Davis's gaze flicked back to the man in buckskins. The man had his own pistol drawn, the barrel lifting inexorably as his thumb looped around the hammer and drew it back. Davis's eyes widened and he reached for Titus, intending to shove the old man out of the way, but before he could do so, the roar of exploding gunpowder slammed against Davis's ears. He seemed to see every grain of burning powder that spewed from the muzzle of the pistol in the man's hand, followed by a cloud of thick black smoke. The thud of the heavy lead ball striking flesh blended with Titus's grunt of pain and Davis's shout of "No!"
He had finally managed to say something, but as usual, it was too late.
Titus was thrown back against the tree. Davis felt a warm wet splatter on his cheek. For a second that seemed much longer, Titus hung there, more blood welling between the fingers of the hand he had pressed to his chest. The blood was thick and black in the garish glow of the firelight. Then Titus began to slide down the trunk until he was sitting again. His head lolled forward limply, and his arm fell to the side.
Davis looked at the man in buckskins and saw that tendrils of smoke were still curling from the barrel of the pistol. Barely aware of what he was doing, Davis came up off the ground and launched himself in a dive at the man who had just killed Titus.
Chapter 7
Davis's attack took the man by surprise. He slammed into the man, driving him backward. Both of them went down, landing hard on the ground. Davis heard the loud whoof! as the man's breath was driven out of his body by the impact.
Several people were shouting. Davis heard them but ignored the noise. He concentrated on the man squirming underneath him. The man slashed at Davis's head with the empty pistol, but Davis saw the blow coming and was able to jerk back out of the way. He lifted his arm and brought his fist down like a mallet in the middle of the man's face.
The next instant, something crashed into his left shoulder and knocked him to the side. He cried out at the agony that shot through him, but he had the presence of mind to roll over rapidly, taking him away from whoever had hit him. He looked up and saw one of the other men looming over him, booted foot upraised and ready to stomp down at him. Davis threw his hands up and managed to catch the man's ankle. A sudden heave sent the man staggering back, arms flailing.
Shouting seemed to fill the whole settlement by now. Nothing broke up the monotony of frontier life like a fight. The shot would have drawn the attention of everyone in the vicinity, too. In the midst of the commotion, Davis tried to scramble back to his feet. He wished he hadn't gotten mixed up in this, but now he had no choice except to defend himself.
The third man came at him swinging roundhouse blows. Davis warded off a couple of them, but then the man's knobby fist cracked against Davis's chin, rocking his head back and making him see stars that put the ones in the heavens to shame.
Davis stumbled over something and glanced down, realizing to his horror that it was Titus's corpse he had bumped against. That distracted him, and his opponent hit him again, knocking him against the tree this time. Davis could barely stay on his feet.
"He's mine!" The furious shout came from the first man, the one who had shot Titus. He had gotten back to his feet and now came at Davis with a murderous rage twisting his face. His nose was bloody and grotesquely flattened and swollen where Davis had hit him.
He had picked up his rifle and was holding it by the barrel. He slashed at Davis with the stock, hitting him across the midsection with it. Davis doubled over and slumped to his knees next to Titus. Above him, the man lifted the rifle again, ready to bring it down in a blow that would probably crush Davis's skull.
Davis's fingers closed around the hilt of the knife sheathed at Titus's waist. He brought the blade up and rested the point on the crotch of the man's buckskin trousers. All it would take was a shove to send the blade slicing into his groin. The man froze where he was, the rifle lifted above his head.
"If I . . . see your arms start to come down . . . I'm pushing on this knife," Davis said through teeth clenched against the pain.
"Be careful, Hedge," one of the other men said. "I think the bastard's daft enough to do it!"
The man called Hedge looked down at Davis, eyes wide and lips pulled back from his teeth. "Somebody shoot him!" he said.
"There'll be no more shooting here," a new voice barked. From the corner of his eye, Davis saw Colonel Welles and Conn Powell come striding up to the scene of the fight.
"Put that knife down, Davis," Powell growled.
"And let him bash in my skull?" Davis asked.
"Nobody is going to continue this battle," Welles said. "I want everyone to lay down their weapons." The tone of command in his voice was unexpectedly strong.
Stubbornly, Davis waited until Hedge had lowered the flintlock and was holding it loosely in one hand. Then he took the point of the knife away from the man's groin. Hedge seemed to be suppressing a sigh of relief, not altogether successfully.
Davis pulled himself to his feet. His whole body was a mass of aches and pains, but he stood straight and stiff as he glared at Hedge and the other two men. Then he looked down at Titus's body, and something twisted inside him. He had only been acquainted with the old man for a few hours and really knew very little about him. But he was certain that Titus had deserved a better end than this, shot down callously by Hedge.
"What happened here?" Welles demanded.
"That old man tried to shoot Hedge," one of the men in homespun said, pointing at Titus's body. "Then the other one went mad when Hedge defended himself and shot the old bastard."
"That's not how it happened," Davis said.
Powell's dark eyes swung over to Davis. "Then you tell us how it did happen," he said coldly.
