White Silence by Ginjer Buchanan Page A

Duncan could see every detail of Zimmer’s battered face, from the scarred eyelid to the crooked nose to the wart half-hidden by the scraggly beard. The man’s teeth, bared in a snarl, were black with decay. His breath was hot and putrid.
    Duncan’s back flared with pain from the impact. The two men hammered at each other, trading body blows. Then Duncan freed his arms. He raised them and clenched his hands together. Then, with all his strength, he struck Zimmer on the back of the neck.
    The man released Duncan, shaking his head. Duncan pressed his advantage, lashing out with his right foot.
    But Zimmer was quicker and tougher than he’d thought. The burly thief dodged the kick, and rushed Duncan again. Clearly he was used to overwhelming his opponents with his bulk.
    Two quick kidney punches left Duncan doubled over gasping. Zimmer struck him on the back with one powerful fist. Before he could deliver the next blow, however, Duncan butted him in the stomach with his head.
    Zimmer staggered back, tripping over the still prone Indian. His head hit the frozen ground with a sharp crack. He lay still.
    “Hold it.” The command was followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.
    Through the haze of his anger, Duncan saw Big Ed Burns still standing in the doorway, gun drawn and ready.
    “That was kinda interestin’, seeing someone beat on Zimmer for a change. He’s gonna be powerful angry when he comes to, though.”
    Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll not be here then.”
    Burns shrugged. “No never mind to me. You can go. But the injun stays.”
    “The Indian goes.”
    “You cheechakos.” Burns shook his head. “You just don’t know the rules up here.” He leveled the gun. “Which is, there ain’t no rules.”
    “Shoot me here, and there’ll be trouble,” Duncan replied. “Mr. Smith won’t like that now, will he?”
    Burns’s eyes flickered. He hesitated. Duncan tensed.
    Then something whizzed past him, striking Burns square on the forehead. The man crumpled to his knees, and pitched forward. The gun fell from his hand. Duncan picked it up and turned.
    The gate burst open. A fourth man—an Indian—entered the courtyard. Quickly he went to the side of his fallen comrade. Murmuring in a language that Duncan almost understood, he helped the blood-spattered man to his feet. Then he spoke.
    “We go now.”
    Duncan was holding the gun on Zimmer, who had begun to stir. “Wait. Don’t just leave. Fetch the town constable. Or you take the gun, and I’ll get him.”
    The Indian shook his head. “No good. These Soapy’s men. No law for them.”
    “This man robbed me and my friends.” Duncan gestured at Zimmer. “And he beat your friend senseless.”
    “Brother,” the Indian said. “I must take him away from here or he die.”
    The injured man groaned. His knees buckled. Tucking the gun in the waistband of his trousers, Duncan helped support him.
    The Indian regarded him. His black eyes were calm, his voice level. “I am called Sam. Siwash Sam. You come with me. Maybe then we all live.”
    Duncan blew out his breath in exasperation. It fogged the air.
    “All right then. One thing, though. Can you hold your brother alone for a minute?”
    The Indian nodded.
    Duncan crouched down.
    “Zimmer?”
    “The hell with you.” The man groaned.
    “Zimmer, you’d best hope we don’t meet a third time. Your face is ugly and your breath is worse. I don’t want to see—or smell—you ever again.”
    He rose and joined the Indian. They half dragged his brother through the broken gate, along the back alleys of the town, away from Jeff Smith’s Parlour.
    Duncan sat cross-legged before a fire burning brightly in front of a large hide tent. He could see the whole of the town below. A good place to camp, he thought. A smart place.
    In the tent, the Indian who called himself Siwash Sam was ministering to his brother. Duncan had offered to help, but Sam had shook his head. Instead, he had nodded