Rebel in Time

Chapter 25

Troy hesitated for one long moment, taking it all in, seeing the way the men were placed, before he started forward. As he came into sight he called out loudly.

'Massa, I done got de water like you say.'

He shuffled slowly forward as he spoke, head down, shoulders rounded, holding the handle of the pail with both hands as though it were a great weight. Under the lowered brim of his hat he could see the dismounted man spin about and point his gun at him. His mounted companion had also produced a pistol. Troy ignored this, still shuffling forward, humming and talking to himself under his breath as though he were unaware of their presence.

It worked fine. The two men were smiling, waiting for him to notice them. Good. He would provide some good theatre, vintage Stepenfechit, or perhaps a quaking imitation of Jack Benny's Rochester in a haunted house.

'Lawdy!' he screeched when he got close, looking and seeing them. He clutched the bucket to him, trembling so much that the water slopped and spilled over. He tried to roll his eyes, but wasn't very good at it.

Bad as the performance was, it had a receptive audience. The two men laughed and whooped, the one on the ground opening his mouth wide revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. So great was his merriment that his pistol barrel dropped by degrees until it pointed at the ground. Troy shuffled and looked around, as though searching for a place to hide, watching the other man dismount, waiting until the horse blocked his vision for an instant.

At that precise moment he threw the bucket into the laughing man's face.

As he staggered backwards Troy was on top of him, driving his knee hard up into the man's crotch as he twisted the gun from his hand. The man screamed shrilly as they fell together. Troy rolled as they struck the ground, swinging the pistol up. The other man was still half-hidden by his horse, coming into view, his own pistol aimed. Troy extended his weapon at arm's length, sighted along it and pulled the trigger.

It banged like a cannon and kicked like a mule, throwing his arm high. But his shot had been good. The other twisted, folded, tried to point his own gun, squeezed the trigger, then fell.

As the shot was fired Robbie Shaw cried out hoarsely and dropped to the ground. The stray bullet had caught him. Troy started towards him, then saw that the first man had stumbled to his feet, groaning with pain, but still ready to fight. He reached for the scabbard in the small of his back and pulled out a bowie knife with a foot-long blade, holding it straight out as he staggered forward.

Troy aimed the gun and pulled the trigger — then saw that it was a single shot pistol. He threw it into the man's face, but the other merely brushed it aside, moaning in agony and cursing horribly at the same time. And came on. Troy stepped backwards, his eye on the knife point, stumbled and fell. The other roared and dropped on him.

It was a tiny cracking sound, like two boards being smacked together. Troy saw the black hole appear in the man's forehead, then fill instantly with blood as he fell face downwards into the grass, unmoving.

Stunned, Troy looked over at Shaw sprawled on the ground. He had levered himself up on one elbow; there was a tiny smoking gun in his hand.

'Pepperbox,' Shaw said, smiling grimly as he tucked the gun back into his vest pocket. 'Two barrels, over and under, two shots. I never go anywhere without it. Road agents are… quite common… these days.'

He grimaced with pain and Troy saw the blood soaking through his trousers, running down his leg. Troy moved fast, turning over the dead man next to him and tearing off the man's wide leather belt, then wrapping it twice around Shaw's thigh before drawing it tight. The flow of blood slowed, stopped. Troy rose slowly to his feet and looked around.

'Bit of a butcher's shop,' Robbie Shaw said. 'Two dead, one injured. That's quite a job you did, unarmed. Taking on those two like that, pistols and all.'

'You're not too shabby yourself with that little popgun. I thought that you were a journalist, a man of peace?'

'I am. But this is a hard world. My first assignment in this country was as military correspondent during the Indian wars. Worse than the Gorbals on Hogmanay night. That's where I learned how to shoot. But now, dare I ask, what do we do next?'

'Take care of your wound. We're out of sight of the road so we don't have to worry about somebody stumbling onto us. Anyone who might have heard the shots would have been here by now. The way the attack happened, I imagine that this pair of thugs must have followed us from the city. They wouldn't have started this unless they were sure that they were unobserved. We'll worry about them later. Getting you fixed takes top priority.'

Troy dug into the saddlebags and pulled out the flat box that held his medical supplies. He took out one of the morphine styrettes and palmed it, then went to look at Shaw's wound. Using his clasp knife he slit the trousers open.

'Looks rather nasty,' Shaw said, sitting up and leaning forward to examine the wound. 'Like I'd been shot with a cannon.'

'Just about,' Troy said, kicking the fallen pistol with his toe. 'Single shot, muzzle loader, must have a half-inch bore. Now lie back and let me look at this. Lots of blood, but not as drastic as it seems. The ball took out a chunk of your thigh muscle but it kept on going.'

Under cover of his body, Troy cracked open the styrette and discarded the protective cover. One of the newest ones, double shot. It would not only kill the pain but would put Shaw to sleep as well. He jabbed it into the leg and pressed down on the plunger.

'I felt that! What are you doing?' Shaw asked.

'Playing doctor. I told you to take it easy.'

He kicked a hole in the turf, stamped the crushed remains of the styrette into it, then covered it up again. By the time Troy had unpacked and returned with the rest of the medical kit Shaw was lying back with his eyes closed, snoring hoarsely. Troy went to work.

