Ghost Legion, page 9
Is that why you looked so relieved when you found me at camp this morning? Marty wondered.
O’Keeffe was not a fool, and he sported an excellent memory. He would not have forgotten their debate back when he had surprised her at the cabin on Tiger Creek. “Nary a whit I care about taxes,” she had told him then. “About representation, about the rights of Whigs or Tories. . . . This war is not mine.”
Only now it was hers, and she no longer considered this rebellion to be an act of arrogant men. She had grown to enjoy the pleasant banter between Ryan Folson and Edisto Bickley. She even liked John Sevier, although she couldn’t say the same of Isaac Shelby and certainly not William Campbell. Didn’t like them, maybe, but she did respect them. Thunderation, she no longer even minded those incessant drills, or Gillespie’s tirades. All the sergeant wanted to do was make them better soldiers, make them a match for Major Ferguson’s Tories by the time they met in battle. Sergeant Gillespie just wanted to keep Marty—and the others—alive.
And as much as she kept telling herself that she did not like O’Keeffe, she found herself attracted to him, enjoyed his company, and, when he finally pulled his horse alongside her and spoke his reassurance, it pleased her.
“When we overtake your brother,” O’Keeffe said softly, “I desire you to stay behind. Hold our horses. He will fight, most likely, and I do not wish his blood on your hands.”
Marty spat out her contempt. “My blood has been on his hands many times.”
The silence lasted only a few minutes. O’Keeffe hadn’t expected this outburst, the unbridled hatred. Truthfully it had surprised Marty, too.
“Be that as it may,” O’Keeffe said, “this war is not brother against brother.”
She let out a mirthless chuckle as she shifted the weight of the Deckard. “It most certainly is, Lieutenant, or haven’t you been listening to the men back in camp? Teever Barnes’s brothers are Tories from Rutherford County. Most likely they shall ride with Ferguson. Others back at Sycamore Shoals spoke of their wayward brothers and uncles and fathers. They damned their own kin as traitors, and their own kin damned them. It most certainly is a war of brother against brother. Me and Seb, we’re no different than Teever Barnes and his brothers.” That stopped her. She almost laughed. Oh, I dare say me and Seb are much different than the Barnes boys.
All this time she had kept her eyes forward, trained on the trail, but now she shot O’Keeffe a glance, glad to find him staring at her. For a moment, Marty thought the Irish Virginian did not trust her, no matter what he had said. She would not have blamed him, either. After all, she was a McKidrict, and folks across the mountains didn’t think much of that name. Yet the look in O’Keeffe’s eyes said something else. He just wanted to keep her out of harm’s way.
Well, Marty thought, I like you, too, Flint. As much as she had tried not to.
“You ever killed a man, Marty McKidrict?” O’Keeffe asked bluntly.
When she didn’t answer, he said: “You shall see enough death soon. Leave your brother to. . . .”
A rifle shot cut him off.
Chapter Eleven
The shot echoed off the pine-lined granite walls in the distance, coming from where the canyon widened and began flattening into a meadow. Flint O’Keeffe hesitated for just a second, then spurred his horse into a gallop, calling out for Marty to stay put. She bit her lip, wondering, then had to pull hard on the reins to keep from being bowled over as Ryan Folson and Edisto Bickley charged past her. She almost lost her seat in the saddle as Abimelech bolted, following the others.
For a moment, Marty tried to regain control of the stallion. She had never believed in runaways. Her father had taught her that much. “Easiest thing to do is to stop a horse,” he had told her time and again. “Pull the rein hard, one-handed, child, turn that cuss’s head till it’s practically staring you in the eye. He won’t have nowhere to go then, but in a circle.” She remembered that now. Still, she leaned forward, grinding her teeth, clutching the Deckard, giving Abimelech plenty of rein.
In the meadow, she took in everything, galloping after Folson and Bickley to a grove of crab-apple trees. O’Keeffe was already there, with Eugene Vance and Sergeant Gillespie, pointing at the hill beyond them, Vance’s horse on its side in the clearing, lifting its head, legs flailing, trying desperately to stand, flakes of blood spewing from its nostrils. She heard another shot, felt a ball buzz past her ear, heard O’Keeffe screaming at her, and then she made the trees, pulling the old stallion to a stop as Folson and Bickley dismounted, Folson firing his flintlock the second his feet touched the ground.
