Midwife of the Blue Ridge (56 page)

Tommy . . .” she called to him with a frantic wave. “Here. Come

here.
Quick
.”

He followed after her, past a copse of scrub pine to a rocky

promontory sporting a fine view of the valley below. Maggie

pointed down to an opening in the trees, a canebrake, maybe fi ve

miles distant. “Look there,” she said. “D’ye see ’em?”

Tom did—a double file of Indian warriors moving along the

trail at the quickstep. “That close,” he muttered.

“D’ye think it’s Simon?”

“C’mon.” He grabbed Maggie by the arm and pushed her along,

stopping only to gather pouch, powder, and parfleche. They scram-

bled down the steep hillside, sending a scatter of scree and debris

skittering along with them. Tom glanced back with regret at the

clear sign they left for anyone bothering to course their trail.

Maggie saw it, too. “They’re bound to catch us.”

“To the creek.” Tom pulled her along. “We’ll travel the creek—

confuse the sign . . .”

“Aye? Ye think we can outrun them?”

“We will outfox ’em.” Tom stopped cold and sniffed the air.

“D’you smell that?”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
395

Maggie turned upwind and drew a breath. “Smoke?”

He nodded; both hands on his rifle, he pulled the hammer

back to full cock, crouched a bit, and moved a few steps forward.

He stopped and smelled the air again.

Maggie tugged at his shirttail. “Indians?”

Tom walked slow, sniffing again. “Horses and . . . bones . . .

burned bones . . .”

In the distance a gunshot boomed, sending a racket of birds

flapping into the sky.

“Megstie me!” Maggie yanked on Tom’s shirt so hard it choked

him around the neck.

Tom shook Maggie off and watched the birds fly away. Deep

furrows lined his brow. He moved in the direction of the blast,

muttering, “Pistol fi re?”

Clinging to his shirttail like a bur on a long-haired dog, Mag-

gie followed close behind. “What is it, Tommy?”

“Shhh!” He cocked his head.

Clear as a bell, the

high-pitched whinny of skittish

horses

reached their ears. Tom turned and met her with hard blue eyes,

both hands on his rifle in a white-knuckled grip. “Promise thee

will do exactly as I say. Promise?”

“Let’s just go.” Maggie pulled on his shirttail. “Away t’ th’

creek . . . like ye said . . .”

“Promise me—exactly as I say.”

“Aye.” Maggie nodded. “I promise.”

He motioned with a jerk of his head and she followed him.

They left the trail and wove a path through a thick tangle of

mountain laurel, crouching and dodging to avoid hitting their

heads on limbs and branches. Soon they could hear voices. Tom

fell to his belly in the dirt and motioned for Maggie to do like-

wise. They shimmied forward like snakes and peered through

dense foliage into a clearing in the wood.

A sharp breeze cut a windblown path through the foot-long

grass carpeting the clearing. About thirty yards off, a thin stream

396 Christine

Blevins

of smoke twisted up from a ring of stones, painting a dark gray

line on the sky. Staked near the creek, a white canvas tent fl ut-

tered on the morning breeze, and an agitated pair of brown

horses snorted and stamped next to a large pile of goods. A

small, babbling man together with a bearlike, silent man stood

with hands raised over their heads.

And near them, with lank hair unbound, disheveled in a red

frock coat and stocking feet, stood Cavendish, arm extended, his

pistol trained on the odd men. The viscount and the small man

exchanged heated words, but Tom could not make out exactly

what was being said. “Those two . . .” he asked Maggie. “Are

they armed?”

“Th’ wee one—Connor he’s called. He always carries a brace

o’ pistols.”

“And the big fella?”

“Figg?” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him with a gun.

He’s simple—does as he’s

told—beat Joe Mulberry t’ a pulp

when ordered.”

“Right.” Tom began to rise to his feet.

Maggie grabbed him by the shirtsleeve, her dark brows tilted

with anxiety. “Dinna bother with tha’ lot. Let’s away while

we’ve th’ chance!”

Tom shook his head. “We need those horses.”