He had plenty of experience in field treatment, but this time he would have to be the medic as well. At least whatever he did to treat the wound would be better than anything else that might be done in this primitive age. First he dusted the wound well with antibiotic powder, then eased up on the tourniquet. There was only a little bleeding now. He tightened it again, put on more powder, then applied a pressure bandage. That would do. That had to do. No one could do any better. Here, in this field, he had used medicines of a different era. When had antisepsis started? With Lister, yes, 1865, he remembered the date from school exams. He always had a memory for dates.

Troy slipped a bottle of penicillin tablets into his pocket, then put the rest of the kit away. Crows cawed hoarsely in a nearby grove of trees, the midday sun was hot, the horses, reins hanging, grazed the rich grass. The two corpses lay where they had fallen. Something would have to be done about them. Troy grabbed the nearest one by the boots, then dragged it across the field to the shelter of the trees. The crows, calling loudly, rose in a black cloud and flew away.

It was afternoon before Shaw woke up. He opened his eyes and looked around. Troy kneeled next to him and held out a tin cup of water. 'Thanks,' Shaw said, draining it. Troy refilled it, then handed over one of the penicillin tablets.

'Wash this down. It will be good for the leg.'

Shaw hesitated a second, then shrugged and swallowed the capsule. 'Was I dreaming — or was there a brace of toby men here a short while ago? Complete with mounts.'

'The best thing that you can do is forget about them. If we report what happened we will only get involved with the authorities. The fewer questions we have to answer, the less publicity we get, the happier I'll be. If someone had seen what happened at the time, that would have been different. But no one seems to have noticed. So I got things out of sight. The two men are in the woods over there, along with their saddles and bridles, weapons, the lot. The horses are down by the stream.'

'They'll be found.'

'Of course. But we'll be gone by then. As long as we are not seen in the vicinity we won't be suspected. And I'm willing to bet that pair are known to the police. I doubt if they will be missed. So let's move on. Can you ride with that leg?'

'I think so. Truth is it doesn't hurt very much.'

'It will. But by the time it does we should have some miles under our belt. We'll find a quiet spot and lay up for the night. Then tomorrow we'll see if we can buy some kind of wagon for you to ride in. That is — if you feel well enough to keep going on. We can still call this whole thing off now if you're not up to it.'

'Excelsior!' Shaw said, sitting up and grimacing. 'Help me, there's a good chap, and we'll press on. You are a mysterious man, Mr Harmon, and I intend to learn more about you and your mysterious ways. The more I know, the more I have the feeling that you are only telling me the smallest part of what is happening. I mean to continue until I discover some of the verities.'

'You do that. Meanwhile let's get you onto this horse.'

They rode until dark, then found a campsite well away from the road. Troy kept the Colt tucked into his belt and resolved that he would never be caught far away from it again. They did not want to draw attention to themselves by building a fire, so they finished off the last of the cold food Doyle had provided. They regretted not having the fire, it might have driven off some of the mosquitoes. The only way to escape the insects' attentions was to wrap themselves in their blankets, despite the heat. But the air soon cooled down a bit and they managed to get some sleep.

Shortly after noon on the next day, they reached a small town named Woodbridge. There were some brick buildings around the square, but the rest of the houses were made of wood. Shaw pointed to a sign hanging on the side of a barn.

'Livery stable. I may survive yet.'

Troy passed over a small bag of gold coins. 'Get a good one. I'm going to be riding in it too. No price is too great if it means I can get off the back of this mule.'

They had prepared a story to explain their circumstances. Shaw claimed to have hurt his ankle in a fall. His second pair of trousers covered the bandage and his realistic limp gave plausibility to the story. Troy kept carefully in the background while the purchase was completed, coming forward only when the stable owner waved him over to hitch Shaw's horse to their new buggy. Troy made a mess of it, he had absolutely no idea of where all the lines and traces went, and was boxed on the ear and cursed out by the man for his efforts. After that he stood to one side, hand over his sore ear, while the man did it himself, glaring at his back and thinking about which way would be the most satisfactory to kill the son-of-a-bitch.

With their goods dumped into the buggy, the old mule tied on behind, the trip became a good deal easier. They couldn't hurry because Shaw's leg was stiff and painful, and too much travelling fatigued him greatly. Troy tried not to show his concern when the wounded man developed a fever but it was gone the next morning. Shaw took his penicillin every day, and there were no signs of infection around the wound. It should be all right.

They proceeded at a leisurely pace, taking a week to get to Richmond, reaching the city late one afternoon when the shadows were already slanting lengthwise through the trees.

'Lovely city,' Shaw said, 'one of my favourites.'

'Are we going to this hotel of yours, the Blue House?'

'Yes, they know me there, inexpensive, and the food is filling. Frequented by commercial travellers who believe in getting their money's worth. But we'll make a little detour on the way there. Down this street. Pleasant homes.'

'Really great. Does the leg hurt?'

'It really feels much better. Throbs a good deal and protests if I put too much weight on it. Otherwise, doctor, the operation was a success. What are those little pills you make me take every day?'

'I told you. An old secret family recipe against the fever. Seems to have worked, too.'

'Indeed. There, see ahead? The large white house surrounded by the cast-iron fence.'

'I see it. What about it?'

'The thing about it is that it is owned by the man I know as Colonel Wesley McCulloch. What must be determined next, I imagine, is to discover if he is the same man whom you are looking for.'

Troy pulled hard on the reins and the horse whinnied in protest as it stopped. Troy looked at the house, his face tight, staring as though he could see right through the walls if he tried hard enough.

Had he found him?

Was this the end of the hunt — or just the beginning?