|
|
|
|
|
|
Glaring, he motioned her to duck behind one of the closer buildings. She ignored him. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Until . . . "Thorn!" she cried. "Behind you. A gun!" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He turned, instinctively raising his rifle. He saw the gleam of a polished barrel stuck out the kitchen's window and fired beyond it, just as he heard another rifle's report. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The noises of a scuffle erupted from inside the inn as a third shot rang out. It sounded as though it came from the smokehouse, and he turned to lookjust as Mariah, who'd nearly reaChed his side, fell. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"No!" His cry was an anguished moan. He hadn't time to reload; he was still in the open. He ran a jagged path toward the smokehouse to keep himself from being an easy target. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
His throat closed as he passed the crumpled, still form of Mariah. He could only help her if he disposed of the danger. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He paused at the smokehouse door. He heard heavy, irregular breathing, a muffled curse. Pulling his knife from the sheath at his belt, he shoved open the door and leapt inside. The smell of his own anger and fear blended with the aroma of smoked meat. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Hey!" shouted a startled voice. In the dimness, Thorn saw a familiar figure. The large man, dressed in formal clothing better suited for Philadelphia than the frontier, had apparently reloaded. As the man who had shot Mariah swung up his barrel to aim, Thorn took advantage of his suddenly unprotected middle. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He hurled the sharp, long-bladed knife. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It struck the man in the gut. The rifle fell. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Thorn grabbed a length of rope from a shelf on the wall. In case the man was still alive, he bound him tightly. Then he ran outside. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Mariah remained on the ground. Blood seeped through her tattered dress above her chest. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Holly, standing beside her, cried softly into her hands. René bent over the still figure, examining her. |
|
|
|
|
|