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more that barely sustained his weight, holding his bloody upper arm and moaning. |
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Ducking back behind his shelter, Thorn quickly pulled the strap of his powderhorn from around his neck and poured the coarse propellant powder into the muzzle. Then he shoved the horn at the woman. "Hold this," he demanded. He pulled from a pouch a small bullet he had wrapped carefully in buckskin soaked in tallow and slid it into the barrel, pushing it down with the narrow hickory ramrod slid from the base of the barrel. He primed with fine powder, snapped the pan cover shut and cocked. |
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In moments, his prized possession, the Pennsylvania rifle he had won in a card game with a passing settler, had been readied. He had practiced rapid reloading many a time. He felt certain he was faster than anyone else. |
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Right now, his life might depend on it. |
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Cautiously, he peered once more around the tree. Sure enough, the younger man was still struggling to reload his pistol. |
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Thorn sprang from behind the tree. "Best get back on your way, gentlemen," he spat through gritted teeth. |
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The young man glared at him defiantly, then glanced uneasily at the pointed rifle. "All right," he said after a long moment. "Guess she's yours . . . for now." Supporting his companion with obvious difficulty, he headed back toward the river. |
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Never willing to trust anyone, Thorn followed. He kept his rifle ready to shoot. |
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When they reached the bateau tied to the small dock, the young man unceremoniously shoved the larger man onto it, causing it to rock violently. Thorn wondered if the flat craft would tip sideways, but they managed somehow to steady it and pole off without losing any cargo into the water. The heavier man still clutched his bleeding arm. |
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"Good riddance," whispered a voice from beside him. Thorn turned to find the woman at his side, glaring at the men who had been her tormentors. |
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A glimmer of admiration shot through him. He'd have expected the woman to have run off by now, or at least to |
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