Guns, I realized, my twenty-first century mind sorting the sounds into sense. Oh, holy shit…
Malcolm was behind me, his back exposed to flying bullets. And there was exactly nothing I could do.
“C’mon, boy…” But Aces was charging at full capacity, ribs heaving, hooves thundering.
I felt Malcolm shifting position; though I couldn’t see what was happening I knew he had extracted his own pistol, twisting sideways to fire – once, twice, three times. My ears throbbed, the rapid shots echoing my bursting heart. Aces lost ground and Malcolm spun back around, holding the gun at his right thigh, angling protectively over me. Our pursuer fired again, bullets fracturing the air with sharp cracks; he was much closer to us now.
Malcolm exhaled a hissing breath, his right elbow jerking.
Was he shot?!
Frantic, I couldn’t even turn around to see if he was hurt.
The world narrowed to a thin, jolting corridor.
After two days of hard riding, Aces was flagging.
As though outside my own body and watching from a short distance away, I realized, He’s going to catch us.
I became suddenly aware that two horses flanked Aces, one to either side; my peripheral vision picked out the looming shapes. Numb and horrified, unable to blink or move or utter a sound, I could do nothing but watch as one of the men aimed a gun at us, his mouth flapping. Yelling, ordering us to stop.
Malcolm shouted in my ear, “Hold on!”
He yanked on the reins, slowing Aces enough that the other horses flew past us; my head jerked so hard I saw stars. With an unyielding forearm across my shoulder blades Malcolm held me down, leaning around me to fire repeatedly. Aces brayed a high-pitched whinny and Malcolm circled him sharply to the right, as though to make a U-turn, but it wasn’t enough; we had no chance. I opened my eyes in time to see two mounted horses charging us, one man aiming a pistol while the second raced near with a long, slender rifle held lengthwise; I screamed then, sharp and piercing, as he struck Malcolm’s head with its stock, knocking him backward from the saddle.
Men shouting and cursing. Horses wheeling around, Aces rearing and squealing, reins dangling. I couldn’t stop screaming, even as I was summarily dragged from Aces, straight to the back of another horse. Fury burned across my vision, tinting everything red. I fought my captor’s one-armed hold, kicking, elbowing, breathing with fast, enraged breaths – no thought in mind except to reach Malcolm, who lay on the ground perhaps twenty feet away.
“Hold still, you little bitch!” raged the man restraining me; he shifted, cursing, trying to hold the reins and the rifle in one hand. He bellowed to his companion, “Get to Carter ’fore he gets his piece!”
“Malcolm!” I shouted as the second man charged toward him on horseback, gun drawn.
Malcolm rolled sideways before leaping to a crouch and I saw the deep gash on his forehead and the wound on his arm, blood flowing at both points. My heart sank like a stone in a lake – he was hurt, separated from his gun. The man yanked his horse to a halt, the animal dancing in a tight circle with the motion; he aimed square at Malcolm’s chest and ordered, “Stay put.” Only then did he turn in his saddle to deliver orders. “Shut up that little hellcat and fetch that mount before he runs straight to Missouri!”
I’d never experienced true brutality, stunned by the level of aggression with which I was backhanded across the jaw, plummeting from horseback to earth. I heard Malcolm’s rage as I fell, the world pitching and tilting, rising to meet my left side with a dull thud. Small black spots danced, colliding in the air before my eyes. The sky gleamed like polished tin; from my position flat on the ground, I watched as the man who’d struck me heeled his horse and took off at a clip, presumably to round up Aces High.
The man holding a gun on Malcolm bellowed, “Not a move, Carter! I’ll shoot you dead!” He spared a glance in my direction and decided, “She ain’t hurt bad.” He chuckled, a raw, grating sound, as he added, “Yet.”
“I’ll split your skull, Vole, I’ll gut you like a fucking hog.” Vicious with fury, I imagined how Malcolm’s eyes appeared; from my current position, I couldn’t see his face.
I heard Ruthann’s voice in my head, the hushed, painful information she had related to us that night at Shore Leave, and thought, Vole. This is the man who shot Miles.
Vole ignored Malcolm’s anger, addressing him with a taunting lilt. “It’s been a spell, ain’t it, Carter? You’re still fulla piss and hot air. Last I saw you, you was emptying your pistol into poor old Bill Little’s dead carcass. I been busy since then, as I’d wager you heard. Shot Miles Rawley last summer, killed the bastard clean dead with two rounds.” He paused before issuing a snorting sound of pure derision. “Got yourself another woman, looks like. I don’t s’pose you’d much like to watch while we stick it to the little hellcat once Turnbull fetches your horse.”
Turnbull, I thought, able to place this name in context as well. Aemon Turnbull, who once tried to rape Ruthann.
I found the strength to lift to my elbows, a metallic taste on my tongue. Malcolm knelt on the ground before Vole’s horse; at last able to make eye contact he assessed me as best he could. I wanted to speak but hadn’t regained enough breath. Something rolled across my tongue like a chipped marble; I spit
