The freighters were firing at the charging riders. Davis was coming in from a different angle, but he waved his rifle over his head anyway to let the men know he wasn't a threat. He aimed for a gap between two of the wagons and sent his horse squirting through it. As soon as he was clear, he reined in hard, bringing his mount to a sliding halt.
Davis was out of the saddle almost before the horse stopped moving. He tied the reins to the brake lever of a nearby vehicle, then turned and ran toward the lead wagon, powderhorn and shot pouch slapping against his hip as he loped along beside the caravan.
A burly, bearded man crouched beside the first wagon. He was probably in charge of the group, Davis thought. The man turned to face him as Davis ran up.
"You'd be the fella who fired that warning shot?" the bearded man demanded.
Davis nodded. "That's right. I happened to see those bandits hiding up there on the ridge, and it didn't take long to figure out what they were up to."
A grin split the man's face beneath the dark, bushy beard. "Then you have our gratitude, friend." He thrust out a hand. "I'm Benjamin Cobb."
Davis shook hands with him and said, "Call me Davis."
"All right, Davis. I reckon we'd best get back to fighting these scoundrels. They don't seem to want to give up."
That was true enough. Guns were booming all along the wagon train, but the rifle fire had failed to blunt the charge by the highwaymen. The riders swept around the train, firing pistols as they came close to the vehicles and forcing the caravan's defenders to dive underneath the wagons for cover. Davis joined Cobb under the lead wagon.
He reloaded his flintlock, then extended the barrel past one of the wagon wheels, searching for a target. He was searching, as well, for a familiar face among the mounted raiders. So far, he hadn't spotted Andrew.
Davis rapidly drew a bead on one of the other bandits, however, and squeezed the rifle's trigger. The weapon boomed and bucked against his shoulder, and the bandit toppled out of the saddle with a high-pitched scream. He didn't waste any time congratulating himself on the shot. He just started reloading.
The roar of battle was deafening, and the clouds of acrid powdersmoke that hung over the Wilderness Road stung Davis's eyes and nose. He had never wanted anything except to live a peaceful, happy life, yet violence and death had seemed to dog his trail for such a long time that he could barely remember anything else. There had been intervals of peace, of course, but they were just lulls in a continuing storm of tragedy.
There would be time later to mull that over—if he was lucky, Davis thought. For now, he turned his attention to reloading, aiming, firing, and starting the whole process over again. At the same time, he tried to get a look at the face of every would-be robber who galloped past the wagons.
That was difficult, considering the smoke and the way Davis's eyes were watering. So far, though, he hadn't seen Andrew. It was possible that even if Andrew was part of the gang, he was still up there on the ridge and not one of the riders who had attacked the train. If that was the case, he would undoubtedly get away—again.
Then, as Davis lifted the flintlock to his shoulder once more and settled the sight on the back of one of the raiders about forty yards away, the man suddenly wheeled his horse around, bringing him face to face with Davis.
For the first time in over a year, brother stared into the eyes of brother. And Andrew Paxton's eyes widened in shock at the sight of Davis aiming a rifle at him.
Davis pulled the trigger.
He knew as soon as he fired that he had rushed the shot too much. Andrew jerked aside as the ball whined past him, high and wide. He flung up the pistol in his hand and fired. Davis flinched as Andrew's shot chewed splinters from the spoke of the wagon wheel behind which he crouched.
Through narrowed eyes, Davis saw Andrew jerk his horse around and kick it into a gallop, heading north. Davis scrambled out from under the wagon on the other side and looked around wildly for his own mount. He spotted the horse nearby, the reins tied to a wagon's brake lever where he had left them. Davis yanked them loose and hit the saddle, slamming his heels into the horse's side.
Vaguely, he heard Cobb shouting questions after him as he flashed past the first wagon, but he ignored the bearded man. He had done what he could for the freighters. Now they would have to fight off the attack on their own, without his help. He had to go after Andrew, who had obviously abandoned the rest of the gang and was fleeing for his own life.