“Don’t fire till you see your target!” O’Keeffe yelled, then turned his rage back at Marty, who remained mounted.
“I told you to stay in the canyon!”
“Horse. . . .” She tried to catch her breath, not from fear, but exhilaration. “Spooked. Couldn’t stop him.”
A grin almost replaced his grimace, but somehow O’Keeffe managed to control this façade.
“There’s only two of them,” Eugene Vance reported. “In those rocks.”
“Might as well be a fortress,” Edisto Bickley said.
Folson had reloaded. Shaking his head, he pointed the rifle barrel at the beginnings of a deer trail through the trees. “We can flush them out,” he said, “if we make it to the forest before they shoot us dead.”
Seventy rods, maybe, Marty figured, trying to make out the distance. But over open ground. Nor would it be easy to flush out anyone in that mess of trees, rocks, and brambles. Plus, it would turn dark soon, easy for these assassins to sneak away and plan an ambush farther up the trace.
Marty stopped, realizing for the first time who these assassins were. Seb McKidrict and Willie Duncan. It had to be them. She had underestimated that old louse of a husband, should have known better. Seb hadn’t survived all these years as a thief and murderer with dull wits. He had escaped pursuit from Regulators many times. Marty had thought he would ride his horse to the ground, trying to reach Major Ferguson to collect a bounty of Judas money, but he had stopped, anticipating pursuit, and set up an ambush.
“Sergeant,” O’Keeffe was saying, “if we wait till dark, we could sneak in. . . .”
“They’ll be gone by dark,” Gillespie said. “Folson has the right idea. Charge across there, all of us, and try to flank them.”
“Aye,” said Folson, always game for a fight. “Let them go now, and they will torment us again. Besides, we have already lost Gene’s horse.”
While the lieutenant pondered this, Gillespie continued to state his case. “They have shown themselves poor marksmen, Lieutenant. A good rifleman would have killed Vance or me, not mortally wound a horse. The distance is less than one hundred rods. They would not be able to kill more than two of us, me thinks, if luck favors them, and luck has not, so far. Besides, Vance can provide us with some cover from here.”
O’Keeffe stared at Marty, and she anticipated what he would suggest. He would have her stay in the trees, let Vance ride her horse across that ground. It made sense, too. Marty knew that. She was a better shot than Eugene Vance, had a better rifle. So, she waited, understanding and accepting the fact that she could not disobey O’Keeffe’s orders twice.
“They have not fired upon us in a while,” Gillespie said. “We should not tarry, give them a chance to flee.”
“Indeed, Sergeant,” O’Keeffe said, and ordered Marty to dismount, to relinquish her horse for Eugene Vance, praising her ability as a marksman, that she would be of utmost service by staying in the grove and firing at the deserters.
With a nod, she dropped from the saddle and handed the reins to Eugene Vance. Gillespie pointed to a dark spot in the trees. “Spotted their smoke up yonder,” he said. “Does not mean they are still there, though. You will have to detect their muzzle flash when we gallop across. Mayhap you shall hit one, save us the trouble.”
“Aye.” Her throat had turned dry. She braced the rifle barrel against a tree trunk, not daring to look over at the men as they tightened cinches and checked rifles. O’Keeffe’s piercing—“Charge!”—caused her to tremble, and hoofs thundered over the ground. Marty waited for the gunshot, tried to predict where she would see the flash, but nothing moved, and she groaned.
They had underestimated Seb McKidrict again, thinking he would fire quickly, but the sorry swine had held his fire, waiting, he and Duncan, for the riders to get closer. Fearfully she turned to find O’Keeffe, realized her mistake, and looked back at the woods. Still no shot. She felt a measure of relief. They were halfway across, and still no one fired. Maybe they had fled already, found some back trail to sneak away. That seemed most likely.
She chanced another glance. Vance had reached the woods first, causing Marty to grin. Good old Abimelech, thinking he was a young stallion in a race. O’Keeffe disappeared in the thicket, then Bickley, finally Folson. They had made it. Seb and Duncan must have left. She stood up, keeping the Deckard pointed at the spot, but no longer anticipating any danger. A minute passed, and she listened for the sound of gunfire, not surprised that she heard nothing more than the wind and the clattering of hoofs on stone. Two minutes. More silence. Three minutes—an eternity.
