“Damn you to hell! I’ll cut your heart out!” She was close to losing control. She took a long, slow breath to steady herself. “You’ll die for this.”
For an endless moment Fish stood staring at the cold-eyed girl. He was not surprised by the lethal hatred he saw in her face. He expected it. She was the type of woman who loved with all her heart and hated passionately.
“You’re not using good judgment spewing your hatred, Berry. I can see now that it would have been a mistake to take an uncivilized woman like you back east to mix with genteel womenfolk, regardless of your beauty.” His eyes were flat and still, his voice as void of resonance as a drum struck with the palm of the hand. “If you’re so anxious to see killing done, perhaps we can start with Rachel.” He paused to see the effect of his words. “But then, I’ve half-promised her to Emil.”
The legs of Jackson’s chair hit the floor. “Emil ain’t havin’ ’er.”
“So you fancy her too, Jackson? Things may get interesting before this is over,” Fish said, grimly amused. “That leaves Berry, the kid, and the nigger.” He spoke to Jackson as if the women were not in the room. “Fain would know I mean business if we hang the kid up out there where he can see it.”
A scream of acute agony came from Rachel. She sprang forward, snatched the baby up in her arms, and backed toward the sleeping room, her eyes wild in her white face.
Jackson, within easy reach of her, sat stoically. He didn’t move a muscle to stop her.
Fish rocked forward and brought both hands crashing down on the table with a violence that jarred the crockery. “What the hell game are you playing, Jackson?” His face was suffused with crimson. “You getting soft? You’ll back my hand, or else you’re out!” He straightened his bearing, his blue eyes hard in a face that looked young but wasn’t. “I should have had Emil in here with the women.”
Rachel was crying silently, helplessly, her eyes shifting from one man to the other.
“I never dreamed that men could be such beasts!” Berry said in a shaking voice.
Fish ignored her. “Are you so smitten with the woman you’ll not carry out my orders, Jackson?”
Jackson spat on the floor. “Time ain’t right.”
“You’re giving orders now?”
“Killin’ the kid’d rattle the man. I’m a-wantin’ him to get the job done so I c’n be gone.” Jackson’s unblinking eyes never left Fish’s face.
Silence closed in so completely that Rachel’s ragged breathing was all that was heard. Fish swiveled his head around to look at her, then back to Jackson.
“You may be right,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ll string up the nigger.”
Berry felt as if she had been hit in the stomach. The air left her lungs. Her bound hands flew to her mouth. It was no idle threat. They would kill gentle, faithful Israel as if he were no more important than a dog.
“Please . . . please don’t hurt Israel. He’s simple-minded. He’d not hurt a fly.”
“Are you begging, Berry?”
“If that’s what it takes, yes. Please, don’t do this awful thing to Israel.”
“Where is he, Rachel?” Fish set his hat carefully on his head. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“I don’t know. He’s so scared he might’ve run off in the woods. He’ll come if you call him.”
“You’d better hope he does.” He looked pointedly at the child in her arms. “The hour is almost up. It’s time to give Simon another taste of the lash.”
“Fish, don’t? Berry cried. “Please . . . don’t! I’ll do anything you want—anything at all!”
“Are you offering to sleep with me?” He threw back his head and loosed a whoop of derisive laughter. “Do you think I’d take you to bed after you’ve been in the woods with a couple of filthy Indians and a backwoods buck like Simon Witcher? That’s what he is, Berry, in spite of the little trading business he runs. You’ve nothing to offer me now. I’ve screwed the highest-paid whores in Europe. Save yourself for Linc.” His mouth twisted sarcastically. “He’s looking forward to showing you a few new tricks. He’s half-crazed since you made an animal out of him. He deserves some . . . consoling.”
Silence fell over the room when he left it, a strange unwanted silence. Rachel, her chin resting on her collarbone, rocked the child in her arms. This silent agony was harder for Berry to endure than moaning and wailing. She put her bound hands to her mouth in an effort to hold back the screams that were demanding release. Think, she told herself sternly, and forced her mind out of its crazy spin and into a calmer channel.