As Davis rounded the front of the wagon, he caught a glimpse of Andrew's horse disappearing into the trees below the ridge. Andrew glanced back as he vanished, and he had to see Davis coming after him.
Like a ghost, pursuing Andrew out of a nightmare-haunted sleep, Davis thought. The idea gave him a second of savage satisfaction. Right about now, Andrew had to be wondering if he had lost his mind and had only imagined his vengeful half-brother coming after him.
Andrew would find out soon enough just how real he was, Davis vowed.
He galloped after Andrew, but before he could reach the trees, one of the bandits on horseback suddenly loomed up in front of him, face contorted with rage, pistol in hand. The gun snapped up toward Davis, who realized suddenly that his flintlock was still unloaded. He did the only thing he could and ducked low over the neck of the horse as the highwayman fired.
The ball slammed harmlessly past Davis's head, but the bandit still blocked his path and the man had another pistol tucked behind his belt. The bandit was reaching for the second gun when Davis reversed his grip on the rifle and swung it by the barrel. The stock slammed into the man's head with crushing force and drove him out of the saddle, but the impact also splintered the stock.
Another broken flintlock, Davis thought as he dropped the weapon. The first one had served him well, but a glance at the workings of this one told him the lock itself had been damaged. It was useless.
Davis dismounted rapidly and bent over to jerk the loaded pistol free from the belt of the man he had just killed. Holding the gun in his right hand, he swung back up into the saddle and urged his horse into a run again.
He rode into the trees, still hurrying but at the same time alert for any signs of an ambush. He certainly wouldn't put it past Andrew to double back and try to shoot him from hiding. Once he had gone several yards into the woods and the noise of the fighting around the wagon train had diminished a little, Davis reined in and listened intently.
He thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats somewhere ahead of him. Andrew was still running, Davis thought grimly. He wished he knew what was going through his half-brother's mind at that point, then decided that he wouldn't want to know after all. Considering everything that Andrew had done back in the Shenandoah Valley, his brain had to be little more than a writhing mass of evil.
Davis rode as fast as he could through the forest. The shooting behind him diminished in volume and then began to die away entirely. Davis didn't know how the battle had ended, and while he hoped the freighters had emerged victorious, it was beyond his power to do anything about it now.
He had his own battle to fight, a battle that had been waiting for him for a long time . . .
After skirting the ridge, he reached the edge of the trees and saw a narrow grassy strip in front of him, bordering a bluff that fell away sharply. As he reined in, he could hear the bubbling chuckle of the stream that flowed swiftly through its channel at the base of the bluff, some thirty feet below. The far side of the little river was lined with cottonwoods. Beyond the stream, the forest stretched away into the distance, presenting a pretty picture, especially at this season of the year. Davis didn't have time to appreciate it.
Because with a sudden rustle of dead leaves that was his only warning, something came out of the trees behind him and slammed into his back, knocking him off the horse. The world spun dizzily around him for an instant as he fell, then the ground came up and crashed into him.
A weight pressed down on him, making it difficult to breathe. Davis gasped for air a
s he tried to arch his back and throw off the burden. A fist struck the side of his head and made everything turn black and red around him for a second. He heard Andrew screaming obscenities at him.
Part of Davis's brain was still working logically, despite everything that was happening to him. Andrew had come back to wait for him, as Davis had suspected he would. But for some reason, Andrew hadn't Iain in ambush with a gun. He had decided instead to finish this hand to hand.
Andrew's sense of honor was non-existent, Davis knew, so it was pretty clear that something had happened to his rifle. It had misfired or fouled or in some other way become unusable.
That was all right. Davis had a pistol, the one he had taken from the bandit whose skull he had crushed, but he didn't intend to use it. He was going to choke the life out of Andrew with his own two hands.
With an incoherent shout that packed into it all the rage and hurt and despair of the past year and a half, Davis heaved himself up off the ground and cast Andrew aside. He turned to see Andrew rolling on the grass near the edge of the bluff and lunged after his half-brother, catching hold of Andrew's collar before Andrew could plunge over the brink.