"This man here, the one called Hedge, was going to give Titus a beating."
"He deserved it!" Hedge said. "He tried to trip me, the sot, and then he threw a whiskey jug at me. He's the one who reached for his pistol first!"
"What about that, Davis?" Welles asked.
Davis hesitated. He had already lied to the colonel twice, about his name and about not being a fugitive from the law. He didn't want to add a third lie to that list, especially one that could probably be proven false quite easily. There were enough people around so that some of them must have seen the fight start.
"Gilworth reached for his pistol first," Davis finally said after a moment. "But I'm sure he felt justified. There were three of these men bullying him, and they were a lot younger than him. They might have beaten him badly."
Powell gestured at Titus's body. "His gun's still behind his belt. What happened?"
"It got caught on something. He wasn't able to draw it in time."
"He was trying to," Hedge said. "That's all that matters."
Powell shrugged. "Seems to me like Hedge is right, Colonel. Looks like self-defense."
"Three against one?" Davis said angrily. "You call that self-defense?"
"Three against two, I'd say, the way you jumped into the fracas, Davis," Powell snapped. "Those aren't such bad odds."
Welles held his hands up, the palms spread. "That's enough," he said. "I'll have no more arguing. This man's death is unfortunate, but I don't see that there was any crime here. Hedge, you and Clade and Johnson go on about your business. Davis, I expect you to do the same. We have many miles in front of us, and we must work together in order to complete our mission."
Davis swallowed the bile of resentment in the back of his throat. Welles was right, and on top of that, Davis didn't want to draw any more attention to himself. He nodded and said, "That's all right with me."
Hedge made no such gesture. He just turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by the other two men—Clade and Johnson, Welles had called them. Davis watched them go and knew that they wouldn't soon forget what had happened tonight.
Welles looked down at Titus and said, "This man wasn't one of us, but I'll see that he gets a proper burial."
Davis wanted to say that he would do that, bu
t he merely nodded in acceptance of the colonel's decision. It would be better for him to withdraw into the background as much as possible.
Welles motioned for several of the men who were standing around to pick up the body, and as Titus was carried off, Conn Powell sidled over closer to Davis and said in a low voice, "You made yourself some enemies tonight, mister. Hedge and his friends will remember what happened."
Davis had just been thinking the same thing. He said, "I don't want any trouble."
"Sometimes it comes callin' on us, whether we're lookin' for it or not."
Davis didn't waste any breath explaining to Powell how well aware he was of that very fact . . .
* * *
During the weeks he had been on the run, Davis had stopped a few times at isolated farms and done a day of chores in return for food and a place to sleep out of the weather. At one of the farms, the farmer's wife had insisted that Davis take a blanket with him when he left, as part of his pay.
He was glad he had the blanket tonight, because a spring cold snap came through, dropping the temperature almost to freezing. Davis wrapped up in the blanket and huddled near the base of the tree, trying not to think about how Titus Gilworth's blood had soaked into the ground beside him.
Someone ought to write to the old man's relatives and let them know what had happened to him, Davis mused as he tried to fall asleep. But all he knew for sure was that Titus had a cousin somewhere in Ohio. It would be difficult if not impossible to find the man with only such sketchy information to go on.
Still, Davis would keep it in mind, and if he ever ran into anyone else named Gilworth, he would tell them about the fate that had befallen Titus.
Not surprisingly, his sleep was uneasy that night. He didn't doze off for a long time, and when slumber finally claimed him, it brought dreams of blood and death.
Davis was grateful the next morning that he could recall none of the details. All he knew for certain was that his sleep had been filled with red-tinged horrors.
His brain felt like insects had built a nest in it. He sat up, leaned against the tree trunk, and shook his head. The smell of meat cooking drifted to his nose, reminding him that he was hungry. The colonel had said that he would be fed while he was working for the government. Davis hoped that started this morning, as his venison was gone.
Dawn was still a ways off. The sun had barely begun to send red feelers into the black night sky, like the shoots of a tender young plant poking up through the soil. Most of the men camped around the trading post were up and about despite the early hour. Welles had said they would leave at dawn, and evidently the men had believed him.
Davis heard his name being called and looked up to see the colonel himself striding toward him. Welles was alone for a change, rather than being accompanied by the dark-faced Conn Powell. He held a sheathed knife in his hands.
"Good morning, Davis," Welles said. "I'm glad to see you took me at my word. Anyone not ready to start at dawn will be left behind."
"Didn't have any reason to doubt what you told me," Davis replied.
"No, I suppose not." Without any more preliminaries, Welles extended the knife toward Davis. "Here. I think you should have this."
For a second, Davis was confused. There was something familiar about the knife and the fringed sheath, but . . .
"That was Titus Gilworth's knife, wasn't it?" he said, suddenly realizing where he had seen the weapon before.
"The rest of his belongings went to pay off the bill he left behind at the trading post," Welles explained. "But I thought since you were his friend, you ought to have something of his."
Davis reached out and took the sheathed knife, turned it over in his hands. "I barely knew the man."
"Keep the knife anyway. I notice you don't have one."