“Please . . . help us,” she said to the silent man in a harsh croak. “We’ve done nothing to you. If it’s money, Simon will give you some.”
Jackson’s eyes slid to her for only an instant, then back to Rachel. He tilted the back of his chair against the wall and with dark, unfathomable eyes watched the blond woman and the child.
Rachel lifted her head and looked at him. Her white face was contorted, and her full lips quivered. There was a soundless outpouring of grief from her blue eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. She shook her head, her eyes still holding his. Finally she said in a hoarse whisper, “Thank you.”
* * *
The fire that blazed across Simon’s back hauled him up from the depth of darkness. He grunted under the searing pain. He heard the swish of the leaded whip as it came down across his back like a white flame. He sagged, the rawhide bonds tearing into the flesh of his wrists. He spun on his toes and exposed his chest to the white-hot agony of the next blow, which brought his voice tearing up and out of him. He lifted his head to the sky.
“Ber . . . ry . . . I love you! I love you!” he bellowed.
Pinpoints of light danced crazily around behind his unseeing eyes as the whip sent flames of pain writhing across his back, shoulders, and arms. The enveloping heat engulfed him until his flesh could no longer send the message of torture and terror to his brain. He hung limply, accepting the blows. I’m dying, he thought. I wanted to tell Berry I love her. I wish I had time. . . .
From somewhere far away he heard a voice say, “That’s enough, Linc. You’ll kill him too soon.”
“Sonofabitch ain’t had half enough.”
“Cut him down! I got the goddamn gun ready to test.” Fain’s bellow penetrated into Simon’s consciousness.
Simon opened his eyes and saw the tree dancing, swaying, then whirling faster and faster. The serpent fire was surrounding his back and shoulders, his chest and stomach. The hot, leaded tongue was seeking the symbol of his manhood and he was helpless to protect it. He tried to spin away, to pivot, but couldn’t control his ponderous weight. I can’t bear much more of this, he thought dully.
“Put the whip down, ya fucker, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off!”
“Careful, Fain. I’ll handle this. Give me the whip, Linc.” He took the whip from the hand of the slobbering riverman. “Calm down. Mr. MacCartney is about to demonstrate his wonderful new invention. If it works, we’ll be leaving here tonight.” He looked steadily at Fain, who held the rifle centered on him. “I suggest you be very careful that Jackson doesn’t get the idea that you’ve got the upper hand.”
“I said cut him down. I got a feelin’ I ain’t got nothin’ to lose. There’s a bullet in the breech ’n’ another in my pocket.”
“Jackson or Emil could pick you off easily.”
“Maybe. But my finger on this here trigger won’t do you no good.” He threw a look of pure hatred at the riverman. “Shootin’ a man’s one thing, beatin’ him to death is another.”
“You say the gun is ready to test?”
“That’s what I said, but don’t get any idea ya don’t need me to show ya how it works. Cut Simon down. I’ll not have ’im hangin’ there like a side of meat for the crows to pick at.”
For the space of a dozen heartbeats the riverman hesitated. Then he pulled his knife from his belt and held the hilt in his hand. Fain watched his muscles bu
nch.
“Don’t even nick ’im,” Fain said softly. “I c’n kill ya ’n’ reload in five seconds.”
The knife sliced the leather between Simon’s palms. His wrists came free and he fell helplessly to the ground. Even from the darkness into which he sank, he felt the agony as the boot connected with his ribs, and a haunting cry tore from his throat.
“Get that fucker outta here. I can’t stand to look at ’im. Tell ’im to leave the knife. I ain’t a-wantin’ to worry ’bout it gettin’ in my back while we’re atestin’.”
“Give me the knife, Linc,” Fish said sternly. “Don’t worry. You’ll get all I promised, and more.”
The riverman handed over his knife like an obedient child. “Ya said I could—”
“I know what I said, and you shall,” Fish said patiently. “Go to Emil and tell him we’re going to test the gun.”
“I wantta see ’er. I ain’t seen her yet,” he said stubbornly.
