It was late when Connelly made it back to the grounds and he could not navigate among the jalopies and the shabby homes. He picked out the bank of a small stream not far from the camp. Then he unrolled his bedding and threw it down and lay there, looking up at the stars and listening to the worried mutterings of the other travelers. He took out a pint of whisky and drew deeply from it. He grimaced as it went down, then took another draw and watched the sky die and the moon rise above him.
On the cusp of sleep he whispered to himself: “Molly. Molly, I’m close. I’m closer than ever now.”
He slept, but not for long. He awoke less than an hour later, his heart beating and his mind screaming, awoken by some nameless animal instinct that told him he was no longer alone.
His eyes snapped open and he sat up and heard a gruff, low shout. Something crashing through the brush to his right. Then a figure barreled through the weeds at him, arm held high, something gold and glittering clutched in its fingers.
Connelly reacted without thinking and threw his arm up to catch the blow. His elbow met with the man’s lip and the man grunted and something sprayed Connelly’s cheek, hot and wet and thick. His attacker stumbled and collapsed, clutching his face. Another voice cried out in the darkness, “Georgie, Georgie! What you done to my Georgie!” A second man came running out, ready to tackle Connelly, but Connelly outweighed the man easily and tossed him to the ground. He straddled him and struck him once, twice, around the face. He tried to weigh down the man’s struggling but still he cried out, “Georgie! Say something! Say something!”
Fingers dug into the flesh at Connelly’s neck and the other hand clawed at his armpit. Connelly groped in the dark and found the pipe that had served as the first’s weapon and brought it down, again and again. The man yelped and fell silent, his body seizing up and his knees rising to touch his face. Behind Connelly the first attacker struggled to his feet. He roared drunkenly and though Connelly could not see him his ears sought the sound and brought the pipe to it. With a sharp crack the man fell limp and did not move again.
Connelly stood over them, breathing hard, his arm aching and his blood beating so hard and fast he felt it would erupt out of his veins. Yards away voices were shouting, calling out, “What was that? What the hell’s going on out there?” Connelly looked at the shapes of the bodies in the dark, not knowing if they were alive or dead, unable to hear any breathing over the rush in his own ears. He hurled the pipe into the stream and felt his hand and knew it was covered in blood, perhaps his or perhaps another’s.
He gathered up his satchel and his bedding and ran downstream, across the water and over stones. The keening of birds and insects filled his ears. He threw himself down next to a fallen old oak and looked over the top. He could see nothing, no eyes in the starlight, no hands or glint of metal. Someone shouted, calling to another. He held his breath, then picked himself up and began running again.
He ran until his legs failed and he collapsed beside the stream, lungs and knees on fire. He washed his hands and face, cupped his hands and drank deeply and tried to ignore the coppery taste that he knew was blood, then drank again.
“You sure beat the hell out of those gentlemen,” said a voice.
He looked up. Across the stream was the leader of the three men, his hoary face floating above the silvery water and his eyes alight with satisfaction. Before him he held on to a thick walking stick, chin high. He leaned forward on it thoughtfully.
“What?” said Connelly.
“Those men. I saw. They jumped you as you slept. Trying to roll a drunk, I believe. And you beat them. I’ll not turn you in,” he said as Connelly began to move. “I don’t think you could run much further, regardless.”
“You saw me?”
“I came down here to refill my canteen. Yes, I saw. Not many men could go from sleep to fighting off two men.”
There were more shouts from downstream. Connelly whipped his head to look. The other man did not.
“If you find the scarred man, what will you do?” the man asked.
“What?” said Connelly.
“If you find the scarred man, what will you do? What do you want of him?”
“They’re coming.”
“Yes. They are. I have nothing to run from, so let them come. They may not know you to be innocent in this affair, however.” He leaned into his staff. “If you were to find this man, what would you do, sir?”
Connelly looked at him, then down at the water. He could barely make out his own reflection. It was faceless, formless.
“Kill,” said Connelly. “I’d kill him.”
The man nodded, satisfied. “Then cross. Come with me. You can stay by our fire. If they come I will say you have been there all along, and avoid any unpleasantness, should God allow it.”
He turned and began walking uphill and soon disappeared into the undergrowth. Connelly heard the bark of dogs to the east, then hoisted his satchel over his head and crossed, wading through the water and up to the fire on the hill.
CHAPTER THREE
The other two men were seated around the campfire, the short fat one and the slender handsome one Connelly had seen before. They looked up when he approached and the slender one’s hands dipped into his coat.
“Easy,” said the leader, striding over to them. “I’ve brought him here myself.”
“Didn’t ask us,” said the portly one indignantly.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. It was spur of the moment, brought on by providence.” The leader sat down upon a log they had picked up as a crude seat. “Come,” he said. “Come and sit. Fire’s warm and the night’s dropping fast. Come and sit.”
Connelly walked over to them, still careful, and sat.
“You look pretty beat,” said the portly one to Connelly.
“The man was attacked,” said the leader. “While he slept. Two men trying to roll a drunk, only he didn’t turn out to be drunk. Is that so?”
Connelly shrugged, nodded. “What’s going to happen?”
“Happen?” asked the leader.
“Yeah,” he said, and jerked his head in the direction of the town. “About that?”
“To you, you mean? Probably nothing. I doubt if that’s the first mugging those folks witnessed. Though maybe the first that wasn’t successful. Hungry times breed discontent. Here, I have yet to learn your name, sir,” said the leader, grinning again. “What would you go by?”
Connelly didn’t think to answer. The slender one was still watching him calmly and Connelly did not take his sights off of him.
“Fair enough,” said the leader. “I am Pike. They call me Reverend Pike, for I was once a man of God. I still am a man of God, in my own way, but with no flock. It’s better this way. I was never much of a shepherd. I always preferred the sword to the crook.” Pike swatted at the slender one with his cap. “Introduce yourself.”
“What?” he said.
“Introduce yourself,” said Pike.
“Why should I? I don’t know him at all.”
“He can fight, that’s why. And he’s here looking for the same man we are. And he wants what we want.”
“And what’s that?”
“Blood,” said Pike simply, and produced two dead rabbits from his sack.
The slender one observed Connelly for a while longer and shrugged. “I’m Hammond.”
