Once between the trees he reloaded his pistol. It was not easy with one hand, but, sitting down, he gripped the butt between his knees and tipped in a measure of gunpowder from his horn, followed by a ball, and then a wad to hold it in place. Filling the flash pan was even more difficult, but he managed it. Satisfied the weapon was primed, he drew back the hammer and waited.
Time passed slowly and it was almost an hour before he heard the sounds of men moving through the trees far to his right. The first of the killers came into sight. Two sleek, powerful hunting hounds were straining at the leash, almost dragging the man forward. Call Jace narrowed his eyes. He had never seen the man before, but he would know him again. Four other men followed, all carrying long-barrelled muskets. These too were unknown to Jace. A sixth man followed at the rear. His face was familiar, but Jace could not place him.
The dog handler released the leash and the hounds bounded towards the house, barking furiously. The first of them reached the doorway, sniffed the pepper and immediately began to shake its head and snort. But the second did not follow its example. It ran into the house – then leapt through the rear window and came like an arrow towards Jace’s hiding place. It did not pause to sniff the bootprints.
Jace eased himself back into the trees. The hound cleared the first bush with a prodigious leap. The Rigante leader laid down his pistol and drew his hunting knife. As the dog leapt at him Jace rolled to his left, slamming the blade deep into the animal’s side. Its jaws raked his shoulder, tearing the skin. Dragging the knife clear Jace plunged it three times into the beast’s neck. The dog slumped to the ground.
Sheathing his knife, Jace took up the pistol and peered over the bush. Some of the men had gone into the house. Two others – one the dog handler – were moving towards the trees. The handler was calling out a name. Beside Jace the dying dog whimpered in response.
‘Sheila, where are you, boy?’
As the two men came close Jace reared up. His pistol boomed, the shot taking the musketeer full in the face, and hurling him off his feet. Dropping the pistol Jace drew his sabre and leapt forward. The unarmed dog handler stood rooted in shock – even as Jace’s blade opened his throat.
Spinning on his heel Jace threw himself back towards the bushes just as the thunder of a musket blast sounded from the rear window. While holding the sword hilt Jace could not gather his pistol. He swore and let go of the sword. Rolling over he grabbed the pistol, pushing it into his belt. Then he snatched his sword, pulled himself to his feet and began to run once more. A musket ball tore through the shoulder of his leather shirt, scoring the skin, but not penetrating it.
Four dead. The odds were smaller now, but still formidable. Three men with muskets – and the young, fair-haired man with the familiar face. Jace doubted the surviving dog would soon recover its sense of smell.
But he was wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PERSIS ROEBUCK HAD NEVER WANTED TO BE A KILLER. IT HAD ALWAYS been his dream to attend the Apothecary College in Baracum, and then, perhaps, if fortune favoured him, to go on to become a surgeon. His father had encouraged him always to be ambitious, but never haughty or arrogant.
Persis had studied hard, and had even written to Apothecary Ramus in Old Hills, asking questions about herbs and their uses. Ramus had been kind enough to reply, and had sent several books, complete with hand-painted illustrations, to aid the young man in his quest.
Five years ago Persis had been a happy and contented young man, living with his widowed father on their farm just east of the Black Mountain settlement. The farm was not a rich one, for the earth was thin, and grazing for the cattle sparse. His father owned only sixty head, but he had acquired a fine bull, whose talents as a stud brought in extra income. It was this income that allowed Persis to acquire the books to prepare for the entrance examination to the college. His father had been a fine man, upstanding and righteous. He had no hatred for the highlanders, and taught Persis never to look down on another man for the sake of his blood, or his religion. ‘The Source loves all men,’ he would say.