“But the Shawnee . . .” She dug her fingers under the muscles

of his arm. “Simon—he must’ve heard the shot . . .”

“And sees the smoke as well. We
really
need those horses.”

Tom pried her hand away. “I know what I’m about, Maggie. Stay

right here. Understand? Don’t budge.”

A small squeak sounded from the back of her throat. She

blinked tearful eyes and nodded. Tom scrambled to his feet and

entered the clearing. So fully occupied by their own drama, the

threesome at the end of the field took no notice of him. Tom

braced his rifl e to his shoulder and called, “CAVENDISH!”

The viscount turned. His quizzical squint widened to round

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
397

eyes and raised brows, serving to squash the sanguine
R
carved

on his forehead illegible.

Tom’s finger crooked over the trigger. “I’ll have those horses

or your head blown off!”

A smile crept across the viscount’s face. He leveled his pistol at

Tom and shouted, “I have a grievance with you, sir!”

“And I have you in my sights. Throw down. Have your man

Connor there bring those horses to me now.”

Cavendish answered by steadying his aim with a hand sup-

porting his wrist and both men triggered their weapons in the

exact same instant.

Tom’s rifle ignited with a puff and a bright flash in the pan,

but the charge did not fi re.

Cavendish’s pistol boomed. A cloud of sulfurous smoke bel-

lowed up and a lead ball whizzed across the field to thud into

Tom’s fl esh.

It was as if a huge invisible mallet had swung down from the

heavens and slammed hard into his left shoulder. Tom spun back.

His rifle jerked from his hands. The blow staggered him back

several paces. He struggled to maintain a stance and capture a

breath.

The horses screamed and bolted.

Maggie cried out,
“Tom!”

Cavendish glared across the field; his chest rose and fell in a

great huff of exasperation. He turned in to his tent, the spent

pistol in his hand trailing a white plume.

Connor tore off hollering, “C’mon Figg, c’mon!” as he chased

after the spooked horses.

Figg stood rooted with arms still up in the air, his big head

roving from side to side, following the crazed horses and Connor

zigzagging across the fi eld.

Tom took a deep breath and formed a fist, clenching his left

hand so tight, jagged fingernails bit into his palm. He bent his el-

bow, tugged open the rent in his shirtsleeve, and picked at

398 Christine

Blevins

scarlet-imbued shreds of linsey embedded into the raw wound.

Blood bubbled from a neat round hole in his biceps and trickled

rivulets to his elbow. Reaching around, he fingered ragged skin

and sticky ooze on the back side of his arm. An exit wound. The

ball had passed through the flesh, only grazing the bone.

Cavendish emerged from his tent with a powder fl ask, eyes

hooded in concentration as he tapped the requisite grains into

the priming pan.

In a heartbeat, Tom gauged the span between them and judged

the speed of his foe’s reloading. He broke into a trot.

Cavendish sifted a measure of powder down the barrel. He

looked up, squinting. Surprise combined with annoyance to dis-

tort the ruddy
R
anew. He hurried to thumb ball and greased

patch into the muzzle.

Tom picked up speed as he moved upfield. He slipped the

tomahawk from his belt, the weight of the iron ax in his right

hand, a comforting counterbalance to the throbbing heaviness

settling in his left. Throwing a kick in his gallop, he broke into a

full- on, stretch- legged sprint.

The viscount struggled to pry the ramrod from its place be-

neath the barrel, eyes ricocheting from his task—to Tom closing

the gap—back to his pistol—then back to Tom charging across

the fi eld.

Fingers fumbled. The ramrod tumbled free—lost in the tall

grass. Cavendish fell to his knees, slapping the ground with a

hysteric flat hand. Locating the ramrod, he leaped to his feet,

seating the ball firm to the powder with one stroke. He raised his

weapon, taking aim at the man barreling toward him, and pulled

back on the hammer.

Bearing down at full speed, Tom slammed head and shoulder

into the viscount and sent him sprawling. The pistol flew into the

air, spinning end over end, disappearing with a thump in the

grass. The momentum of the charge carried Tom paces beyond

Cavendish.

