powder, and shot he kept there.
They crossed Big Moccasin Creek and came through the trees to the old Boone Trail. It was not far from here that Boone's oldest son, James, had been killed by Indians, along with several others. That had been back around '73, if Trulove recalled correctly.
They were running smoothly, easily, with the swinging stride of the long hunter.
'Mordecai will get there before we do,' Macon said.
'Aye, he'll have the lead on us.'
When they slowed to a walk after an hour's run, Trulove asked, 'Two pilgrims seein' her home?'
'A big black man and a Yankee, the way it was said. A big young man.'
'Honey draws flies,' Trulove commented. 'As I recall, she was right shapely an' pert.'
It was coming on to day-down, with shadows gathering. The two ran on, taking time only to pause for a drink at a cold branch that trickled down the rocks. They rested for a moment, thinking of what lay ahead, and then they were off again, running easily.
'Should come up to that country come dawn. Then we got to find them.'
Macon was a long, lean man, a Clinch Mountain Sackett, as was Trulove, a man given to long periods in the woods hunting for ginseng, usually alone. Yet he had done well, as there was always a market for what he found, and a market that paid well.
No matter, a Sackett was in trouble and they were coming down from the hills to see her safely home or bury the ones who brought her grief. Old Barnabas, him who founded the clan, he laid that down as law more than two hundred years back, and since that time no Sackett had ever failed to come when there was need.
'What do you think?' Trulove asked.
They had slowed to a walk again, and Macon took his time, considering. 'We'd better cut for sign around the head of Wallen Creek. There over to Stone Mountain or the Powell. If they've gotten further, we'll know it.'
'We'd best watch for Mordecai.'
'He'll find us. Nobody can find Mordecai lest he's wishful of it.'
An hour before first light they went off the trail into a thicket and put together a small fire and made coffee. They napped by the fire, drank some more coffee, and they listened. Sound carried a ways in the mountains during the still of morning.
'Mordecai will find 'em. He's almighty sly.'
'He still make all his own gunpowder?'
'Surest thing you know. He's got several places, one of them a cave over to Grassy Cove. You recall that place Jubal found on his way west?'
'I didn't know he still went there. Folks have settled down there, I hear.'
'More'n forty years now. The way Pa tells it, Jubal almost settled down there himself, he liked it that much.'
Macon Sackett sat up. 'Mordecai trusts no powder but his own make.'
They finished the coffee and put their few things into packs. Carefully Trulove extinguished the fire, then scooped dirt to smother the ashes. A moment or two they studied the dead fire, then moved down to the trail.
'Today, you reckon?' Macon knew the question's answer, but Trulove nodded.
From here on they would walk. They could hear better.
When that voice told us not to move, I was in the shadows and I just faded back, easy-like. When I had a big tree betwixt them and me, I waited, my rifle up.
They came out of the woods then, seven or eight of them, and a rough, rough lot. Felix Horst was there, Tim Oats, and Elmer, but there were others I'd not seen before, except for one. He was the last one to come out and I recalled seeing him down to the Cove one time. His name was Patton Sardust and he had been one of the Natchez Trace thieves. A big man, and mighty mean.
Horst looked from Dorian to Archie. 'Where is she?'
'Who?' Dorian said.
'Don't give me lip!' Horst's features sharpened. He was a man of no patience; you could see it in him. That was a notch against him. In the wild country, a body needs patience.
Horst stared at Chantry. 'Who are you?'
'Dorian Chantry, sir. Not at your service.'
'Chantry? Related to Finian?'
'He is my uncle, sir.'
Felix Horst swore; he swore slowly, viciously, and with emphasis. He glanced over at Oats. 'How'd he get into this? What's he doing here?'
'I told you,' Oats insisted. 'I told you he was along. I expect the old man sent him.'
Horst glanced at Archie. 'Runaway slave, eh? Well, you're worth something, anyway.'
'He's a free man,' Dorian said. 'He has always been free.'
Horst smiled. 'We'll change that. If he isn't a slave, he should be, and I've got just the place for him. They'll teach him who is free.'
'What about him?' Patton Sardust said, indicating Chantry. 'We don't need him.'
'He's Finian Chantry's nephew,' Oats protested. 'Anything happens to him, we'd never hear the last of it.'
'Him?' Sardust scoffed. 'No Finian scares me. I'll cut his throat myself.'
'You could try,' Dorian said.
What could I do? If I started shooting, they'd probably kill the two of them right off. Yet something was going to blow the lid off, I could see that. Whatever else he might be Dorian surely wasn't scared. Might have been better if he had been. Archie, I noticed, had quietly shoved his pistol back of his belt when they first closed in, and nobody had made a move to disarm them.
Where I stood I had a good field of fire and I was no more than thirty yards back into the trees.
'If they moved,' Horst said, 'kill the white man. That black is worth money.'
Then he gestured. 'Hans? You, Harry, an' Joe, you scout around and find that girl. Bring her here to me.'
What to do? I could ease off through the brush, I could wait right there so we'd all be together, or ... They were coming; one of them headed right at me, although I knew he couldn't see me.
They'd stirred up the fire, put wood on, so the place was lit up. If I moved, that man was going to see me, and if I didn't, maybe ...
He came around the tree. 'Ah!' he said. 'I am the lucky one.'
The rifle was close by my side and he was not looking for a woman to be armed. Regal had taught me a thing or two, so when he loomed over me and stepped close, I just jerked up the muzzle of that rifle and caught him right where his chin backed into his throat. I jerked up with it, and hard.
It caught him right and he gagged, choking, and taking the rifle two-handed, I gave him what dear old Regal taught me, a butt stroke between the eyes.
He went down like a poleaxed steer, falling right at my feet, out cold as a stepmother's embrace; then I just faded back into the brush.
The others were closing in on the spot where I'd been, and suddenly the one called Hans gave a yell. 'Horst! For God's sake!'
Horst came into the woods. 'What is it? What's wrong?'
'It'sJoe ! Look at him!'
Horst came through the trees, then stopped. He swore again. 'Bring him into camp,' he said brusquely.
'What hit him?' somebody asked. 'Look at his face! And his throat!'
'He's still alive,' Oats said matter-of-factly, 'but he surely ran into something.'
Felix Horst straightened up from the injured man. 'Chantry? Who's out there? Who did this?'
Before he could answer, there came a weird, quavering cry, an eerie cry that rose and fell, then rose again. It was like nothing they had ever heard, and nothing I had ever heard, either, but I knew what it was.
'What'sthat ?' Elmer gasped.
'A ghost,' Dorian said. 'You've aroused the ghosts that haunt these mountains. You're in trouble now.'
'Shut up!' Oats said viciously, anxiously looking around.
