The sharp animal scream that ripped through the hot morning was no memory.
Marcus jerked in his saddle. Blood drained from his face as the scream came again, a horse in mortal agony. Then a high, ragged shriek of pain, a human shriek, tore the air . . . and the booming report of a gun firing shook the dusty air . . .
Marcus kicked his horse into a startled canter. He wrenched at the gun on his hip. From behind him, a clatter of hooves rattled in a sudden burst of speed. Noah Armstrong swept past as though Marcus’ horse were plodding along at a sedate walk. Another gunshot split the morning air. Then Marcus was around the bend in the trail and the disaster spread out in front of him.
Julius was down.
His horse was down, mortally wounded.
Dust rose in a cloud along the trail, where Noah pursued whoever had shot down Marcus’ friend. He hauled his own horse to a slithering halt and slid out of the saddle, then flung himself to the young Roman’s side. Julius was still alive, ashen and grey-lipped, but thank the gods, still alive . . .
“Don’t move!” Marcus was tearing at the boy’s clothing, ripping open the dress he wore as disguise. The calico cotton was drenched with dark stains that weren’t sweat. The bullet had gone in low, missing the heart, plowing instead through the gut. The boy moaned, gritted his teeth, whimpered. Marcus was already stripping off his own shirt, tearing it into strips, placing compresses to staunch the bleeding. In the distance, a sharp report floated back over the rocky hills, followed by three more cracking gunshots. Then hoofbeats crashed back toward them. Marcus snatched up his pistol again. Noah Armstrong appeared, riding hell for leather toward them. Marcus dropped the gun from shaking hands and tied the compresses tighter.