Davis hauled Andrew to his feet. Roaring like some sort of animal, Davis swung a backhanded blow that sent Andrew staggering away. Davis went after him, tackled him, brought him down. He hooked punches with both hands into Andrew's belly.
In desperation, Andrew gouged at Davis's eyes. With a shout of his own, he shoved Davis away from him, rolled over again, and came up on hands and knees. Davis scrambled back to his feet.
Davis stepped forward, swinging his foot at Andrew's head. The kick would have probably killed Andrew if it had landed, but the younger man flung himself back and reached up to grab Davis's foot. He twisted viciously, forcing Davis either to fall to the side or have his ankle broken.
The impact of falling jarred Davis loose from Andrew's grip. He slid backward and met Andrew's next charge with the heel of his boot in Andrew's belly. Davis lifted his leg, and Andrew sailed over his head, once again sprawling at the edge of the bluff.
Both men were out of breath and showing the effects of the brutal battle. They climbed back to their feet, getting upright at about the same time. They came together toe to toe, swinging their fists in punches made awkward by weariness. Davis didn't know how long this fight could go on, but at this rate, he and Andrew were going to beat each other to death.
If that was what it took, then so be it, he thought as he looped an overhand punch at Andrew's head.
Unfortunately, the blow missed, throwing Davis off-balance. He stumbled into Andrew, and suddenly he felt Andrew's hands fumbling at his belt. The fingers of one hand closed around the butt of the pistol and jerked it away from Davis's body, while the other plucked Davis's hunting knife from its sheath. Davis froze, fists still upraised to strike, as Andrew stumbled back a couple of steps and trained the pistol on his chest. A crazed laugh rippled out of Andrew's mouth.
"I don't know how you found me, Davis," he said breathlessly, "but, by God, you're going to die this time!"
* * *
Emily rode frantically through the trees, ignoring the branches that whipped at her and her mount. All she could think about was the fact that Davis was somewhere up ahead of her, perhaps fighting for his life. At least, that was what the big bearded man called Cobb had told her.
She had ridden up to the wagon train in the aftermath of an awful battle, and it had taken her only a moment to discover that the freighters had been attacked by a group of bandits. Davis had warned them in time to prevent a massacre, Cobb had said, and the thieves had been routed. Davis, however, had ridden off like a bat out of Hades in pursuit of one of the fleeing bandits.
Since leaving Logan's Fort that morning, Emily had stayed on the road, asking everyone she met if they had seen Davis. This was the first time she had found someone who could point her in the right direction.
Of course, Davis and Andrew Paxton—for Emily was certain it had been Andrew that Davis was pursuing—could have gone almost anywhere in these thick woods, but she was counting on luck to be with her and lead her to Davis. It just had to.
The trees thinned abruptly, and as Emily slowed, she heard grunts of effort and puffs of breath, as well as the thud of fists striking flesh and bone. The sounds of battle made her urge her horse ahead recklessly, but just before she emerged from the trees, common sense asserted itself and made her rein in.
She didn't know what she was riding into, and she might put Davis in even more danger by bursting in on whatever was happening. She slid down from the saddle and hurried forward on foot, bending over so that she was screened by some of the brush at the edge of the trees. She saw movement up ahead, movement that resolved itself into the struggling forms of two men trading blows.
Davis! And the man fighting with him had to be Andrew. The younger man's face was smeared with blood, as was Davis's, but Emily thought she could see a faint resemblance.
She slipped her hand into the bag slung over her shoulder and closed her fingers around the pistol she had brought from the tavern. If Davis needed her help, she would be there for him.
Just as she should have been there all along, she knew now. She understood why he had been compelled to go after Andrew, understood how the burden of the past finally had to be confronted if it was ever to be lifted. The anger and hatred she had felt for Peter Abernathy had taught her to understand.
