It was hard, because Backenhauser was filling her up, and then a pistol barrel landed hard and heavy over her face, breaking her nose and smashing her back from the bed with blood pumping from her nostrils and the welcoming arms of black oblivion taking her down into a cessation of awareness.
Backenhauser grunted and tried to sit up. But his body was still jerking and before he could even shout, there was a barrel jammed into his mouth.
‘Now ain’t that funny,’ rasped Baum. ‘The Englishman’s takin’ it in the head.’
‘Don’t kill him!’ snapped Dumfries. ‘Not yet.’
Backenhauser’s eyes got wide, and his teeth grated on the oiled metal. Involuntarily he urinated, the hot liquid splashing over his spread thighs and down onto the sheets.
‘He pissed hisself.’ Baum snatched the gun from the artist’s mouth, taking chips of enamel with it. ‘I guess he’s scared.’
‘Who are you?’ Backenhauser realized his voice was hoarse. Knew it was fear that drained his vocal chords of saliva. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Amos Dumfries pointed a Colt’s .45 Peacemaker at the Englishman’s belly and said, ‘You helped that goddam half-breed kill my son. That’s who I am. That dead boy’s father.’
‘Oh, God!’ Backenhauser sat upright in the bed, instinctively tugging the sheets over his body. Fritz Baum reached over to haul them away, exposing the artist’s nakedness.
‘He’s yours,’ said the bounty hunter. ‘But don’t use the gun: we don’t want no noise.’
‘So what the hell do I use?’ snarled Dumfries. ‘My hands?’
Baum shook his head and reached inside his gray jacket. ‘No, this.’
He tossed a clasp-knife to the rancher. Dumfries caught it in his left hand and holstered the Colt. The blade came out with a sudden click! Like a spring snapping. The blade was around four inches long, honed razor sharp on one side with a wicked tip jutting from the curved edge.
Backenhauser tried to scream, but Baum shoved the gun back into his mouth, then picked up the Englishman’s shirt and stuffed that through the man’s lips, knotting the sleeves behind his head.
He used Backenhauser’s belt to lash the artist’s arms to the bedhead, and tore up a sheet to fasten the ankles to the foot of the bed.
‘All yours,’ he said.
Dumfries moved forwards.
‘You goddam bastard.’ He perched on the bed, glaring down into Backenhauser’s terrified eyes. ‘You helped kill my son.’
Abruptly, the knife sliced over the artist’s belly. It cut a dripping swathe of flesh through the area above the Englishman’s groin. Backenhauser lurched, jerking upright against his bonds. Dumfries cut again.
This time the blade scored a line over the artist’s chest, running from his left shoulder to the point of his right hipbone. Dumfries chuckled and carved a second line to form a massive, bloody cross over the naked body.
From behind the gag there came gargled screams, and Backenhauser shut his eyes tight against the pain.
Dumfries reached over, drawing the knife delicately across the Englishman’s right eye. The lid parted from the socket and Backenhauser screamed afresh as the pocket of skin dropped down his cheek and blood flooded over his eyeball.
‘My son never did get married,’ rasped Dumfries. ‘Nor will you.’
He reached down, cupping Backenhauser’s penis in his hand. Then sliced the blade hard and fast through the column of flesh. Backenhauser’s screaming became nearly audible and Dumfries ducked back as a huge, thick column of blood spurted high into the air.
He watched as the fountain died down, then sliced the Englishman’s testicles away with the same casual movement he might have used to geld a calf.
The sheets got thick with blood as Backenhauser’s body jerked and shuddered through the pain, pumping his life away from the gaping hole between his legs.
Dumfries watched for a while, waiting for the spasmodic horror of the shock to die away. Then he stuck the knife deep into the Englishman’s belly not caring much where he put the blade and dragged it out. The sac of the stomach opened, spilling feces and Chinese food and blood in a high-spouting fountain of foul-smelling liquid over the bed and Backenhauser’s staring face.
The staring eyeball got filled up with the stuff, and Dumfries sprang clear of the bed, smiling as he watched the ugly gouts of stinking liquid splash steadily lower.
‘The girl might recognize you,’ said Baum. ‘An’ we gotta find the ’breed still.’
‘No problem.’ Dumfries laughed. ‘I’ll take care of her.’
He reached down to swipe the knife over Anita’s throat. The flesh parted easily, the honed edge cutting into skin and muscle at the same time, so that a second fountain of blood gushed upwards to join the dripping of Backenhauser’s murdered body spilling thickly over the bed;
Dumfries sighed, staring at the butchered corpse. ‘Makes a real pretty picture, don’t he?’
Baum glanced disinterestedly at the bodies. ‘Let’s get the hell outta here. Before someone comes.’
‘Yeah.’ Dumfries wiped the knife on Backenhauser’s coat and passed it back to the German. There was an unholy light in his blue eyes. ‘Let’s get the ’breed.’
‘Alive,’ warned the bounty hunter. ‘Remember that.’
‘All right.’ Dumfries sounded reluctant. ‘It’s kinda funny, though.’
‘What is?’ asked Baum.
‘Well,’ the rancher stifled a near-hysterical, laugh, ‘the artist is already pretty cut up. But it’s his friend who gets hung.’
Chapter Twelve
BAUM AND DUMFRIES were staying in the same hotel as Azul, so the bounty hunter had no problem getting in. He had chosen to go in the front because he didn’t trust the rancher. Not to hold his rage in check long enough to take the half-breed alive, nor to handle the man successfully. So he had formulated a simple plan: Dumfries was stationed in the alley behind the hotel, hiding in the shadows in case Breed made it to the window. Baum was going in through the door. He figured that by now Azul would be asleep: an easy target.