“All right. Go to the cabin, but don’t cause a ruckus. Wait there for me.” He watched the man lumber away, then said to Fain, “Don’t forget that Jackson is with the women.” He pulled his musket, cocked it, and leveled it on him. “You can carry the rifle, but keep the barrel pointed to the ground.”
“I ain’t a fool, Fish, even if I did swallow your cock-’n’-bull story.” He walked ahead of him toward the target set up in the woods.
* * *
Rachel walked the floor with the baby in her arms. It was as if her mind had become unhinged. She stared at Berry with dull eyes and passed her as if she were a stranger. Berry sat tensely on the edge of the bunk, straining her ears. She heard Fish calling to Israel and listened for the black man to answer, but she heard nothing. The full terrible horror of what was happening swept in on her. She found herself as a small child again needing her only friend to give her comfort. But Rachel had retreated within herself, and Berry was alone with the awful truth—they were all going to die. She would never again know the joy of being held in Simon’s arms. She would never hear him say that he loved her.
“No!” Berry said vehemently. She jumped to her feet and crossed the room to Jackson. “I can’t sit here doing nothing.” She held out her bound hands. “Take off the rope so I can make coffee.”
His eyes roamed over her, from her cut, bruised face and tangled ebony hair to the huge cloth shirt and buckskin breeches that failed to hide her slender form. Then his eyes swept up to meet her steady green ones. Without a change of expression he whipped out a thin-bladed knife and sliced the rope between her wrists. The rope fell to the floor and Berry turned away.
She rekindled the fire, filled the teakettle from the oaken bucket that sat on the shelf beside the door, and swung it over the blaze. At the workbench she opened a small wooden cask, peered in, and closed it. She uncorked a crock. It contained salt.
“Where’s the coffee, Rachel?” She spoke louder than usual, not sure that Rachel would hear her or answer if she did.
To her surprise, Rachel shifted the sleeping child to her shoulder and came up close beside her. With her free hand she reached for the small bag on the second shelf and set it on the workbench. As she did so, she flipped back a cloth, exposing a small dirk, then covered it and walked away.
Berry scooped the coffee from the bag and poured the coarse grounds into the boiling water. Thank God! Rachel still had her wits after all! How could she get the dirk off the workbench and on her person?
A moaning cry from Rachel brought the front legs of Jackson’s chair crashing to the floor and a fresh stab of terror to Berry’s heart. She ran to the window and went up on her toes so that she could see over Rachel’s shoulder. Her mouth dropped and a wave of nausea rolled up into her throat. “Oh, Lordy! Oh, sweet Jesus!” The feeling of hate and terror clamped down around her.
Linc pulled back the whip and applied it to Simon’s back with all his strength. Simon’s body jerked and the skin split. A stream of blood blossomed and crisscrossed other streams of blood. The second strike wrapped the thin cruel leather around his body. A scream of rage tore from Berry’s throat. She turned and sped to the door. An arm as hard as steel closed around her and lifted her off the floor.
“Ber . . . ry! I love you! I love you!”
Simon’s agonized cry tore through her heart like a knife. She fell into a fit of helpless sobbing. The words she had spoken to him came back to haunt her cruelly. Someday you’ll shout it, she’d said. It’ll just come boilin’ up out of you!
“Simon . . . Simon . . .” Berry went limp and the arm holding her let go. She dropped to the floor, lay there, then slowly got to her hands and knees and crawled to Rachel. She wrapped her arms around Rachel’s legs and buried her face in her skirts. She cried as she had not done since her mother died and left her so long ago.
Rachel pulled on her arm and said, “Stand up and look, Berry.”
Linc had cut Simon down from the tree and he lay face down in the dirt. They couldn’t hear what Fain and Fish were saying, but they saw that Fain had a rifle and was angry. Then Berry saw Linc coming toward the cabin. The silent approach of this evil man gave the whole scene an air of unreality that came to her like a numbing coldness rising from the ground and working its way through her. She was cold, yet her insides quivered hotly.
She sidled toward the workbench and the dirk hidden under the cloth. More than anything in the world she wanted to go to Simon, but first she would kill Linc Smith.
