Another beer followed the grin, then, “Well, enyhow, when ol’ Pete seed whut the feller I kilt done to ol’ Harry, he ‘uz back awn an’ back in the rig fore you could say ‘Jack Chris-flfl
tufuh.’ He’d afluz carr’ed him a ol’ thutty-eight pistol in the sleepuh an’ I done razzed him moren one time bout it, but I shorelawd won’t no more.
“Well, enyhow, he took thet ol’ pistol an’ shot thet othuh murderin’ bastard raht awfen his dang boss! An’ it served him raht, too, cause we hadn’t done nuthin’ to neithuh one of ’em, an’ jest drivin’ crosst a feller’s pasture ain’t no call to kill ’em, is it?”
“It may well be, here,” commented Collier.
“Well, Where’s “here,’ enyhow?” pled the big, square-faced man.
Collier sighed. “I sincerely wish I could tell you, sir. My wife and I arrived here quite as suddenly, if, thank God, less violently, as did you and your friends. I believe that all the others now here, as well as Mr. Foster, who is presently absent, found themselves here every bit as suddenly and inexplicably.
“But come, tefl us the remainder of the tale.”
As there had been but the two horses, it had been decided that Pete, who had never in his life been astride a horse, would remain with the trucks and Harry’s body, while Carey and Buddy rode to find a telephone, a law officer, or both. For, strangely enough, they could raise not a living soul on either of the CBs. Before the two men had ridden off, they had both received a crash course in the basics of charging and firing the huge horsepistols—a pah’ of which were bolstered on the pommel of each saddle—from Pete, who once had belonged to a muzzle-loading club. He had persuaded them to take along the swords and big knives, as well, retaining his revolver for his own protection.
CHAPTER 2
Immediately after Sir Francis Whyffler was mounted, he called for the stirrup cup and, before drinking, raised the ancient, silver-mounted horn in a health to the King. When he had downed the horn of ale, he drew his broadsword, brought his prancing stallion into a sustained rear, and flourished an elaborate salute to the ladies—his widowed sister, Mary, hii daughter, Arabella, Dr. Krystal Kent, Arbor Collier, and Catherine Musgrave, widowed daughter-in-law of the steward—then brought the animal back down, sheathed his blade, and kneed the mount over to have a few last words with Geoffrey Musgrave and the newly appointed chamberlain, Henry Turnbull.
Keeping his fettlesome bay gelding in check with some difficulty, Foster was frankly amazed at the miraculous recuperative powers of the elderly nobleman. Even granting the excellent care of Krystal and the administration of massive dosages of the penicillin tablets from Foster’s medicine cabinet, it still seemed astounding that a man who had, when Foster first had seen him two weeks ago, been on his virtual deathbed, should be today not only up and in the saddle in three-quarter armor but preparing to take to the road and lead his party the leagues of hard riding to York, whereat the King was most recently reported.
Glancing to right and left, Foster thought that both Professor Collier and Buddy Webster could easily pass a casual inspection as born residents of this time and place, albeit
somewhat larger than the average of their peers. As for himself, though he had been fitted out in lobstertail helmet, leather buffcoat and steel cuirass, vambraces, cuishes and gauntlets, and had a broadsword—somewhat altered—depending from a wide leather baldric, the clothing beneath was anachronistic—his old GI coveralls and a handsome pair of hand-tooled Western boots.
At fast walk, the little column headed down the dusty track toward the main gate, Sir Francis in the lead, sitting erect, head high, shoulders squared, smiling and nodding acknowledgment of the cheers of the crowd which had gathered to render their homage and wish their loved lord Godspeed. As soon as it had been bruited about that Sir Francis again had powder, that his forces had broken the siege of Whyffler Hall, and that Sir David the Scot had been slain—he being one of the two men who had so savagely attacked the truckers—refugees from about the ravaged countryside, King’s men and friends and supporters of Sir Francis and of his house had flocked to his side. Indeed, so many had come that food was running low and many had had to be lodged in tents and makeshift lean-tos, but the walls were fully manned by determined men.