The Roving Party Read Free Page B

a spit cud around his mouth while he took stock of Black Bill from hat to heels, his hostile eyes betraying his opinion of what he saw there.
    You get them off his feet and I’ll call it quits on that money. Call it square.
    Bickle nodded slackly, spat on the dirt.
    Go and show him some sport. He aint much.
    What is he? Six foot?
    Sixish. But he’s as untrained as the dog in the street.
    That’s as may be.
    A man of your history ought not to worry. I’ve seen you put down worse than him.
    Bickle never took his eyes off the black man where he was stationed upon the verandah. Quits, you say?
    My word on it.
    Aye. Well then.
    He removed his cap and shrugged off his regimental coat before he approached the farmhouse where the Vandemonian was waiting. Bickle’s rotten boots squelched over the ground; he dropped his cap on the mud and with a small motion of the fingers called Bill down.
    Black Bill was a big fellow. He dipped his head under the crossbeam as he stepped off the decking, his dark face shadowed beneath his hat brim. When he moved, the musculature beneath the gleam of his skin drew taut, the cords of his forearms like pulleys. He seemed ignorant or perhaps contemptuous of the sergeant’s intent for he never removed his hat. He waited there before the farmhouse a picture of calm. The assignees had caught on to the happenings Batman had stirred up and they dropped their loads, gathering near the dray to better see what might follow.
    The overseer called out. Come ere now, he said, and givem up. He raised his naked fists like some village pugilist calling men to take the ring for a shilling.
    Bill maintained his ground, raising one open hand. Watch yourself, was all he said.
    But the overseer closed that distance by skipping his feet to hold his stance correct. He lashed out with a right. Bill was up to the task. He moved his head and shuffled back and when the overseer came again faster he struck out with his fist. The strike sat the soldier on his hindquarters. He was up smartly but Bill was over him and snapped him straight to the face hard. The overseer staggered under the blow. He stepped back and drew a hand across his face. Blood messing the front of his filthy undershirt. Blood in his teeth like a fiend on the kill.
    You’re done for fucker, he said. From inside some disguised pocket of his coat he retrieved a little highland dirk and circled Bill with the blade outheld, bloody strings swinging from his chin. You miserable nigger, he said.
    The overseer feinted with the dirk and Bill pulled away. As he lunged again, Bill swayed back sinuously but the blade opened a gash in his shirt. He removed his hat and tossed it aside and his eyes were dark as coals. He assessed the overseer where he held position, dirk gripped for another pass. Warm blood spilled down the inside of his shirt. He said nothing. Instead he came forward with renewed precision, with a cold certainty about his every movement.
    The overseer watched him. Then he lunged, the blade passing near Bill’s chest and slicing back again but the Vandemonian timed his swing and caught the overseer across the chin witha punch that sent his head around brutally. He stumbled but held his feet. Already the swelling around his eye was growing blue and bulbous and he turned his head as if he was seeing his suroundings for the first time. Bill allowed him a moment to find what he could in the way of sense. The overseer looked around at the gathered men but no one spoke for a calloff. He spat out more blood and stepped closer.
    This time he made no feints but moved straight into attack. Bill grappled his arms and they fell, each clutching the other, the knife blade flashing. The Vandemonian caught a handful of hair and yanked back the overseer’s head, ramming his forehead into the soldier’s face. Bickle was put out cold in that instant and Bill rolled off him. He stood up, retrieved his hat and checked the cut on his ribs. From where he lay the overseer