“What’s the matter with Hank?” Theodore asked.
“You know, Theodore, I’m not really certain.” Smitty’s voice dripped with feigned innocence. “I guess Hank doesn’t have the stomach for bananas flambé.”
* * *
Muddy askedhimselfif kismet truly existed.
It was difficult to believe anything or anyone would have had a hand in stranding Margaret Smith and Hank Wyatt together anywhere, let alone an uninhabited Pacific island. Either fate was cruel or had a wickedly black sense of humor.
Over the next week, Muddy had watched Margaret develop the hunting skills of a ferret. She’d managed to find two more bottles of Hank’s liquor. She’d come running back to the hut in the middle of the night, the bottles hidden in her skirts as she sneaked inside the hut and tiptoed over to a dark corner.
She’d cast a quick glance at Hank snoring in his hammock, then she’d hide them in an iron cooking pot and slide the lid quietly in place. The next afternoon, while Muddy was on the roof finishing the last of the thatch, he caught a glimpse of her laughing with wicked glee as she dumped a fortune’s worth of Napoleon brandy into the fuel base of the tilley lamp. The lamp burned freely for two straight nights.
The third night, Hank caught on.
He stormed into the hut. “Where the hell’s my booze!”
Margaret closed the bamboo door behind him and turned away. “I can’t imagine.”
“Listen to me, Smitty. You’d better come clean.”
“I just took a bath this morning.”
“Cute.” He closed the distance between them and scowled down at her. “Look. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. We both know I buried the bottles and you dug them up. Your sneaky footprints were all over the sand. So don’t play the innocent. Now where’s the brandy?”
“I put it to good use.” She turned up the lamp, smiled calmly, then turned around and crossed her arms. Lined up along the wall like trophies were two squat brandy bottles and one tall rum bottle—all empty.
Hank looked at the bottles, then said, “There’s one bottle left and I’ll be damned if you’re going to get it.” His look turned retributive. He drove his hand through his hair, something he seemed to do a lot around Margaret. “This is war, Smitty.” He stormed out the door.
She stared at the door,her expression thoughtful. She looked down for a second and turned around.
She caught Muddy’s look. “You are a brave woman, Margaret Smith. Braver than most. He won’t rest till he gets even. Revenge was in his eyes.”
She shrugged, but she stared at the doorway for a moment and rubbed her arms as if she were uncomfortable. “Better that he be good and angry than drunk and feeling sorry for himself.” She looked back at Muddy. “I’ll take the brunt of his anger if it will help him.”
A few minutes later Muddy went back inside his bottle to the peace and quiet and familiarity of his home. He settled down with a new novel:The Story of the Wild West: Campfire Chatsby Buffalo Bill. He opened it and read a page, then put the book down on his chest and locked his hands behind his head. Over the last few days, Western folklore had lost its appeal.
He stared up at the mouth of his bottle. The stopper was out and he could make out the glow of the tilley lamp. Muddy lay there, grinning. Perhaps the fates knew what they were doing after all.
* * *
The next morningHank was sitting on a rock near the hut. He had spent the whole night plotting revenge. He just couldn’t think of the exact way to get even with Smitty. Whatever he did had to be the perfect thing.
So he figured he’d keep thinking, just lull her into a sense of security. Thenbam!He’d give it to her. Whateveritwas.
He rubbed his stubbled chin, then went back to cleaning the pistol—a navy Colt .38, six-shot. But there were only five bullets and no more ammunition in the trunk.
He cleaned the barrel, made a big deal of it, too, because he’d caught Smitty eyeing him and the pistol as if she expected him to use it on her. He wouldn’t, but a little intimidation couldn’t hurt. Might even win the war.
He set the pistol aside and began to work on sharpening the knife with a lava stone. A man was only as good as the quality and care of his tools. Or weapons.
He heard a loud bleat and looked up just as Rebuttal came trotting by with his last bottle of whiskey in its mouth, the frayed ends of a chewed rope trailing limply behind her.
Hank did a double take. “Goddammit! How’d you get that?”
He dropped the knife and dove for the goat, but it trotted off down the beach.
Hank got up and took off after it in a cloud of sand. Rebuttal began to run. He didn’t know a goat could run that fast. It could turn on a dime and dodge him better than a batter could dodge a wild pitch. The damn thing ran right into the thick jungle with his last bottle.
