His brothers would not be far away. They would be within striking distance of the wagons, and probably where they could easily come within watching distance of the route the caravan would take when it started for the beach.
He tried to orient himself. He had run west, he believed, away from the shore, and although he had twisted and turned his general direction had been west. So what he must now do was to turn north or south and try to discover their hiding place. South would be best, for that was the direction in which the wagons would be moving.
If only he had a gun! Or even a knife with which to cut something, to form some kind of a weapon. He could make a bow and arrow. He had often made crude ones as a child, but they had been used to kill small animals when hunting. He could build one now that had greater power. But it would take time, more time than he was likely to have.
Once it was discovered that he had escaped, would they come hunting him? It was possible, but doubtful. There was an urgency about those men, a need to push on, to get something done, to meet their ship.
Wiping the streaming water from his eyes, he looked around, then turned left and started walking into the woods. He kept stumbling and slipping, for the earth was soggy with rain, and there were many exposed roots and fallen trees.
He was, he realized suddenly, desperately tired. His wound had caused loss of blood, and he had not regained his strength. Before he went much further, he must think of rest, of a place to hole up and shelter himself.
He stumbled on, pausing to lean against a tree from time to time to choose his way. He was very weak. He had not realized how weak, for lying in the wagon there had been no way to test his strength or stamina. Yet he was free, for the moment at least, and he must find his brothers and some way to help the girls.
Lightning flashed, and there was a crash of thunder. He believed he could see a partial track, the indentation of a boot heel. He started in the direction indicated.
Mac and Dal were both tall men, and each had a good stride. So allowing for that he began to search for further tracks and after a few minutes found what appeared to be a track, although it was almost erased by the rain. Pushing on, he walked for some distance and was in despair over losing the trail when he saw another track, clearly defined and probably less than a half hour old.
They would not continue in this storm but would find a shelter somewhere or build one. In this forest it would be simple to build a shelter and then cover the muddy earth with boughs. . . .
He saw the bars of a corral first, then a shed, and beyond it, a tumbled-down log cabin.
He hesitated, wary of a trap. The rain had eased for the moment, and he crouched, watching the cabin intently. He heard a horse blow. Swiftly, he moved to another tree, putting the shed between himself and the cabin. Then he ducked between the poles of the old corral and came up to the shed and peered between the logs.
The first horse was Bonnie Prince, the horse Dal had ridden away to war.
They were here then, but he must approach with caution. Who else might be there he did not know, nor whether they were free or prisoners, or even if they were not here at all and the horse had merely been stolen.
His brothers were quick to shoot, but he was not worried about that. He knew them too well. They would never shoot at anything they could not identify. Waiting just an instant longer, he dashed for the corner of the cabin and paused, flattened out against it. From inside he heard Dal speaking.
“Playin’ games again, I guess. I don’t know why he’d be standin’ out there in the rain when it’s dry in here. You reckon them Yankees knocked his brains out or somethin’?”
Jesse walked around the corner of the house and into the door, which stood open.
They had a small fire going in the fire-place and a coffee-pot on the coals.
Dal was squatting beside the fire. Mac was seated on a bench nearby, and Happy Jack was stretched out on the flat boards of a corner bed. The cabin was old, long abandoned, and barely hanging together, but the roof was intact and it was dry.
Dal passed him a cup of coffee, and Mac threw a blanket over his shoulders. Between sips of coffee, he explained what happened. “How are the girls?” Dal asked.
“Good as could be expected. That Atherton woman is game. She’s cool and she’s thinkin’ all the while, and of course, you know Kate.”
“What about Kate?” Dal asked.
Jesse sipped coffee and told them about Martin Connery. Dal swore as he listened, muttering under his breath. “Martin Connery? The man’s a bloody pirate! He wasn’t on speakin’ terms with any of the family.”
Happy Jack got up and came over to the fire. “Look here, boy, you’d better get some sleep. You look kinda caved in. We’re not goin’ to move out of here until daylight, anyway.”
As Jesse went to the bed and fell on it, Jack squatted on his heels. “That Kate, now – there’s a thinkin’ woman. If she can talk Ashford into goin’ to Connery she’s maybe done the smartest thing she could do.”
“Him? Martin Connery’s a thief! The old devil stole a Navy pinnace right out of the harbor at Kingston, sailed her away right under the eyes of the Navy!
“He’ll stop at nothing to make a dollar. The last year he was at sea they say he flew the flag of Chile, had a Letter of Marque from them, or something. And it was said he took forty prizes.
“Several different countries had ships out hunting him, so he ups and disappears. Seemed to drop right off the edge of the world, but he done no such thing. He come here to Texas, bought him a ranch, and hid his ship in Mission Bay. He knew every hideout along the coast, and he always kept to shallow-draft ships that could sail in less water than it would take to float a tea-cup, so nobody could foller where he went.”
“They find him?” Mac asked.
“Never did. If they’d have found him they’d have hung him, but while they are scouring the seas hunting him, he’s ranching in Texas, cool as you please.”
“Was he a Confederate sympathizer?”
“Him? He never did anything unless it paid him. He scoffed at the South. He seemed to like Southern folks and their ways, but he thought they were foolish to go to war. I hear he did some blockade runnin’, but who knows?”
Mac looked at Happy Jack. “Why do you think Kate did a good thing in tryin’ to get them together?”
“Look at it. Martin Connery could steal the suspenders off Ashford’s shoulders without him knowing they were gone. He’ll see right through Ashford.
“Ashford may talk like a patriot, and he may even think he is, but actually the man’s a thief and a highbinder, only he isn’t in Martin Connery’s class.
“Connery will see right through him, and Ashford will be lucky to get away with his pants. You just wait an’ see. Ashford’s using his loyalty to the Confederacy as an excuse to steal and cheat. What kind of a man would sell decent women into slavery? Connery’s a fighter and a pirate, but there was never anything penny-ante about him. He laid it on the line and played the cards he was dealt, and off the bottom of the deck if he was doing the dealing.”
One by one they rolled in their blankets and slept while the rain fell unceasing. Wind worried around the eaves, rattled a broken branch across the shingles, and blew rain in the broken door, which had been merely propped in place.
Out in the forest a tree, weakened by years of buffeting, finally collapsed and fell. The sound disturbed no one.
Only when the first daylight came did they open their eyes. Mac slipped out of his blankets and started a fire, shoving the coffee-pot close to the coals and adding water.
Tip-toeing to the door, he peered out. It was still raining, but scarcely more than a drizzle now. The door of the stable was still closed. Nonetheless, he felt uneasy. Returning to the fire he tugged on his boots and slung his belt around his hips with the holster containing the Remington.
Dipping up some water with a gourd dipper, he emptied it into an old wash-pan and bathed his face and hands, drying them on his shirt, which he then put on.