison went through to help him load his cargo, that seems kind of a pity. I don't know how to resolve this situation, Mr. Customs Officer."
"I will resolve it. Put your rifle down, please."
The young officer stepped past Lee and faced the line of riflemen without a tremor.
'You will all leave the harbor now, and go about your lawful business," he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. "If there is (one person left on this quayside by the time the Customs House clock strikes twelve, they will be arrested. All of you move."
The Larsen Manganese men looked uncertain. But Poliakov, still taking care to remain behind them, shouted:
"I protest! This is an outrage! I am the leader of a properly constituted political party, and this is a blatant attempt to deny my freedom of speech! You should be enforcing the law, not flouting it! That criminal Scoresby--"
"Mr. Scoresby is under arrest, and so will you be if you do not turn round and leave the harbor. You have two minutes."
Lieutenant Haugland's fox-daemon said something quietly to Hester. Poliakov drew himself up to his full height, and gave in.
"Very well," he said. "Under strong protest, and cheated of the justice we have a right to expect and a duty to demand, we shall do as you say. But I give you notice that--"
"Less than two minutes," said Haugland.
Poliakov turned, and the crowd behind parted to let him through, and sullenly followed him away. The Larsen Manganese riflemen were the last to turn, but the implacable stillness of the Customs officer outfaced them, and finally their leader muttered an order, and they turned and walked back down the quay--walked, until he snapped another order and they clumsily organized themselves into a march.
"Mr. Scoresby, your rifle, if you please," said the young man.
"I would rather give it back to Captain van Breda," Lee said, "seeing that it belongs to him."
He heard hasty footsteps behind him, and turned carefully again to see the Captain hurrying towards them. He had evidently heard the last exchange, because he said:
"Mr. Scoresby, I must thank you--I have nothing to pay you with except the rifle itself--please take it, please. It is yours."
"Very handsome, Captain," said Lee. "I'll accept it with thanks."
"And now put it down," said Haugland.
Lee bent to lay it on the ground.
"And your pistol."
"It doesn't work," said Lee.
"Yes, it does. P
ut it down."
Lee did so, and then straightened up, feeling dizzy. For a moment the sounds of the harbor receded: the cry of the gulls, the raised voices from the coal tanker and the crane driver across the water, the splash of the dredger, the striking of the Customs House clock; and then it seemed as if a dark cloud had sprung up out of nowhere and enveloped the sun, because the color drained from the world and everything dimmed.
It only lasted a moment, and then he found another officer's hand steadying his arm, and came to his full senses again.
"Follow me, please," said the officer, and set off briskly towards the end of the quay. As Lee passed the schooner he could see the crew unseating the heel of the derrick, and a man casting off a rope, and Captain van Breda hurrying up the gangplank and shouting an order.
"Where are we going?" said Lee. "I thought your Customs House was back there."
"It is," said the Lieutenant, and left it at that; but as they passed the last warehouse Lee saw a launch tied up at a flight of steps, in the Customs and Revenue colors of navy and white. The engine was chugging quietly, and a rating held the painter tight through a ring in the wall to keep the boat steady as the first officer stepped on board.
Lee crouched to pick up Hester, who whispered, "It's all right, Lee. Everything's fine."
Deeply puzzled, he stepped onto the launch and sat down in the little cabin as the other two officers followed.
The sailor cast off, and one of the officers took the wheel and opened the throttle. Lee looked back at the schooner, whose bow was already swinging out away from the quay.
The young officer had laid Lee's pistol and the Winchester on the bench opposite where Lee was sitting, and Lee could easily have reached either of them. He sat still and quiet, holding Hester close, until the launch had passed the dredger and rounded the lighthouse, and was pitching briskly in the waves of the open sea.
"All right, I give up," he said. "What the hell is going on?"
"Mr. Scoresby, please take your pistol," said Haugland. "And I believe the rifle is also yours."
"Well, now I'm dreaming," said Lee. He took the revolver and spun the cylinder, which ran smoothly and surely. "Where are we going, and why?"