"No. I don't." Davis remembered how he had run out of the jail in Elkton without taking the time to search for his own knife.
The knife he would have used on Andrew, if he'd had half a chance.
"Thanks," he grunted. The sheath had a loop on it so that it could be hung from a belt. Davis placed it on his left hip.
"About the fight last night," Welles went on. "I don't want anything like that to happen again."
"Neither do I," Davis said honestly. "I won't start any trouble, Colonel."
"That's fair enough. I intend to have this same talk with Hedge and his friends. If you have any problems with them, come see me or Conn."
Davis doubted that Conn Powell would go a step out of his way to help him, but he kept the thought to himself. Obviously, Welles placed quite a bit of faith in Powell, and Davis would just get himself even more on the colonel's bad side if he complained about Powell.
"Breakfast in ten minutes," Welles said as he started to turn away. "Afterwards, you'll be issued an ax. You don't already have one, do you?"
Davis shook his head. "Not even a tomahawk."
"Well, we'll see that you're outfitted properly." Welles took a deep breath. "It's going to be a glorious adventure, isn't it?"
"Whatever you say, Colonel."
But Davis doubted if there would be anything glorious about it at all.
* * *
He was right. He had just thought he knew what backbreaking labor was all about. The Wilderness Road taught him differently.
It began with the men, forty of them all told, assembling for breakfast at the trading post. The food was plain fare, johnnycake and fried ham, but good and filling. Then three wagons had pulled up, loaded with supplies. Axes were taken from one of them and passed out, and the workers were told to put their rifles in the wagon for safekeeping, since they couldn't very well swing an ax and carry a flintlock at the same time.
The ax was long and heavy, with a thick, double-bladed head. Davis remembered using one just like it back in the Shenandoah Valley. It had been in his barn the last time he saw it. He wondered where it was now, then pushed that thought out of his head.
The ties of memory could stretch only so far before they snapped, he told himself. Better to cut them now, so they wouldn't hold him back.
The work started only a few yards from the Block House itself, where the trail began. The men spread out along either side of the path and began felling the trees that grew along the edge of the road.
Davis's breath plumed in front of his face like smoke from a pipe in the dawn light as he lifted the ax and drew back his arms. He felt the pull of the tool's weight on his muscles. Then he swung it forward, hearing the faint hiss of its passage through the air, punctuated first by his own grunt of effort and then the dull thunk! as the blade bit deep into the wood of the tree. One-handed, he wrenched the blade free and saw the juices of the tree glistening on the brightly honed metal. Then he slid his right hand up the smooth wood of the handle, got a good grip with his left hand, and drew the ax back again for the next strike. All around him, the cold air was filled with the sound of axes. He swung again . . .
And again, and again.
As the trees fell, they were dragged to the side by men using mules and heavy ropes. The path widened before the eyes of the men as they chopped down tree after tree.
A persistent ache spread through Davis's body, muscle by muscle. His legs began to tremble a little, and his hands stung from the blisters that popped up on his palms. Years of work on the farm had hardened him, but for the past few weeks he had done nothing but walk and sleep. He had gone soft.
The Road would toughen him up, he thought. Either that or kill him. He didn't much care which, most of the time.
The morning seemed like it would never end, but it finally did. The men were out of sight of the trading post, but Davis could tell they really hadn't covered much distance. It was some two hundred miles to Logan's Fort, at the other end of the Wilderness Road, and Colonel Welles expected to cover that distance in three weeks.
That was a highly optimistic estimate, Davis decided. There was no way the work party was going to cover nearly ten miles a day. They'd be lucky to make
half that distance.
Not that it mattered, he told himself as he slumped against a rear wheel on one of the wagons and drew a deep, shuddery breath. He was in no hurry. There was no place he had to be by a certain time.
As a matter of fact, there was no place he had to be, period, and that thought filled him with an unutterable sadness.
Biscuits and molasses and strips of smoked venison were handed out from one of the wagons.
Davis was almost too tired to eat, but he forced himself to dip a biscuit in the thick black molasses and followed it by gnawing on a piece of the venison. The meat was tough and made his teeth hurt, but what was one more ache considering how he already felt?
When he was finished eating, he drank a dipperful of water from one of the barrels attached to the side of a wagon. He decided that he actually felt a little better. The food had helped him regain some of his strength.
He had eaten alone and in silence. Most of the men had formed into small groups, and some of them got out their pipes and tobacco pouches when they were finished. Davis heard the talk and laughter eddying around him, but he took no part in it, nor did anyone approach him.
When he turned away from the water barrel, he saw someone watching him, however. The man called Hedge stood several yards away, regarding him with a cold, intense stare. Clade and Johnson weren't with him for a change, but Davis was sure they were somewhere close by. Hedge's nose was still swollen and somewhat crooked-looking, as if it had been clumsily wrenched back into place after Davis broke it. An ugly purple bruise covered the center of Hedge's face.
Hedge turned away, but not before Davis saw the hate in the man's eyes. He would have to sleep lightly from now on, Davis told himself. But then, these days he always slept lightly anyway.
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