Then a figure exploded from the forest, about twenty rods from the animal trail. After a gasp, Marty recovered, tightened the stock against her shoulder, swung the barrel. A thin man mounted on a chestnut horse, pulling another horse, its saddle empty. The rider saw her, lifted his own musket, fired first. There was a flash in his pan, but nothing more. He cursed as her finger tightened on the trigger.
Suddenly she screamed, collapsing to the ground, the unfired Deckard falling beside her. She writhed on the ground, her right side burning as if on fire. Warm blood streamed across her flesh about halfway between her armpit and hips, drenching her shirt, the linens she had used to conceal her breasts, and the hunting frock. She hadn’t even heard the shot.
“Seb,” she said through a tight jaw, and cursed her husband, cursed herself for being fooled again.
They had waited, anticipating the charge, and let the riders go unchecked until they had to be deep in the woods. Meanwhile, Seb and Willie Duncan remained at the edge of the forest, hidden in the shadows and pines. Duncan rode out, leading Seb’s horse, to draw the fire of the sentry sure to have been left behind, especially since one had no horse. Patiently Seb had waited, and, for once, his shot proved true.
Through the agony, she remembered a conversation they had had, back when she and Seb had first arrived on the Tiger, and Marty had won a shooting match against Willie Duncan. “She shoots better than you, Seb,” Duncan had said. Her husband had grunted and grinned. “Only when I don’t have to, and only when no one is shooting at me.”
Horses. Coming closer. Too soon to be O’Keeffe. Marty lifted her head, couldn’t believe it. Duncan was charging toward her, and Seb running behind, shucking his musket and lifting a hatchet. Coming to kill her. Idiots. They should ride off, put distance between them and O’Keeffe, but Seb’s blood must be boiling. He had recognized Marty, and wanted to make sure she was dead.
She lunged for the rifle, grabbed the stock, pulled it closer, then rolled over. She slid against a tree, rose to a sitting position, and, fighting the pain in her side, raised the rifle. Only she couldn’t steady it. It seemed as heavy as a singletree, the barrel waving crazily, and she felt sick, dizzy.
Duncan let the trailing horse go, drew a pistol as he got closer, but Vance’s mare continued its death throes, and the smell of blood frightened the chestnut. The horse reared. Duncan cursed.
Marty fired. She didn’t know if she hit Duncan, because Seb was upon her.
Marty rolled over, tightly gripping the stock and the hot barrel, using the Deckard to fend off Seb’s awful swing of the hatchet. The metal blade sang against the long rifle’s barrel, and the force of Seb’s swing, his clumsy running and his massive bulk catapulted him over Marty. He crashed with a thud.
Marty’s arms trembled, and she clawed her way to her feet. She raised the rifle like a club, shouted out some primal scream, and swung at her husband. Missed. Then her own momentum carried her over, and she fell into a boulder-lined pit, sharp stones stinging her back, her head, her arms. She tasted blood in her mouth, realized she had bitten her tongue. Her rifle lay at her side.
Seb leaped in after her, cursing, swinging the hatchet again. Willie Duncan shouted something. Her rifle ball must have missed him. The hatchet blade hammered the earth, barely missing Marty’s head. Seb jerked it free. Raged filled his eyes, like he was some demon. He raised the weapon again, shouting something incoherent, something inhuman. Summoning all her strength, Marty jerked up the rifle, slamming the barrel into the big man’s groin. He let out a grunt, staggered backward, and tripped. Another thud.
Marty spit out blood, tried to stand, but the world spun out of control. She glimpsed Duncan standing above her, wielding a giant knife.
“My God!” Duncan said, but the words seemed so far away, and he was looking beyond Marty. “Seb!” Duncan said.
The spinning slowed. Duncan’s right ear was a bloody mess—her shot had done some damage, after all—and his eyes fell back on Marty. He started down, suddenly stiffened, and toppled to his side, rolling into the pit, groaning, resting against Marty.
