hour, thanks to the odd little three-wheeler.
Valentine, increasingly foggy with his vision red and the sound of the rainfall suddenly as distant as faint waterfall, looked up at the rope hanging over the branch.
For all their viciousness with boot tips and flung asphalt, they didn’t know squat about hanging a man. And he’d purposely kicked with knees bent, to give them the illusion that he was farther off the ground than he actually was.
He changed the direction of his swing, always aiming toward the trunk of the tree. The rope, which his assailants had just thrown over the thick limb, moved closer to the trunk. He bought another precious six inches. Six inches closer to the trunk, six less inches for the rope to extend to the horizontal branch, six inches closer to the ground. With one more swing, he extended his legs as far as they’d go, reaching with his tiptoes, and touched wet earth.
The auld sod of Arkansas had never felt more lovely.
Valentine caught his breath, balancing precariously on tiptoe, and found the energy to give himself more slack. He got the rope between his teeth and began to chew. Here the wet didn’t aid him.
His blood-smeared teeth thinned the rope. He gathered slack from his side and pulled. He extracted himself from the well-tied noose and slumped against the tree. There was a wooden placard hung around his neck, but he was too tired to read it.
Even with the rope—standard Southern Command camp stuff, useful for everything from securing a horse to tying cargo onto the hood of a vehicle—removed from his neck, Valentine could still feel the burn of it. He swept his hand through the gutter, picked up some cold wet leaves, and pressed them to the rope burn.
They might come back to check on his body. He lurched to his feet and staggered in the direction of the door of the bordello.
He missed the porch stairs, rotated against the rail until he tripped over them, and went up to the door on hands and knees. Blood dripped and dotted the dry wood under the porch roof.
His head thumped into the doorjamb.
“He’s made it,” someone from within called.
He didn’t have to knock again; the door opened for him. He had a brief flash of hair and lace and satin before he gave way, collapsing on a coconut-coir mat and some kind of fringed runner covering shining hardwood floors.
“He’s bleeding on the rug. Get some seltzer.”
“ Lord, he’s not going to die on us, is he?” a Texas accent gasped.
“Uhhhh,” Valentine managed, which he hoped she’d interpret as a “no.”
“What if they come back to check on him?”
“They told us not to come out. Didn’t say anything about us not letting him in,” another woman put in. “He made it in under his own power.”
“They still might do violence, if’n we help him. Toss him in the alley.”
“Hush up and quit worrying while we got a man bleeding,” an authoritative female voice said. “I’ve never refused a gentleman hospitality in my life and I’m too old to change now. You all can blame me if they do come back. Don’t think varmints like that have the guts, though, or they would have watched till he was cold. Alice-Ann, iodine and bandages.”
Valentine blinked the blood out of his eyes. The women were of a variety of ages and skin hues and tints of hair, mostly blond or red. He counted six, including what looked and sounded like the madam—or maybe she just catered to the certain tastes in experienced flesh. A gaunt old man moved around, pulling down extra shades and closing decorative shutters with a trembling arm. The doorman? He didn’t look like he could bounce a Boy Scout from the establishment.
“Before you throw me out, could you please get these handcuffs off? If you don’t have a key, I’ll show you how to do it with a nail.” The speech exhausted him more than the trip to the door. He put his head down to catch his breath and managed to roll over on his pack.
“Are you kidding?” a fleshy older
Valentine, increasingly foggy with his vision red and the sound of the rainfall suddenly as distant as faint waterfall, looked up at the rope hanging over the branch.
For all their viciousness with boot tips and flung asphalt, they didn’t know squat about hanging a man. And he’d purposely kicked with knees bent, to give them the illusion that he was farther off the ground than he actually was.
He changed the direction of his swing, always aiming toward the trunk of the tree. The rope, which his assailants had just thrown over the thick limb, moved closer to the trunk. He bought another precious six inches. Six inches closer to the trunk, six less inches for the rope to extend to the horizontal branch, six inches closer to the ground. With one more swing, he extended his legs as far as they’d go, reaching with his tiptoes, and touched wet earth.
The auld sod of Arkansas had never felt more lovely.
Valentine caught his breath, balancing precariously on tiptoe, and found the energy to give himself more slack. He got the rope between his teeth and began to chew. Here the wet didn’t aid him.
His blood-smeared teeth thinned the rope. He gathered slack from his side and pulled. He extracted himself from the well-tied noose and slumped against the tree. There was a wooden placard hung around his neck, but he was too tired to read it.
Even with the rope—standard Southern Command camp stuff, useful for everything from securing a horse to tying cargo onto the hood of a vehicle—removed from his neck, Valentine could still feel the burn of it. He swept his hand through the gutter, picked up some cold wet leaves, and pressed them to the rope burn.
They might come back to check on his body. He lurched to his feet and staggered in the direction of the door of the bordello.
He missed the porch stairs, rotated against the rail until he tripped over them, and went up to the door on hands and knees. Blood dripped and dotted the dry wood under the porch roof.
His head thumped into the doorjamb.
“He’s made it,” someone from within called.
He didn’t have to knock again; the door opened for him. He had a brief flash of hair and lace and satin before he gave way, collapsing on a coconut-coir mat and some kind of fringed runner covering shining hardwood floors.
“He’s bleeding on the rug. Get some seltzer.”
“ Lord, he’s not going to die on us, is he?” a Texas accent gasped.
“Uhhhh,” Valentine managed, which he hoped she’d interpret as a “no.”
“What if they come back to check on him?”
“They told us not to come out. Didn’t say anything about us not letting him in,” another woman put in. “He made it in under his own power.”
“They still might do violence, if’n we help him. Toss him in the alley.”
“Hush up and quit worrying while we got a man bleeding,” an authoritative female voice said. “I’ve never refused a gentleman hospitality in my life and I’m too old to change now. You all can blame me if they do come back. Don’t think varmints like that have the guts, though, or they would have watched till he was cold. Alice-Ann, iodine and bandages.”
Valentine blinked the blood out of his eyes. The women were of a variety of ages and skin hues and tints of hair, mostly blond or red. He counted six, including what looked and sounded like the madam—or maybe she just catered to the certain tastes in experienced flesh. A gaunt old man moved around, pulling down extra shades and closing decorative shutters with a trembling arm. The doorman? He didn’t look like he could bounce a Boy Scout from the establishment.
“Before you throw me out, could you please get these handcuffs off? If you don’t have a key, I’ll show you how to do it with a nail.” The speech exhausted him more than the trip to the door. He put his head down to catch his breath and managed to roll over on his pack.
“Are you kidding?” a fleshy older
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