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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.
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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.
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"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.
I was tired. I had been riding in the stage the night long and riding
horseback all the day, and I'd had nothing to eat since around midday
yesterday. I could still make out the buggy tracks, going straight on.
Now I could see lights in the cabin windows. I heard a door slam as somebody
went in or out. Maybe I could get something to eat or even find a place to
spend the night. I wouldn't be able to track the buggy tonight. Anyway, I
could ask.
Another moment I glanced on up the road, but I could not see anything. It was
too dark. Turning my horse into the gate, I rode up to the hitching post, and
getting stiffly down, tied my horse, glancing back at the gate. They had
forgotten to close it. Farm folks were careful about gates unless they were
expecting somebody. Neighbors, maybe, or one of the family still out.
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At the door, I rapped. For a moment, nothing happened. I could smell bacon
frying and my stomach growled, a most ungenteel sound, but Iwas hungry.
I knocked again, and I heard feet approaching. The door opened, light fell
across my face, sudden after the darkness. "Come in!" It was a man's voice.
"Come right in! You're just in time for supper!"
Stepping in, I reached to close the door behind me, but it was already
closing.
There was a candle on the table, a fire in the fireplace, and there was bacon
in the frying pan, and a smell of coffee.
"Come right in and set! You're just in time to have supper!"
The door closed behind me, a bar fell in place. There were two men, and one
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