All was still. Listening for some sounds of reloading, the possible clink of a ramrod or some such slight noise, I heard nothing. Not far away, a shadow moved silently. I held my fire.
Someone was there. Despite the coolness, I felt the sweat break out on my brow. My mouth was dry.
Bob Sandy lay back there in the clearing, possibly in need of help, but the man in the woods wanted to kill me, and if I moved, he would do just that… if he had reloaded.
The advantage might be mine. A great drop fell from the tree trunk and ran a cold finger down my spine. It was growing darker.
“Move in from the other side, Joe.” The voice was calm, having the inflection of an educated man. “We have him.” Nor did I move. I did not believe there was a Joe. At least, not here. It was a ruse, a trick, a device to make me move or speak. I did neither.
At my hand was a dead branch some eight feet long, and slender as a whip. Carefully I closed my left hand upon it, lifting it soundlessly. Now half the art of the ventriloquist is misdirection, so holding my own mouth close to the broken stump behind which I crouched, I moaned ever so gently and at the same time rustled the leaves several feet away with the tip of my branch.
He fired. I saw the blast of flame, heard the bullet strike, and I fired my Ferguson.
There was a sharp gasp, then a stumbling fall, but I waited no longer. Back I went through the trees, running swiftly and almost without sound on the soft earth and rain-wet grass and pine needles. I ran swiftly down the hill, circling toward Bob Sandy’s horse.
As I neared the horse, I spoke. I had cared for him a time or two, and he knew me, pricking his ears and taking a step forward. In an instant, I was in the saddle and racing down into the clearing.
“Bob!” I yelled.
He came off the ground like an Indian as I charged up to him, bridle free, my rifle in one hand, the other down to help. He came into the saddle as if he had done the trick a hundred times and we left the clearing at a dead run.
Behind us, there was a shot. From the second man, I think. But that was all.
Slowing down, I said, “Are you hurt?” “Through the leg. I’ve lost some blood, Scholar.” As an afterthought he said, “Thanks, Scholar. I guess maybe I should read some of them books.”
CHAPTER 13
Once away and into the winding woodland trail, I slowed down. Bob Sandy was hanging on with one arm, the other holding his rifle. “You did some shootin’, Scholar. How many did you get?” “One,” I said, “and either scared or nicked two more.” “The way you was shootin’ they must have figured they’d tackled an army.” We rode up to the overhang and Talley reached up to help Bob Sandy down. “The Scholar saved my bacon,” he said. “Had me dead to rights.” “We thought we heard shooting,” Kemble commented.
While Cusbe Ebitt worked over the wound, I explained briefly, with comments from Sandy, what had taken place. Then Bob explained what began it. He had been riding along a good mile behind us, and suddenly they closed in and opened fire without warning. “I don’t know what this outfit is after,” Bob said finally, “but they mean business.” We gathered more fuel, cooked our meat, and sat about the fire. Several of us collected boughs for Lucinda’s bed. Isaac and Degory built a crude shelter out in the woods and opposite the cave where a sentry could watch in both comfort and concealment. We had scarcely finished these chores when we heard the sound of a horse walking, and then a voice called out, “Hallooo, the camp!” Hastily, I threw a corner of blanket over my Ferguson rifle. There was no sense in letting them know what we had. Isaac had stepped back into the shelter and sat quiet there.
“Come in with your hands free!” Talley said.
It was the leader of them, the tall, pale man I had seen in the night. He wore buckskins but a planter’s-style hat and he rode a magnificent black horse.
He walked his horse into the light, and looked about, his eyes missing nothing. At last they fell upon Lucinda.
“Well!” He bowed, removing his hat with a sweeping gesture, the perfect cavalier. “My niece! It has taken me a long time, my dear, but now we are together again, and thank God for that!” “I… I do not know you,” she said, but her voice was halting and frightened.
“Not know me? I am your father’s brother, Colonel Rafen Falvey, at your service.
I’ve come to negotiate with these… kidnappers for your release.” Degory Kemble said quietly, “You’re misinformed, sir. Miss Falvey is with us of her own choice. We’re honored to be her escort to the Ohio towns.” “Well, now, that puts a different look on the situation. I was told my niece had been kidnapped, and rushed after you to obtain her release.” He dismounted, somewhat stiffly, I noticed, like a man who might have been wounded slightly.
He walked up to the fire, and never have I seen a man so cool, so completely in command of himself.
Obviously he had chosen to risk everything on a brazen demand for the girl, and I admired the fellow’s nerve. Yet when I looked at Lucinda, I was worried.
This man who claimed to be her uncle was no more than thirty-five, only a few years older than I, and he was handsome, debonair, and obviously educated. He carried himself with style, and he seemed in no way disturbed that he was among men with whom he had lately exchanged shots.
“Then, of course, there’s no problem,” he said cheerfully, extending his open hands to the fire.
“Lucinda, if you’ll get what you wish to take with you, we can be riding back to our camp. It’s not far and we have a number of men, a much safer escort than this small group, if you don’t mind.” For the first time, I spoke. “I’m afraid it’s less simple than you seem to believe,” I said quietly. “Miss Falvey is with us because she wishes to be. We feel ourselves perfectly adequate to escort her where she’s going.” He looked at me. Some shadow of the overhang partly concealed my face so he was forced to peer.
Yet my comment in no way disturbed him. “It’s quite simple. It’s better for a young lady of Miss Falvey’s years to be with her family.
I have nothing against you gentlemen, but of course, her own flesh and blood–was “I don’t know you,” Lucinda said quietly.
“I’ve heard my father speak of a half-brother of his who was a complete scoundrel.” Talley chuckled, and Rafen Falvey’s face tightened. Yet a moment later, he smiled. “He was joking, of course. My brother and I often made such jokes. He always laughingly said I was the black sheep of the family, and he was the prodigal son who would sometime return.
“Come, Lucinda. Let’s go. We’ve talked long enough.” She hesitated, and then she said, “I–was Her reply was interrupted by Jorge Ulibarri. The boy had suddenly come into the light. Now he pointed his finger. “He murdered your father! He shot Mr. Conway!” Rafen Falvey’s face stiffened with anger.
“You, is it? Next time you’ll die.” Suddenly there was a pistol in his hand.
“Lucinda, you’ll come with me… now! And the first one who moves will die.” He produced a second pistol. “And you, Lucinda, will be the next to die.” None of us had weapons in our hands. Nor were we within reach of any. My Ferguson was under the edge of the blanket, but I would have to take it out, reverse the muzzle, and then fire… much too late.
Isaac Heath spoke from the hidden shelter directly behind Falvey. “At thirty feet, with a rifle, Colonel Falvey, I’ll not miss. My bullet will take away the base of your spine, and rip out the front of your belly.
I don’t think you want that to happen.” He was no gambler, I saw that at once.
He was willing, even anxious to kill, but he did not want to die, nor to be left to die.
With a rifle at his back, he had no chance and he knew it. I got to my feet and casually reached over to pick up one of my own pistols.
“I suggest, sir, that you ride out of camp.
I further suggest that you keep riding. The next time I shoot I’ll have a better target.” “It was you, then? In the woods back there?