When I had gone some three hundred yards, I squatted on my heels and listened. The stream rustled over its rocks, the aspens danced and whispered golden secrets to the moon. I heard nothing… and then I did.
Breathing. Someone breathing quite hard, a hoarse, rasping kind of breathing as someone after running.
No. Someone hurt… someone wounded.
Listening, I placed the sound. Moved ever so gently. The breath caught… gasped. I edged closer. I could smell wet buckskin… then a low moan.
Was the sound familiar? I started to move, then some instinct brought my eyes up. The dark figure of a man was standing not four feet from me, and as I glimpsed him, I saw the spark leap as he pulled the trigger. Throwing myself aside, I shoved up the Ferguson and fired … not two inches from his body. The flash of his gun blinded me, and bits of powder stung my cheek, and then he was falling, falling right at me.
Almost automatically my fingers were fumbling with the reloading of my rifle. Dark as it was under the trees, my fingers felt true, and the gun was loaded, ready.
Again there was a low moan, then a whisper, “Scholar?” It was Davy Shanagan.
Quickly, I moved to him. “Davy! Who did I shoot?” “Don’t… know.” “Are you hit hard?” He took my hand and guided it to his side.
There was a lot of blood. A lot too much. And nothing to do with. There was my kerchief. Taking that off I packed some damp moss into the wound, then my kerchief, and tied it in place with his thick leather belt.
“Lie still,” I whispered. “Are you armed?” “Knife. Rifle… empty.” Charging his Kentucky, I placed it beside him, then edged over to the man I had shot. Moonlight had reached his side. He wore a beaded belt that I did not know. I found his pistol and loaded it, then his rifle. The rifle I left with Davy, and tucking the extra pistol into my belt, I eased myself away into the brush.
The two shots could not have gone unnoticed.
Obviously two men had fired, and somebody was probably dead. Whoever else was out there had no way of knowing who.
Working closer and closer to the camp, I soon saw my efforts were wasted. It was deserted. One lone horse stood out on the meadow, cropping grass, but the others had scattered, as had the people.
The woods would be full of them, and somewhere Jorge Ulibarri was also, perhaps safe, perhaps dead, perhaps wounded, and needing help as Davy had.
Yet the futility of my efforts became obvious. In the darkness I could not tell friend from enemy, nor could I hope to find them, scattered as they were. Slowly, I worked my way back to Davy. He was still there, sleeping now.
Edging back beside him, I waited, listening.
To stay with him or return to Lucinda?
Reason told me she was safe, but it also told me Davy was sleeping and there was no more I could do to help him for the time. I decided to return.
Fifteen minutes it must have taken me to go the last hundred yards, and I am a good judge of time. The log with the bark scaled away lay white like a fallen temple column in the moonlight.
I went into the trees. No Lucinda.
I could not believe it.
I listened, and heard no breathing. I spoke softly, and had no answer. I felt about, and touched nothing.
Lucinda was gone.
I had told her to stay where she was, and she had not done so. My irritation changed to anger, then to fear. Suppose she had been taken?
Suppose Rafen Falvey had found her, or some of his men?
Crawling to where I had left her sitting, I felt all around… nothing.
And then my hand touched a knife. My fingers explored it in the darkness. Almost no guard.
single edge. She had no knife that I had ever seen, and this was a skinning knife.
Someone had been here. She had been taken.
but where?
There had been no outcry. In the silence of the night I could have heard it for a great distance.
Easing back into deeper shadow, I settled myself to wait for daybreak. To crawl around now would only disturb what sign was left, and there was nothing I could do, either to fight or run, until the day came again.
I thought of deliberately building a fire.
It would probably call some of them to me, friends or enemies… but the problem was to know one from the other in the darkness. So I huddled tight against the bole of a spruce, under the dark, down-bending branches, and waited.
It was very still. The small sounds of the night seemed only to make greater the silence. Somewhere an owl spoke mournfully across the moonlit meadow, a bird ruffled its feathers nearby, a pine cone dropped, whispering through the needles, then falling to the ground.
Under the spruces it was very dark. I sat, rifle across my knees, listening and waiting.
Alone in the night there are many sounds to hear, sounds always present but only heard in moments of stillness and waiting. How often, I thought, men had waited like this. The Greeks, concealed in their wooden horse outside the walls of Troy, must have heard such sounds as they waited.
Would the Trojans accept the bait? Would they leave the horse where it was? Draw it inside as booty? Would they destroy it? Set it afire?
The Greek soldiers had only to wait, to hope, and to remain absolutely silent.
Now I could see the fires down below were not as cold and dead as I believed. I could see red coals, like the eyes of beasts, waiting.
Not far away was Davy Shanagan. Had my quick treatment helped him? Had the bleeding stopped?
Long ago Irish soldiers at the Battle of Clontarf had used moss to stop the bleeding of their wounds, so perhaps my reading of history had taught me something after all.
What had happened to Lucinda? Why had she not stayed where I left her?
Dawn was going to bring many things to a climax with so many armed men in so brief a space. I must sleep. Even if only a little. And if I was inclined to snore, I hoped on this night I would not.
When tomorrow came, there would be much to do. Get those of our group that survived together again. Find Lucinda, get the treasure, if treasure there was, then escape.
To achieve this we must have some freedom of action, which meant freedom from attack. Hence, I must locate the enemy and move against him in such a way that he must defend himself. I must immobilize him for a time, at least.
He had lost his horses by my first action. If he had recovered them, or some of them, I must act to disperse them once more. What was it Sun Tzu had said in 496 B.C.? Speed is the essence of war. Take advantage of your enemy’s unreadiness, move by unexpected routes, and attack unguarded spots.
Well… if possible. And in the morning.
I went to sleep.
Within me was wariness… fear, if you like. My eyes opened upon a cold light, the gray, dim light before the sunrise. Lying still, I listened and heard nothing. Slowly, group by group I began to flex my muscles, pumping blood into them that my actions upon rising would be quicker. Carefully, I sat up.
A quail called… another answered.
Wiping the Ferguson clean of dew, I crept away from the bole of the tree to a better view. First I swept the area with a quick glance, then a more searching one. Then I directed my attention toward where Davy lay, but could see nothing of him, which was as it should be.
Rafen Falvey would try to assemble those men who remained with him. I believed he had lost at least four, but there had been further shooting, and the numbers might have been trimmed still more.
First, Lucinda.
Easing from my cover after a careful study of my surroundings, I went back toward the place I had left her. The log where we had rested was there.
Getting to my feet, I looked all around.
Our tracks were plain enough, but she was gone.
A stir in the brush across from me and my Ferguson came level at waist height. Then a man emerged from the brush and it was Cusbe Ebitt. Behind him was Heath.
“They’re movin’,” Ebitt said. “Falvey has a skirmish line started up the slope.
maybe two hundred yards back. Looks like they’re aimin’ to sweep the woods clean.” “Where are the others?” “Search me. Ain’t seen anybody but Isaac in hours. Where’s she?” My explanation was brief. Turning suddenly, the log came into my range of vision again. What was it Van Runkle had said? Something about a bare log, the bark fallen off… the cave was behind it, up the hill somewhat.