She could have killed Abernathy for the threat he posed to Davis. Davis's need to settle things with the man who had actually stolen away his wife, his children, and his freedom had to be even stronger.
Every harsh word she had said to Davis came back to haunt her now as she watched the two men slugging each other. They were so close together that there was no way she could get a clear shot at Andrew. And if she stepped out of hiding and called out for Davis to step back, she might distract him and give Andrew an edge in their battle. Besides, both of them were standing too close to the edge of the bluff to take a chance on startling them.
But then everything changed suddenly as Andrew darted back away from Davis, a pistol in his hand. Emily didn't know exactly where he had gotten the weapon, but that didn't matter. The only important thing was that he was threatening Davis with the gun.
And Emily finally had a chance to step out and shoot.
Before she could do so, an arm encircled her and a strong hand clamped over her mouth, stifling any outcry she might have made. She was jerked back roughly, and another hand reached around her to pluck the pistol from her fingers.
"Let's just be quiet, shall we, Mrs. Hallam," Peter Abernathy hissed in her ear, "and see what happens next."
Chapter 19
Davis knew he was staring at his own death. He couldn't possibly leap toward Andrew and knock the pistol aside in time to prevent him from firing. But if he was going to die, he wanted at least to clear the air between them before Andrew pulled the trigger. After all this time, he deserved that much.
"You're going to kill me, are you," Davis said harshly, "the same way you killed Faith?"
Andrew's left hand, the one holding the knife, was trembling slightly as he lifted it and wiped the back of it across his bleeding mouth. His right hand, the one with the pistol in it, was rock-steady. He said, "Faith's death was an accident. I didn't mean to shoot her. You were the one I wanted dead, Davis."
Davis's voice shook as he said, "Accident or not, you killed her, Andrew. You took away my wife and children, and I was thrown in jail for what you did. They were going to hang me for it!"
"Better you than me," Andrew said. "But I didn't really take Faith away from you, Davis. You gave her to me. You drove her into my arms with your cold, sullen ways." He laughed again. "You just didn't know what a hot-blooded woman you had!"
The mocking words were more than Davis could stand. Even though he was only hastening his death, he threw himself toward Andrew with a choked cry.
The pistol boomed, smoke and fla
me geysering from its muzzle, and what felt like a giant fist punched Davis in the chest. He was thrown backward, and suddenly there was nothing underneath his feet.
He was falling, the world spinning madly around him.
* * *
Emily had known as soon as she heard Abernathy's whispering voice that she had done the wrong thing again. He had goaded her into looking for Davis and then followed her, and now here he was, ready to step out of the brush and either try to arrest Davis or more likely just shoot him down in a mockery of the justice the man claimed to represent.
But as the angry words flowed back and forth between Davis and Andrew, the accusations and the admissions, she had felt Abernathy's body stiffen against hers. What he was hearing now utterly destroyed every belief that had led him to search for Davis for more than a year. Davis had been telling the truth all along. Andrew was the guilty one, the one who had killed Faith Hallam. Faith's death might have been a tragic accident, but Andrew laying the blame on Davis for it had been an act of coldly calculated evil.
Then suddenly, Davis was leaping toward Andrew and the pistol in Andrew's hand fired, and Davis was thrown backward toward the edge of the bluff-As Davis disappeared over the brink, Emily's teeth sunk into the ball of the hand clamped over her mouth.
Cursing in pain, Abernathy flung her aside. Emily sprawled on the ground at the edge of the bushes. With a look of anger, the constable from Virginia stepped over her and emerged onto the grassy strip along the bluff. He leveled the pistol in his uninjured hand at Andrew, who stared at him in stunned disbelief.
"Andrew Paxton," Abernathy boomed in his stern voice, "you are under arrest!"
Emily watched, her eyes almost as wide with shock as Andrew's, as her husband's half-brother twisted and lifted his left arm. In his hand was the long-bladed hunting knife. A flick of Andrew's wrist sent the knife spinning through the air toward Abernathy.
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