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
399

The viscount scrambled to stand, and with Tom right on his

heels, he hastened to the fire ring to snatch up the scabbard

strung over the camp chair. His sword zinged out. Tom’s toma-

hawk swung a wide arc. Cavendish parried the blow.

Edged weapons met in a clack and tangle of tempered steel

and hickory wood. Locked in struggle, each man pressed forth

straining, faces mere inches apart. Tom’s eyes met with a pair

yellowed and dull. Stitches gummy with pus held the viscount’s

festering nose in one piece, and the scabrous
R
on his forehead

cracked and seeped matter. Cavendish was fueled by a deep-seated

thirst for vengeance, and Tom could feel his own strength wan-

ing, draining from the hole in his arm.

Cavendish hissed through clenched teeth, “Sing a psalm, good

sir, for after I dispatch you in handsome style, I mean to fuck

your whore atop your rotting corpse.”

Twisting and working the curved head of the tomahawk down

the sword, Tom hooked on to the ornate hilt. With one hard jerk,

he fl ung the viscount’s weapon aside.

Mouth agape, Cavendish stared at his empty hand, fi ngers

twitching.

Tom flipped the tomahawk into his left fist and unsheathed his

hunting knife with his right hand. He dipped and spun behind

his foe. With a sweeping motion, he sliced through white stock-

ing and taut tendon, meeting gritty resistance as the honed edge

bit into the bone just above the viscount’s left heel. Like a mari-

onette with a severed string, Cavendish crumpled in a heap.

Maggie came dashing across the fi eld.

Tom leaned in on his knees and gulped for air. His arm buzzed

with a sensation akin to being stung repeatedly by a hundred

bees.

Shouting “CONNOR!” Cavendish crawled toward the camp

chair, dragging his crippled leg, leaving a trail of bright blood on

the green grass.

Connor ignored his wounded master. Having succeeded in

400 Christine

Blevins

maneuvering one of the geldings to a standstill, he grabbed fi st-

fuls of coarse mane and pulled his spare frame onto the horse’s

back. With a wave of his hand he shouted, “C’mon, Figgy! We’re

off!” Wheeling his mount, he splashed across the stream, gallop-

ing into the woods beyond.

Figg lowered his massive arms. With brow beetled in confu-

sion, his gaze shifted from retreating Connor, to Maggie running

toward Tom, to Cavendish struggling to pull himself up onto the

camp chair, and back to his brother galloping from sight.

Cavendish plopped into the chair and leveled an order.
“Figg!
Do

as I say—thump that man soundly. Thrash him! DO IT NOW!”

Tom had never seen a man grown as large and thick-built as

the Goliath lumbering toward him. The girth of the man’s chest

rivaled that of a fi fty-gallon barrel. Each of his upper arms

equaled the size of a smoked ham, and his clenched fi sts were like

iron anvils. Tom stood upright. He sheathed his knife, trans-

ferred the tomahawk to his good hand, and balanced on the balls

of his feet, ready to do battle with a giant.

Maggie ran up and planted herself between the two men,

shouting, “No, Figg!
No!
”

Figg lurched to a halt. With a playful wriggling wave of his sau-

sage fingers, he grinned gap-toothed and said, “Hoy, Maggie!”

Cavendish groaned. “You great, hulking, leather-headed idiot.

Take the man down, Figg!
Take him DOWN!
”

“If any harm comes to this man, Figgy,” Maggie warned with

an admonishing finger, “I will never again share my teatime

sweeties wi’ ye—d’ye hear me?
Never!
”

“Awright, Maggie.” Figg wagging his ginger head. “I hear ye.”

As a sheepish aside to Tom, he added, “Maggie makes th’ best

sweeties, um-hmm . . . amen to teatime, sez I.”

Tom heaved a sigh and slipped his tomahawk into his belt.

“You best come along with us, big fella. There’s a war party

coursing this trail.” Figg nodded and followed Maggie and Tom

to the campfire. Tom picked up Cavendish’s spent pistol lying near

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
401

the tent and stuffed it into his belt. He winced, supporting his left

arm as he scoured the grass. “Help me find this pistol’s mate.”