“You taken all the money!” she protested. “I haven’t enough for stage fare to town!”
“You have,” I said. “There’s some change, and it’s enough. Anyway, the walk would do you good, give you a chance to contemplate on the error of sinful ways.”
I fetched the horse closer and stepped into the saddle. “Where is he going?”
“None of your business!”
“Now, ma’am” — I spoke gentle, as Regal would have done — “you just tell me where he’s goin’ before I ride this horse right over you!”
She started to scramble up, and I bumped her with the horse, knocking her sprawling. She rolled over into a sitting position, her legs spread, hands behind her, bracing herself.
“You got one minute,” I said. “Then I ride this horse right over you!”
She glared at me, then began to whimper. “He promised me forty dollars!” she protested. “That’s a lot of money!”
“This here is a lot of horse,” I said. “Where’s he goin’?”
“I don’t owe him nothin’,” she said. “He’s headed for a place in the Dickey Mountains. Used to be a hideout for Davy Lewis!”
Even in the mountains of Tennessee we’d heard of Davy Lewis, the Pennsylvania outlaw. He had been a counterfeiter at first, making false coin and passing it around, but after he escaped from jail, he’d become a highwayman of sorts.
Davy was said to be a sort of Robin Hood bandit who took from the rich to give to the poor. If he was like most of those Robin Hood bandits I’d heard tell of, the poor he gave to was himself or over the bar in the nearest tavern.
Now I could see the buggy track clear and plain. I got down from my horse and walked him a mite, studying the tracks of the horses pullin’ that buggy. Horse tracks are like a body’s signature, easy to recognize once you’ve seen ’em. I wanted to get these clear in my mind, and what was just as helpful, to know the length of their stride, so I could tell about where to look for tracks.
It was no doubt that Horst was mixed up in this, and the man up ahead was hand-in-glove with him.
The Doune pistol I carried held but one charge, and I’d powder and shot for but five more charges, but if I was close enough to shoot at all, I was not going to need more than one per man, and I was hopeful of doing no shooting at all.
One thing was on my mind. They had taken my money and I meant to have it back. Right then I wished it was Regal or my brother Ethan or anybody else but me. The trouble was, there was nobody else to do it, and if I called on the law, it would be too late. Unless I found some law close to where they were going, wherever that was!
There were farms along the way, mostly with rail fences and the houses built of logs, making me homesick for my hills. I rode swiftly now, watching the trail, picking up a hoofprint here or there that was clear and strong.
Where were they going? How far? Why did I think “they”? But of course, there was a driver—he who had waited with the rig? Felix Horst, perhaps? I did not know. I only knew that I could not return to home without the money we so desperately needed.
It was not that we were hungry, for the mountains provided game, herbs and nuts in season, sometimes fruit, and our planting provided vegetables and some grain. But there was so much else. My mother was growing old and I wished that she not have to work so hard. There were small comforts we needed. New bedding, new clothing, some of the small things to brighten our lives. We needed books, we needed something on which to build dreams. The money would change all that. Our decrepit old mule could be turned to pasture, our worn plowshare be replaced with another. It was little enough we wanted, but most of all I wished my mother to sit for a while in the sunset of her life, just to sit and live the sounds of our hills, the light and shadows upon them.
Until now I had just raced after them, but now I began to think. What would I do? What could I do? There would be two men, and if one of them was Horst, he was a known murderer. Obviously they were leading me into the lonely hills … What then?
My other pistol was in the carpetbag they had. It was fully charged and ready, and its barrel was full-length, not sawed off as this one was. Or had they already taken it from the bag?
I had one shot to fire; then I must reload.
Long practice with hunting had given me speed and skill, but no one could reload fast enough when facing a man with a gun. So I must somehow meet them separately. I dared not chance a meeting with both at once.
“Echo,” I told myself, “you got to be a good Injun. You got to be sly. You got to be careful. So hold back, stay on the trail, an’ wait your chance.”
Nobody knew where I was. To Finian Chantry I was on my way home. To Regal an’ Ma I was either in Philadelphia or on my way home. Before either of them guessed anything was wrong, it would be all over.
Time and again I’d had to Injun up on wild game. I’d become like a ghost in the woods. It was that or go hungry. Now I would need all I’d learned. I thought back to stalking deer, getting so close I just could not miss. I’d never stalked a man before. It would be like cornering a catamount or a mean bear … only worse. The game I was stalking was used to being stalked, and it was smart.
My mouth felt dry and my heart was beating heavily. Was this what fear was? No, not yet. They were still ahead of me, but I’d have to ride wary. My feelin’ was they would try nothing until they got away from cabins and places where folks might be. Then I’d have to ride slow.
“Regal! Regal!” I whispered to myself. “Tell me what to do! I got to do it, Regal, but I’m scared. I never figured I’d be scared, but I am. There’s two of them, Regal!”
Twice I stopped at streams to drink. I was almighty hungry but I did not want to lose them, and it was coming onto dusk. I couldn’t follow them after dark, so I’d best find someplace to hole up, maybe to get some grub.
The fields on either side were unplowed and looked abandoned, yet ahead of me I caught a glimpse of smoke — from somebody cooking supper, no doubt. I slowed my horse to a walk. This was careful time, this was the time they might lay out for me, waiting for a shot.
Twice, in small groves of trees, I drew up and studied the trail ahead, one hand in my reticule, holding that Doune pistol. The Dounes were special guns, made in the last century by Scotsmen, and mine was among the last the Dounes ever made. They were the pistols the Scottish Highlanders loved, and many a clansman had been done to death by a bullet from a Doune pistol. John Murdoch had made the pistol I had, made it nigh onto fifty years before. Regal had cut four inches off the barrel for me to carry easy. The other one was my favorite, but a girl couldn’t carry a pistol like that unless in mountain country.
Ahead of me the road curved. There were just two ruts for wagon wheels, with grass growing in between them. Some of the rails had fallen from the fences; everything looked abandoned or at least run-down. Drawing up again, I studied the layout ahead of me. Shadows were crowding from under the trees, and the trees themselves were losing themselves in the darkness. The twin ruts of the trail lay white before me, and there was a faint smell of wood smoke somewhere ahead.
My horse had his ears pricked. He smelled smoke, too, and knew it for a sign of folks. Maybe he could smell fresh hay or the barn. He seemed eager enough to go, but I held back, uneasy.
A trap — that was what I had to fear. Slowly I let my horse walk forward, my pistol ready, watching every clump of brush, every tree, alert for any sound of a horse or of a buggy wheel on gravel or whatever. I heard nothing.
Somewhere an owl hooted. My horse walked steadily forward. I was foolish to be apprehensive. Chances were they were miles away, and they were unlikely, I told myself, to try anything in the vicinity of a farm. Still, a body couldn’t be too careful.