She kicked herself away from him, backed up till she could sit. That’s when she saw Seb, lying just a yard or so away, looking so peaceful, eyes closed, like a sleeping child. Well, at least his face looked relaxed. Just above where his head rested, propped up, the ragged boulder had been stained by Seb McKidrict’s blood and brains.
* * * * *
She must have passed out for a minute or two, because, when her eyes fluttered open, she found Flint O’Keeffe close to her, pressing both hands against her side to stanch the flow of blood, biting his lower lip, his brow furrowed.
“How bad are you hit?” he asked, once he noticed she was conscious.
Instead of answering, Marty sucked in air.
“Vance!” O’Keeffe shouted. “Get a fire started, and make it hot. I need boiling water, strips of cloth to use as bandages, and your knife, white hot, to cauterize McKidrict’s wound.”
“Cloth might be a problem. . . .”
“Just do it!”
The dying mare snorted.
“And somebody put that animal out of its misery!”
O’Keeffe looked back at Marty, only briefly, avoiding her eyes, and started fumbling with her hunting frock. Blood drained from her lips, and she felt dizzy again, not from pain, but fear. She reached out for him, awkwardly, and put her hand atop his. He stopped, swallowed.
“What about this little traitor?” someone asked. She thought it was Folson, but couldn’t be sure.
A muffled gunshot. Marty trembled. Mercifully they had killed Vance’s horse. O’Keeffe looked away again, but Marty kept holding his hand, squeezing it.
“How bad is Duncan hurt?” O’Keeffe asked.
“It’s mortal, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Gillespie was speaking. “He won’t see Quaker Meadows. I doubt if he’d live to see Honeycutt’s Creek if we have to pack him out. You hit him high, but it might take him a while to die.”
O’Keeffe’s face hardened. “Hang him.”
Marty tried to squeeze his hand tighter. She wanted to tell him no, not to do it, but he pulled away, standing now.
“Sir?” Gillespie asked.
“Hang him. I shall not sit here for a day or two waiting for this hydra to breathe his last so we can be gravediggers. Nor will I load him on his horse and have him suffer before we bury him. He is a deserter, an assassin, a Tory traitor. You men take him to the trees and hang him from that oak. It has a good sturdy limb. I shall tend to McKidrict. How’s that fire coming, Vance?”
A stutter was the only reply. Wild stares trained on Flint O’Keeffe. Even Ryan Folson could not comprehend the order.
“Hang that son-of-a-bitch!” O’Keeffe barked. “You have your orders. I take full responsibility and will tell Colonel Sevier.”
* * * * *
Again, she must have blacked out.
She opened her eyes, gasped, but found herself fully clothed, although Flint O’Keeffe moved over her, fumbling again with her frock. Too weak to resist. He’d learn her secret, thanks to Seb McKidrict, and that lucky shot. He’d see her breasts wrapped tight with linen. He’d. . . .
He stared at her, shaking his head. They were alone in the pit. She tried not to think about what Gillespie and the others were doing at that moment.
“You’re one stubborn girl.”
Marty shivered, uncertain. “How. . . ?” she said at last.
“I am a man, McKidrict. The way you look at your fingernails. The way. . .”—his head bowed; his voice lowered—“the way you ride your horse.”
“Did you know at the cabin on the Tiger?”
His head shook. “Not until the creek when we bathed. You blushed, bolted like a frightened filly.” He laughed, and opened her frock, checking over his shoulder to make sure his men were not around. “Ryan Folson thought you just had a bowel complaint, but I had other suspicions.” Another chuckle. “Back at your cabin, I called you the most singular individual I have met since leaving Williamsburg. My opinion has not changed.”
She closed her eyes, felt his fingers moving gently. “It’s not too bad, though it must hurt like blazes.”
“Are you going to. . . ?” That hurt.
“Sorry,” he said. “They’d send you back home. Part of me desires that. But . . . no . . . I enjoy your company. What is your name?”
“My mother wrote Martha Anne in our Bible, but it’s always been Marty. I. . . .” She sucked in air again.
She no longer felt his touch, realized he was gone, and opened her eyes, anxious, tired, hurting, although some of Seb’s beatings had caused more pain. She felt a measure of relief when she spotted O’Keeffe again, coming back down the pit, gripping Eugene Vance’s knife in his hand.
