The Outlaw's Return. Victoria Bylin
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“P-p-p-lease. I—I—I—”
The stuttering made J.T.’s throat hurt. The boy doing the hitting laughed. “Wh-wh-what d-d-did you say, Au-au—”
“I heard him just fine,” J.T. dragged the words into a growl. “He said to leave him alone.”
The boys holding the kid’s arms watched him nervously but didn’t budge. The third one—the leader, J.T. surmised—held his ground. With his small, dark eyes and lank hair the color of coffee, he had the look of a buzzard determined to pick the boy’s bones—or his pockets—clean. He stared at J.T., then lowered his chin. “This ain’t your fight, mister.”
“It is now.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed with a compulsion to fight. J.T. would be glad to oblige, but not in the way the boy expected. He paced toward the two holding the blond kid spread-eagle, letting them see his knotted fists and cold stare. In unison they stepped back and raised their hands in surrender. The boy who’d been beaten groaned and slid into a heap.
“Get outta here!” J.T. shouted at them.
The two sprinted for their lives. J.T. turned to the third one. He looked closer to manhood than the others, maybe sixteen or so, and he’d stood his ground. He spat, then glared at J.T. “Get lost, mister.”
With his duster loose and his gun belt tight on his hips, J.T. walked straight at him.
The boy didn’t budge.
J.T. kept coming. When he got within a foot, he saw sweat on the boy’s brow. “You want to fight?” he said in a singsong tone.
The kid said nothing.
He had no intention of using his fists, but this boy-man didn’t know that. J.T. smirked, tempting the kid to take the first punch. It would be unwise and they both knew it. J.T. was faster, stronger and meaner. He didn’t twitch, didn’t blink. He simply waited.
The boy swallowed once, then again. When he blinked, fear showed in his gaze. The boy knew J.T. outmatched him, just as he’d outmatched the blond kid.
“How does it feel?” J.T. said in an oily voice.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“N-now who’s afraid?”
“Look, mister—”
“Shut your mouth.” He grabbed the kid by the collar. “I could have you on the ground in two seconds and you’d be dead in three.” He shoved him back and out of reach. “You leave my friend alone.”
The boy answered by glaring.
J.T. strode toward him as if he were going to kick him. Instead he kicked up a cloud of empty dust. “Come on,” he shouted. “Take a swing at me.”
Just as he expected, the boy scrambled to his feet and ran. He got twenty feet away and turned. “I don’t know who you are, mister! But you’ll be sorry.” He jerked a finger at the boy slumped against the wall. “So will you, Au-au-gustus!
The stutter mocked the boy who’d been beaten, but it was J.T. who felt punched in the gut. Mary’s brother was called Augustus. How many boys in Denver would go by that awful name? Looking at the kid again, he saw Mary’s wheat-colored hair and distinct cheek bones. He watched to be sure the boy who’d done the bullying kept running, then he turned back to Augustus. The resemblance couldn’t be denied. “Do you know Mary Larue?”
“Sh-she’s my s-s—” The kid sealed his lips.
J.T. took the stammering for yes. “I knew her in Kansas.”
Augustus wiped the blood from his nose with the sleeve of his white shirt, probably his Sunday best. He sniffed, then looked at J.T. again. “Th-th—” Thank you.
“No problem, kid.” The stammering hurt in ways J.T. had never experienced. He held out his hand to shake. “I’m J. T. Quinn.”
The boy leveraged to his feet, then fell to the ground unconscious. Crouching at his side, J.T. rolled him to his back. The boy had probably fainted from shock, but he couldn’t be sure. A blow to the head could cause bleeding in his brain. A busted rib could puncture a lung. He shook the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, kid.”
Augustus didn’t move. He didn’t twitch. Nothing but a shallow breath came from his parted lips. Fancy Girl put her cold nose on his cheek. No response. With fear pooling in his gut, J.T. lifted the boy’s eyelid. The pupil shrank against the light, a good sign. “Come on, Augustus. Talk to me.”
Nothing.
J.T. didn’t know where to find a doctor, but he knew where to find Mary. He lifted her brother onto his horse, climbed up behind him and galloped to Swan’s Nest.
Chapter Five
Mary walked to the end of the street and called her brother’s name for the fifth time. When he didn’t answer, she went back to Swan’s Nest and looked for him again in the garden. Without a sign of him, she paced back to the street. A rider and a cloud of dust caught her eye and she stopped. The man’s black duster billowed behind him, and he’d pulled his hat low against the wind. A dog ran at his side.
“Fancy Girl,” she murmured. J.T. had tracked her down, and he was approaching at a gallop. What could he possibly want? She couldn’t stand the thought of speaking with him in front of her friends. As he rode closer, the blankness of his silhouette took on color and shape. He was clutching something against his body. Not something, she realized. Someone…a boy with blond hair and a bloody white shirt.
“Augustus!” Hoisting her skirts, she ran to them.
J.T. reined the horse to a halt at the iron gate. With the boy limp in his arms, he slid from the saddle. “He needs a doctor.”
“I’ll fetch Bessie.” A trained nurse, the older woman had served in the War Between the States. If she couldn’t help Augustus, Mary would send Gertie for Doc Nichols. She flung the gate wide. “Take him to the parlor.”
She waited until J.T. passed with the dog at his heels, then she raced by him and opened the front door. “Bessie!” she called down the hall to the kitchen. “Come quick!”
Wearing a white apron and drying her hands, the nurse hurried down the hall. “What is it?”
“It’s Augustus. He’s hurt.”
J.T.’s boots thudded on the polished wood floor. “Where do you want him?”
“On the divan,” Bessie ordered. “Who are you?”
“A friend of Mary’s.”
The nurse nodded, an indication Adie had shared her curiosity with Bessie before Mary arrived. It hadn’t been gossip, just friends caring about each other, but Mary still felt uncomfortable.
With the boy cradled in his arms, J.T. strode across the room where only moments ago Mary had stood with Adie. He lowered Augustus with a gentleness she remembered from Abilene, then he stepped back to make room for Bessie. As he tossed his hat on a chair, Fancy Girl walked to his side and sat.
Bessie pulled up a chair and started her examination. Terrified, Mary hovered over her shoulder. Bruises on Augustus’s cheek promised a black eye, and he had a bloody nose and split lip. Her gaze dropped to his shirt. Red smears in the shape of knuckles testified to what had happened. Her brother had been beaten.
She whirled to J.T. “Who did this?”
“We’ll talk later,” he said in a low tone.
She wanted answers now, but mostly she wanted her brother to wake up. She turned back to his limp body and saw Bessie taking his pulse. The nurse lowered his wrist, but her expression remained detached. “Get the smelling salts,” she ordered. “And water and clean towels.”
“Will he be all right?” Mary asked.
“I