She urged Tildie forward, telling Michael, 'Stay here a minute. I'm going up that rise to see where we are^ maybe.'
f
'We can come,' Michael insisted.
'AH right—but stay well behind me—no sense wearing out Sam more than you have to.'
She rode toward a tall stand of pines, the modified AR-across her saddle, cold against her thighs. If a Brigand conclave was on, then there would be Brigands traveling through the area, toward it.
Urging Tildie up the rise with her knees, her left hand holding the reins, she clutched the AR-pistol grip in her gloved right fist. 'Come on, Tildie—just a little while longer,' she cooed. Sarah glanced behind her once— Michael and Annie were coming, slowly, as she wanted them to.
Michael, like his father, stubborn, arrogant, but reliable—a man she could count on more than he knew.
She was tempted to call out to the children, telling Michael to save Sam the haul up the rise, but she didn't, lest there be Brigands nearby she couldn't see.
Her eyelashes were encrusted with ice, the sleet and snow blowing against her face. She reached the top of the
rise, reining Tildie back. 'Whoa—easy,' she cooed again.
Beyond the rise was the Savannah River and suddenly, she knew where she was. Lake Hart well would be nearby—in the distance, she could see the Hartwell dam. John had taken her there once with the children for a tour of the dam structure, and several times she had gone to the lake itself with John and the children—swimming.
The thought of plunging her body into water now chilled her. She trembled, then trembled again, remembering John's hands on her once as they'd lain by the lake, their bodies wet and mostly naked, the children splashing in the water at its edge.
She turned to call out to Michael that everything was all right. Tildie reared; Sarah was thrown back in the stock saddle, a gunshot punching into the snow by the animal's front hoofs.
Sarah glanced to her right. Out of the pines were coming men and women, ragged, running, snow- covered, rifles and handguns in their hands, curses coming from their lips—and threats.
'Shit!' she screamed, wheeling Tildie, fighting -tc control the animal, and swinging the rifle up as she reined the horse under her. Her stiff-with-the-cold righl thumb worked the selector to full auto position; her first finger twitched against the trigger. A short burst fired across her saddle; flowers of red blotched the ice-encrusted chest of the lead man. The man lunged toward her and the horse, an ax in his hands. They weren't Brigands; they were starving men and women, people who—she fired again, at another man starting to fire a shotgun. Sarah shot him in the face and neck, then
screamed, 'Michael—get Sam going. Get Annie out of here!'
Sarah dug her heels into the frightened horse she rode; Tildie leaped ahead, back down the rise. A woman was lunging for her, out of the trees, a knife in bony hands held like a stake that was to be driven into someone's heart. Sarah pumped the AR-'s trigger again. The woman's body rocked back, spinning, then falling, a ragged line of red across the threadbare clothes covering her body.
She knew what they wanted now—the horse for food, the weapons for defense, her life and the children's lives/ 'Michael—get out of here,' she shouted again, kneeing Tildie onward.
The pine boughs to her left shuddered, and in the darkness against the whiteness of the snow, she could see a man coming out of the trees, running toward her. She recognized what he had in his right hand—a machete.
He threw himself toward Tildie, into the animal's path. Tildie rearing under her, Sarah reined up, as the machete sliced toward Tildie's neck.
The reins came away in Sarah's hands. She reeled back as the man sliced his blade again. Her left hand, still clutching at the useless reins, reached downward, snatching at Tildie's bridle. Sarah kneed the animal.
'Come on, girl!'
Tildie leaped forward. The man hacked with his machete, but fell aside at the impact of the animal. Then he was on his feet and running after her as Sarah glanced back. She loosed the bridle, snatching at a generous handful of flowing ice-encrusted mane, and digging her heels into the bay mare's sides, coaching her. 'Up, Tildie— up, girl.' The animal responded, charging ahead
and down the rise.
Ahead of her now, she could see Michael's horse, Michael and Annie aboard it. The thought suddenly startled her—Michael's horse. It was John's horse. Two figures wrestled against the front of the animal, reaching for the reins. Michael edged the animal back from them. She saw something flash against the snow, heard a scream; Michael had a knife. Where had he gotten it?
One of the two figures fell away, the second dove toward the two children in the saddle.
Sarah hauled back on Tildie's mane, the animal slowing, skidding along the snow on its haunches. Sarah's right hand brought the rifle up to her shoulder, her finger reached for the trigger. 'Help my aim, God,' she breathed, twitching the trigger as Tildie settled; the man, reaching for Michael and Annie, spun, fell.
'Get going, Michael!' Sarah screamed. Sam spurred ahead as she saw Michael kicking at him with his heels. Sarah dug in her knees, and Tildje started after him.
There was a burst of gunfire from behind her now, and Tildie started to slip on a patch of ice beneath her. Sarah felt the animal going down, perhaps wounded; she threw herself free of the animal's bulk, into the snow. Her back ached as she impacted, the rifle skittering across the ice, back toward Tildie.
Sarah rolled onto her belly and screamed, 'No!' She pushed herself up to her knees. The burly man with the machete who'd tried for her back in the pines was coming.