* * *
Fain led the way to the shooting range he had set up the year before to test his guns. He had marked the distances of sixty yards, eighty yards, and one hundred yards from the target with stakes driven into the ground. The target was a heavy-skinned log propped against the crotch of a tree. A piece of tin, showing many bullet holes, was nailed to the log.
Fain stopped beside the stake marking one hundred yards from the target. His hands caressed the rifle. He’d spent a year working on the gun and he considered it his masterpiece. His blue eyes bored into those of the man who had worked beside him as a friend, but who now stood beside him as a bitter enemy, a murderer. He knew better than to ask what would happen after the rifle was tested. There was no way Fish would allow any of them to live after he had stolen the gun and passed it off as his.
“Let’s see what it will do,” Fish said impatiently.
Fain backed several steps from the stake, raised the gun to his shoulder, sighted carefully down the long barrel, and fired. The bullet smashed directly into the center of the target.
“By the Lord Henry! Good God Almighty!” Fish proclaimed loudly. “It works! This gun can win wars. It can change the course of history!” He reached for it.
“I’ll show ya how it’s loaded.” Sweat rolled from Fain’s face as if he had dunked his head into a bucket of water. He took the second bullet from his pocket. Fish watched closely. Fain could feel the prod of Fish’s silver-plated musket in his back and was careful how he handled the gun. In five seconds the rifle was reloaded and he shoved it into Fish’s hands. His own hands were trembling like leaves in a light breeze.
“Ya can’t best my shot,” he said in a wintry voice that betrayed none of the agonizing suspense he had just endured.
“Move back.” Fish gestured with the musket and Fain moved to the side. “Over there.” He pointed to a tree some distance away. Fain backed until he was against a huge oak. Fish tucked the musket into his belt. His face was flushed with excitement.
Fain watched Fish handle the gun. He lifted it for balance and sighted down the long barrel. It was the longest moment of Fain’s life. The cocky, deceitful little sonofabitch might turn the gun on him, using him for a target. He started to speak, to goad him about his marksmanship, but didn’t want to draw attention to himself unless he had no other choice.
“It galled you that I could outshoot you, didn’t it, Fain?” Fish shot him a smiling, superior glance.
“Ya’ll have to hit dead center to beat me, and if’n ya wait much longer, your exc
use’ll be it was too dark ta see.” All of Fain’s muscles were bunched. He had never been so afraid in his life. This could be the last few seconds he’d spend on earth.
Fish spread his feet in the stance of a military rifleman and raised the gun to his shoulder. He moved the barrel up and down and swung it in a wide arc before he leveled it on the target. He sighted carefully down the long barrel. It seemed to Fain he stood there for an eternity before he pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deafening. The metal plate fragmented and flew off the side of the rifle as Fain had suspected it would. The flying metal took part of Fish’s head with it. He was thrown to the side like a sack of grain, his feathered hat tossed high. Bits of flesh and bone, blood, and tufts of blond hair were all that remained atop his body.
The echo of the blast was still resounding in Fain’s head as he leaped forward to get the musket from Fish’s body. There was a flash of color, a shot, and a bullet went whizzing past his head. Emil came running toward him, pulling his musket out of his belt, his rifle still in his hand. Fain wheeled. He had thought the man was at the landing on the river! If not for the musket, he could reach Fish before the riverman could reload. But now . . .
Fain’s stout legs carried him into the woods. He’d played the only card he had. He could hear Emil crashing through the brush after him. He ran on, praying he’d not sealed the fate of the others at the cabin.
Chapter Eighteen
Berry stood with her back to the workbench, her eyes on the door. The instant Linc entered the room and Jackson’s eyes swung to him, she snatched the dirk from beneath the cloth and held it behind her.
The man’s small, watery eye, under the bushy brow and thinning hair, leveled on her. A minute passed—or was it an hour? The eye stabbed into her. Terror took hold and shook her. Fear gnawed at the very core of her being, and she hit back in the only way she knew—verbally, abusively.
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