They’d wait until they were well out of Knotty Pine, but would want to strike before Quinlinn. Up ahead a piece, the trail cut through a stretch of woods where there wasn’t even a farmstead in hollering distance. Even though it was November, there were plenty of leaves left and the brush was thick enough to provide good cover if a body had need of it.
Past that the trees gave way to Whistler’s Meadow. Just a small clearing really, but a spring cut through it, and most folks stopped to refill their canteens and water their horses.
The cowards could use the tree line for cover. Even if Mr. Lassiter didn’t stop, just slowed a bit, they’d be able to pick him off, easy as shooting a penned colt.
Jo nudged Licorice into a trot again as a plan took shape in her mind. She’d hang back just a bit. But as soon as she got close to the meadow, she’d fire a few shots in the air, then hightail it for the cover of the woods. That ought to put Mr. Lassiter on the alert, make him aware he wasn’t alone. For a man as sharp as him, that ought to be enough.
Dear Lord, please let me get there in time. And give that fool Samaritan the smarts to recognize the warning shot for what it is.
By the time she neared the meadow her back and neck were stiff with tension, and her head pounded with the effort to stay alert to everything around her. So far she hadn’t seen any hint of a scuffle or heard any shots.
She slowed Licorice to a walk. The meadow was about a quarter mile ahead. Time to make her move if she was going to do it.
Jo pulled the horse to a full stop and lifted her rifle. The road ran nearly straight from here to the meadow. She stared hard, trying to make out what lay ahead. Otis and Clete weren’t the smartest curs in the pack—not by a long shot. Surely she’d see some sign if they were there.
Nothing seemed out of place. A crow cawed in the distance, some squirrels scurried in the nearby trees—just normal forest sounds.
Had she imagined bugaboos where none existed? Had her own yearning for adventure set her mind to creating one for her?
Or what if she’d guessed wrong about where they would spring the ambush? If she fired now, would she be tipping her hand?
A second later she spied the glint of sunshine reflecting off metal. A gun barrel!
Praying again that her plan would work, Jo quickly fired off a shot. Two other shots rang out before the echo died.
A high-pitched squeal of pain followed closely behind the blasts. Her heart in her throat, Jo abandoned her plan to duck for cover. Instead, she urged Licorice into a gallop, full tilt ahead. Sounded like the man needed reinforcements.
If her shilly-shallying had cost Mr. Lassiter serious injury she’d never forgive herself. The least she could do was race in, fire a few shots to distract the bushwhackers, and then get out before they could react.
She refused to believe she might already be too late.
Chapter Four
Ry grimly took stock of the situation from his position behind the fallen horse.
He thanked God for the hunter who’d fired that shot. If the sound hadn’t caught his attention it would likely be his blood staining the ground instead of Scout’s.
The horse jerked, making a feeble attempt to get up. Ry patted the animal’s back. “Easy boy.” Scout’s muscles quivered under his hand.
Ry’s jaw clenched at the animal’s struggle. Those gunmen had a lot to pay for.
But he couldn’t collect on that debt if he stayed belly to the ground with only the horse for cover. His pistol wouldn’t do him much good unless the highwaymen got a whole lot closer, something he’d rather they not do.
If he could just get to the rifle Miss Wylie had loaned him…
The scabbard was tantalizingly close, yet too far to reach without giving the unseen enemy a clear shot. Silently apologizing to Scout, Ry pulled against the saddle with one hand, tugging at the weapon with the other. The rifle slid a few inches, then stopped.
More shots rang out and a searing pain exploded through Ry’s shoulder. With an oath, he flattened himself to the ground again.
A quick check revealed that the bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his upper left arm. Lots of blood and it felt as if a hot poker were pressed against his skin, but the wound probably wasn’t serious. Leastways, not nearly as serious as things were going to get if he didn’t yank that rifle free.
“He ain’t firing back.”
That sounded like Scarcheek’s voice hissing across the clearing. So this wasn’t a random attack.
“You reckon he’s hit, or just playing possum?”
That had to be Mustache.
“Only one way to find out.”
The gunmen didn’t try to hide their approach. They’d be on him in a minute and he had no doubts about what would happen next.
He had to get hold of that rifle! If he could fire before they were on him, he might have time to get off two shots.
Keeping as flat as possible, Ry ignored the pain in his arm, grasped the rifle with both hands, and yanked for all he was worth.
But it was no good, not from this angle anyway. He pulled out his derringer and prepared for the worse. He wouldn’t make this easy for them. Sorry Belle, seems I’m not going to be there for you after all.
A moment later, two man-sized shadows blocked the sun.
“Well, looky here. Pretty Boy done got all mussed up.”
Ry twisted his neck to see the two men looming over him, their ugly grins and rifles pointed at his back. He slowly raised himself to a crouch, carefully keeping his pistol hidden. He might not live to see nightfall but at least one of these cowards was going down with him.
“That’s right.” Scarcheek made a menacing motion with his rifle. “Up where I can see your face and hands.”
Tension coiled inside Ry. His muscles bunched, ready to spring. He had to make this move count.
It would be the only one he had.
“Ayyiiieeeeee!”
The shrill war cry shattered nerves already drawn taught. Scarcheek and Mustache whirled around as a wildman swooped into the clearing, riding at breakneck speed straight toward them.
Thank you, God.
Scout made another spasmodic attempt to rise and Ry dove for the rifle. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he jerked the weapon free an eyeblink before the horse collapsed again.
The mounted banshee fired two shots that missed their marks.
Mustache returned fire and the one-man cavalry charge leaned lower in the saddle. The rider’s hat went flying and a tawny braid flapped free, whipping in the wind like the tail of a kite.
Miss Wylie!
